19

“I was in Vietnam in 1971,” Baker said.

He let that stand, not saying anything else right away, assuming it was a statement that had its own meaning.

“It was the worst possible place for me to be. Me and a lot of other guys, but guys like me especially, because I’ve always liked things to be clear-cut. I like to know why I’m doing something, and I need to know that I’m doing something for the right reasons. I went into Vietnam as a Marine because I thought that would make things clear-cut. I thought being a Marine would guarantee doing things for the right reasons.”

He shook his head, making the sound of a muffled, unformed laugh.

“Vietnam in 1971. Probably Vietnam anytime. Nothing clear-cut, and for sure no right reasons. I just tried to keep my head down, do my job, stay alive.”

*   *   *

Baker told his story slowly. The story of a straightforward man who went to Vietnam believing simple truths. A man who found a reality more complicated than anything his character or experience had prepared him for.

If it had ever been an original story, Mars thought as he listened to Baker’s soft voice, it no longer was. The story Baker told had become, since the end of the Vietnam War, a kind of Everyman’s story of Vietnam. Men went bravely and returned disillusioned. They went believing in something and returned believing nothing.

That was Jim Baker’s Vietnam story.

Nor was it a story that brought Mars nearer to understanding why, on this July night thirty-two years later, a stranger from Iowa was sitting in his living room telling Mars his story of disillusionment.

Not until Baker told Mars what had happened at Khe Ranh.

*   *   *

“There were two sounds I’d never heard until Nam.

“Two sounds I never want to hear again. The Vietcong’s SKSs. Chinese- or Russian-made semiautomatic rifles. You can hear them from miles off, if the air is right, if they’re at one end of a valley and you’re at another.

“You’d think a rifle would sound like a rifle. Not the SKSs—all my internal organs just sank when I heard them. Especially when it was a surprise that there were VC around.

“But the SKSs—how they sounded—was nothing compared to the little beep you’d get from the sensor you wore if you were part of an advance team doing recon at night…”

“A sensor?” Mars said.

Baker looked directly at Mars. “If you were on patrol at night, moving a position, doing recon—you’d wear a sensor around your neck. That way, if an enemy sniper was using an infrared sighting scope, you’d hear this little beep when his sight picked you up…”

Baker made the muffled laugh sound again, the look in his eyes hollow. “Lot of good it did you. Somebody told me Quantico’s timed it. When you hear the beep, you’ve got one-fifth of a second to hit the ground. I never saw anyone that made it down in time. All the beep really does for the guy that gets sighted is advance warning he’s gonna die. Doesn’t even give him time to cross himself.”

They both sat in silence for seconds before Baker spoke again.

“But the beep saved me. On a trail out of the Khe Ranh Valley. My squad was heading back to base camp. It was dark, intelligence told us there were no VC in the area. We thought we were home free.

“Then I heard it. Heard the beep. I dropped without even stopping to think that I wasn’t wearing a sensor. I was three men back from the head of our line. Our squad leader must have been wearing a sensor. What I heard was his sensor. He went down almost in synch with me—it was like he exploded. He had to have got hit with a hollow point. Then the guys all around me started going down. I got dinged—friendly fire I’m pretty sure—but nothing serious. Not that I could really tell. I was covered in blood. Mostly other guys’ blood, not my own.

“I crawled on my belly off the trail into the underbrush. And I stayed there I don’t know how long. Until someone grabbed my ankle. I’ll tell you the truth. I shit myself…” Again, the empty laugh. “Only reason I didn’t piss in my pants is I’d sweated myself dry while I was lying there. It was nighttime, but the temperature still must have been in the high nineties—and the humidity, the humidity was off the scale. I was seriously dehydrated.

“The guy who grabbed my ankle was Myron Godfrey. Maybe the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. A young black guy from Washington, D.C. Enlisted right out of high school. You know the expression ‘A.J. Squared Away’?”

Mars shook his head.

“A real buttoned-up Marine. Somebody who buys the whole deal. Perfect marksman scores. Stays sharp lying in the mud in the jungle. That was Myron Godfrey. The only man I met in Nam who never lost faith.”

Baker stared, thinking back over the years. “So, I’m lying there in my own shit, worrying about how somebody was going to find me and take me home, and Myron has been crawling up and down our line checking bodies.

“He says to me, real quiet, ‘Baker—it’s you, me, and Al Dente. We’re not going to get the bodies out now. We need to stay under cover, off the trail, and get back to base camp for help. Then we need to be back here before dawn to get our guys. So we gotta move fast.’

“Al Dente,” Myron said. “What I thought was, there is no justice in the world. Of all the guys to make it through, this would be the one guy who least deserved it. Any situation, Al Dente would be the guy you’d say not only didn’t deserve to make it, he was a guy the world would be better off without. A real Skivvy Honcho, a skirt chaser. That said, I can also tell you that of all the people you’d expect to make it through in any cluster fuck situation, Al Dente would be it. Charmed life. Undeserved, but charmed.”

Baker sighed, shifted in his chair, then got up, walking around. He stopped by the sliding doors that led out onto a small terrace. He turned to Mars.

“Would you mind if we moved our chairs out here?” he said, nodding toward the terrace. “It’s a nice night, and I need all the air I can get to tell this story.”

Mars stood, picking up both their Target folding chairs, while Baker slid the doors back. Mars switched off the overhead light in the living room before he pulled the doors shut behind him to minimize bugs on the terrace.

“I don’t usually use the good furniture out here,” Mars said, “but I’ll make an exception tonight.” Baker looked confused. He was still too much into his story to get a clumsy joke.

Being out on the terrace was a good move. Even surrounded by high-rises and the muted noise of traffic on the street below, it felt right. Mars guessed Baker had another motive for wanting to be on the terrace. He wanted to tell his story in the dark.

Darkness suited Baker’s story. And Baker’s voice, disembodied in the darkness, took on a tone of gravitas as he, Myron Godfrey, and Al Dente made their way off the trail in the Khe Ranh Valley back to their base camp.

“Godfrey was a lance corporal, I was a second lieutenant, and Al Dente was a captain. But the way things worked on this trek, Godfrey was the honcho. Godfrey was in the lead, Godfrey was taking the compass readings, Godfrey was making decisions on when to halt, when to move. It was an unholy adventure, I can tell you that. We could hear SKSs firing—Godfrey said about three miles off and not in the direction we needed to move. He said he thought we were about six miles from base camp, but it was impossible to tell how much ground we were covering. There was no path, it was severe dark, and we were forever getting tangled up in the undergrowth or tripping on roots underfoot…”

Mars said, “Severe dark?”

“Utter darkness,” Baker said. “My term, I guess. I have a friend who’s a pilot. He used the term ‘severe clear’ to describe a perfect flying day. A day when visibility is limitless.” Baker paused. Mars could feel Baker turn toward him. “September 11, 2001, New York City. Pilots described that day, that place, as severe clear.”

The information stayed in the soft night air between them, until Baker spoke again. “I asked my friend what the opposite of severe clear was, and he said zero visibility. That didn’t quite do it for me. I said, maybe ‘severe dark,’ and my friend liked that. We’ve used it between us ever since. Mostly to describe a situation where you’re bum fuck nowhere—mentally, physically, emotionally. And severe dark, in all its meanings, was where we were on that trek.”

Baker lifted his feet, resting them on the terrace rail. “Al Dente, who was doing nothing to get us where we were going, starts complaining about being dehydrated, saying that we needed to find water. Hell, if you’d wrung out the three of us you wouldn’t have come up with a teaspoon of liquid. Godfrey, who’s still calling me and Al Dente ‘sir,’ says there’s a village on our route, that we can try and get water there, but what he thinks would be best would be to tough it out. To get back to base camp as quick as possible.

“Al Dente says he needs water now, we’ll check out the village. He looks at the map. The village isn’t far from the base camp, and there’s a good road between the village and camp. He says he’s sick of slogging through shit. We’ll go to the village for water, then take the road back to camp.”

Baker stopped. “What I’m going to say next—it’s a hard thing to explain to anyone who’s never been in Vietnam. But nothing was what it seemed. A village—three or four huts with old people and women and children—could be dangerous. When we came into that village, that’s what we found. A clearing surrounded by jungle. A few huts, women and kids, a couple of old ladies and one old guy…”

Baker drew a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was trembling. “What worried me—what worried Godfrey—was that one of the villagers was a young girl. I don’t know, maybe eleven, twelve years old. Fragile-looking. Not five feet tall, probably eighty-five, ninety pounds. Long black hair, hanging down her back.”

Baker shook himself hard before going on. “Southeast Asia was a flesh pot. If there was a guy in your squad, in your platoon, who had deviant tastes, he had plenty of options for satisfying himself. And if he did, it got talked about. Guys on leave tended to partner up based on their tastes, and it was no secret that Al Dente liked young girls. He bragged about it. Hell, he got his nickname because of his reputation for liking young girls.

“So when Godfrey and me saw Al Dente watching the girl, we got nervous. The people in the village gave us water, offered us food, but Godfrey waved them off. Asked Al Dente very formally for permission to continue to lead to base camp.

“I knew right off what Al Dente was going to do just by looking at him. He had this sick look on his face. He wasn’t looking at anything but the girl. Godfrey says, ‘Sir! We need to leave now in order to make it back to the trail tonight to complete our mission’—meaning, to get the bodies. To a Marine, nothing’s more sacred than that. We don’t make it back to the trail where we took fire before dawn, the VC are going to take the bodies.

“Al Dente waved us on. Said he wanted to complete inspection of the village. That he’d come right after us. Godfrey stood his ground…”

Baker bent forward, elbows on his knees, dropping his face into his cupped hands. When he raised his head, Mars saw the shine of tears reflected on his cheeks from the streetlights below. Baker’s voice was hoarse when he said, “I can still hear Godfrey’s voice. ‘Sir! Permission to assist in inspection!’ ‘Sir! Permission to remain under your command until further orders!’

“Me?” Baker said, “I stood there with my ass hanging out. Not saying anything. To this day, it just feels to me like if I’d said something to support Godfrey…”

He shook his head again and drew a deep breath. “Finally, Al Dente gets really pissed. He shouts at Godfrey, ‘Alpha Mike Foxtrot, Lance Corporal. Is that an order you can read?’”

Before Mars could ask Baker what the order meant, Baker said, “‘Alpha Mike Foxtrot’ is Marine talk for ‘Adios, Mother Fucker.’ To say something like that to an A.J. Squared Away Marine like Godfrey … well, it just goes to show how FUBAB Al Dente was.” He waited only a second before he added, “Fucked Up Beyond All Belief.”

“It strikes me,” Mars said, “that Marines had a whole dictionary to describe screwing up.”

“You’re right about that,” Baker said, sounding tired. “And we needed the whole book in Vietnam.”

Mars let Baker take time before he spoke again, but the silence gave Mars time to consider that he still had no idea how this increasingly ominous and compelling story was going to connect to Andrea Bergstad.

“After Al Dente’s Alpha Mike Foxtrot farewell, we didn’t have much choice. We left the village and headed back onto a jungle path that would take us to the base camp road. At that point, even I could have gotten back on my own.

“We hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when we could hear screaming behind us, from the village. An older woman’s voice, yelling in Vietnamese”—Baker’s voice cracked—“and the girl’s voice.”

In a strangled whisper, Baker said, “What I especially remember was the two words the girl kept repeating—‘No, please. No, please.’ Except the words came out, ‘No-ah, plea. No-ah, plea…’”

He sobbed as he said, “I remember being so touched that she was trying to speak English. This little girl, trying to speak English to save herself. And her mother’s voice making this high electronic sound…”

Baker straightened himself. “Godfrey said, ‘I’m going back.’

“All I said was, you can’t. I didn’t say, we’ll both go. I just said, you can’t. But of course, he did. Because that’s who Godfrey was. Godfrey was the kind of guy who went back.

“Me, I was the kind of guy who just stood there on the path, dried shit on my pants, tears running down my face. Then I heard Godfrey going through his ‘Sir!’ routine again. I couldn’t hear what Al Dente was saying, but I could tell he was yelling at Godfrey, getting madder.

“Finally I got myself off the dime. I headed back. I figured with both of us there, seeing whatever was going on with the girl, Al Dente wouldn’t have a choice. But by the time I got to the edge of the clearing, standing in the undergrowth, Al Dente had drawn his sidearm. He had it pointing directly at Godfrey. Godfrey, bless him, was standing there looking right back at Al Dente, not blinking.

“What was really bad was the girl. Al Dente had her by the hair. She was down on her knees in front of him. His pants … his pants … were unzipped, hanging loose on his hips. I can’t … I can’t tell you … how obscene … The girl was crying, but trying not to make any noise. The mother, too, kneeling behind Al Dente, her hands up in front of her face. I think when Al Dente drew his sidearm it must have shut them both down.

“So what do I do? I start thinking about consequences, justifying why it doesn’t make any sense for me to intervene. I tell myself, Al Dente won’t have the guts to actually shoot Godfrey. But if I suddenly come out of nowhere, it might rattle Al Dente. He might fire in reaction to seeing me.

“How it seems to me now is that right when I had that thought—that if I came out into the clearing, Al Dente might fire—there’s a shot. Crack! Next thing I see is Godfrey, Godfrey lifting up, then Godfrey goes down. I’m not taking any of this in. I’m thinking Al Dente shot Godfrey, but I know I didn’t see his sidearm fire.

“While I’m trying to understand what I’ve just seen, too scared to move, this figure moves into the clearing. Tall, lean, and … green. I know that sounds crazy, but he was green. Green body paint. Carrying a sniper rifle. Then I get it. This is who shot Godfrey. And just when I’m realizing that’s what happened, this guy—the Green Man—lifts his rifle with one hand, not even putting it to his shoulder, and fires a single shot into the girl’s forehead. Her mother screams, and he shoots her. Casual. Like he doesn’t care one way or the other.”

Baker stands up. “I think I must have run then. I don’t remember. What I remember is hearing more shots while I ran. Sometimes a double report—which had to mean Al Dente was firing, too. I’d made it all the way back to the road when I fell, tripped over my own feet. I broke my ankle, but I still got back to base camp on that broken ankle.

“And that ankle got me a medical discharge.”

Baker was silent for a long time. Silent for so long that Mars guessed his story must be over. Mars was, at once, shaken by the story, moved by the horror of the scene, and touched by Baker’s honesty. He was also confused. He still didn’t know why James Baker had come all this way to tell his thirty-two-year-old story—no, not just a story, a confession—to him.

Mars couldn’t ask the question at that moment, couldn’t say, “Too bad. What’s this got to do with me?”

Instead he said, “And nothing’s ever happened to Al Dente for what he did that day? He made it out of Vietnam, too? And the Green Man? You know any more about who he was?”

Baker was trembling. The summer night was still warm, but Baker was trembling. Mars stood up next to him, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go back in. We can talk inside.”

Mars turned the wall light on as he walked into the living room. When he looked at Baker in the light, he was shocked. Baker’s smooth, well-maintained middle-aged self looked ten years older than how he’d looked when Mars had first seen him at the door. He looked ravaged. And the trembling had increased to an almost spastic shaking.

“I … I’ve never … told anyone … not anyone … what I just told you. When I got home from Vietnam, my wife knew something was wrong, but I never told her. Not even my wife. How could I…”

A tremor shook Baker so hard he staggered. Mars forced him down on the futon couch, went into the bedroom for a comforter, then wrapped Baker in the comforter. Then he went into the kitchen and ran the hot water tap. When the water was as hot as it would get, Mars filled a glass and took it out to Baker.

“Drink this,” he said. “I think you’re going into shock. You don’t stop shaking in the next couple of minutes, I’m taking you over to the Hennepin County Medical Center ER…”

“No,” Baker said, sitting up, clutching the comforter around his shoulders, one hand extended to hold the glass of hot water. The water splashed wildly as he lifted the glass to his lips with his shaking hand.

Baker gulped the water, and Mars moved behind him, grabbing both of Baker’s shoulders, massaging them deeply. “Stamp your feet,” he said, and Baker, like an automaton, stamped his feet.

Mars wasn’t sure what the medical rational was behind what he’d just put Baker through, but the improvement was immediate. The shaking stopped and Baker’s color returned to normal. He breathed deeply, consciously, leaning back onto the futon frame, looking for all the world like what he wanted to do was sleep.

With his eyes closed, Baker said, “They made it back, all right.”

He opened his eyes and looked at Mars.

“If Al Dente hadn’t made it back, I wouldn’t be here.”

Mars shook his head. “Your story is extraordinary. But I have to tell you. I’m not getting the connection to the Andrea Bergstad case—what am I missing?”

Baker closed his eyes again, then opened them.

“I forgot the most important part. I told you Al Dente got his nickname because it was a well-known fact he liked young girls. But I never told you his real name…”

“Al Dente is a nickname?”

Baker nodded. “We started by calling him Chicken Noodle. Suited him. But—you being a cop, you must know how men can be about nicknames. You start with one, then you spin another name off that one. The farther out you go from the original, the happier everyone is. So Chicken Noodle became Al Dente. Al Dente for firm, with reference to the fact that he more or less had a permanent hard-on for young girls.”

The warm, melting sensation, followed by prickling, was, once again, flooding Mars’s senses.

“And Chicken Noodle,” Mars said. “You called him Chicken Noodle because of his real name.”

Baker nodded. “Yeah. From Alan Campbell to Chicken Noodle wasn’t more than a hop, skip, and jump.”