Finding Moon

Captain Teele was standing by the mast now, studying the sails through binoculars.

“Okay,” Moon said. “We get in. We get a copter. Now where do we go to get the child?”

“Here’s where we go look,” Rice said. He moved his finger westward from Can Tho, across the Cambodian border, into a range of hills the mapmaker had identified as the Elephant Mountains.

“See this little road here along the coast? Little dot there called Kampot. Stream runs through it and dumps into the Gulf of Siam. Well, we fly five miles up the coast beyond that, then turn right and head due north, right up the ridge. Seventeen miles, you come to a series of clearings. Four of ’em. And in the fourth one, a little village. Ten, maybe twelve buildings, cluster of little terraced rice paddies.”

Rice looked up at Moon. “You got anything to write with?”

“Afraid not,” Moon said. Back in the prison, on the other side of the moat, Rice hadn’t been able to remember how to reach this village. He’d said it was something he’d have to sort of find somehow.

He’d only remembered the name was Vin Ba and it was near the Vietnam border.

“Here,” Osa said, and handed Rice a pen.

Rice made a tiny X on the map. And out in the Gulf wrote Vin Ba-four clearings in a row.

Osa was looking over his shoulder. “I think that’s not too far from the village where my brother-”

“Right about here,” Rice said. “On this next ridge. There’s a little village down in the valley- maybe a couple of hundred people with some terraced rice paddies. And up on the ridge in the forest there’s a Montagnard settlement where Osa’s brother has his little clinic. Osa will remember it.” He made a second X, folded the map, and handed it to Moon.

Lum Lee was standing beside Teele now, looking through the binoculars. Without them, Moon could now make out five craft, all small, three with sails.

Rice was looking at Moon, expression curious. “What are you thinking about this business?”

Moon shrugged.

“Scared?”

“Yeah. Matter of fact, I am.”

Rice laughed. “But you’ll go on in,” he said. “Ricky told me about you.”

From behind them came the voice of Mr. Lee. “On the radio just a minute ago they were saying that Pol Pot has made a broadcast. They will cleanse Cambodia of oppression and corruption by returning their country to Zero Year. They will go back to the simple, clean ways. No more parasite predators living in the filth of the cities. The cities will be emptied. People will go back to the land.”

“My God,” Osa said. “What will that mean?”

“Maybe it is political rhetoric,” Mr. Lee said. “But we were listening to Radio Jakarta earlier. They said Pol Pot’s army was evacuating Phnom Penh. The soldiers were forcing everybody out of their houses and marching them out into the country.”

Rice was gri

“Yes,” Mr. Lee said, “maybe so.” And he made a sweeping gesture to take the seven little craft now visible in the dying light. “Just in time. In a few hours we are going in. Everybody else is coming out.”

RED FORCES WITHIN MILE OF SAIGON

AS TANKS AND ARTILLERY CLOSE IN

– New York Times, APRIL 28, 1975

The Nineteenth Day

AFTER SUNDOWN THE RAIN HAD begun. It was warm, soft, and steady, with a mild breeze behind it. But now, maybe an hour before dawn, the clouds broke up again. The full monsoon would be here a little later, Mr. Lee told them. In maybe a week. Then the rain would be steady. But tonight the first third of the moon hung high in the west. There were stars overhead, and just in front of them was the white line of beach and above it the black wall of shoreline vegetation.

Osa was huddled near the stern of what Captain Teele called in his odd mixture of English and Dutch his “shure boot.” She was talking to Mr. Lee, who seemed to have perfect sea legs and rarely sat down even when this awkward craft was rolling through the heavy swells out in the blue water. Mr. Suhua

“Here on in we need to keep it quiet,” Rice told them. “Normally at night you wouldn’t worry much, because the devils come out after dark and these delta farmers like to stay in their hooches with the doors closed. But now things ain’t normal.”

Things weren’t normal, Rice explained, because the Vietnam navy perso

“They came down here because they hated the Commies, and because they hate the Commies, Saigon figured it could trust them in patrol boats,” Rice said. “You know, not to take the boats and go over to the other side. Anyhow, the point is these guys are mostly Christians, or maybe a different kind of Buddhist, whose demons stay home at night. So they patrol just they way we trained ’ em to. Sneak along in the dark, listening. Maybe turn off the engine and just float. Hear an infiltrator, turn on the light, and zap ’em. Taking the night away from the Cong, we called it.”

“But now,” Osa said, “it is so dark I don’t know how you can possibly see where you’re going.”

“You don’t exactly see it,” Rice said. “Actually, you sort of feel it. Do you notice how choppy it is under the boat now? Just bump-bump-bump? No more upsy-downsy rolling from the waves coming in. Here that’s being canceled out by the current, the brown water coming out. So when it’s dark, you just keep in the middle of the current best you can.

And if you think you’re lost, you use these night binoculars.”

“But so many different mouths to this river,” Osa said. “I think they called it ‘Nine Dragons.’”

“Two of ’em are silted up and closed. They oughta call it ‘Seven Dragons,’ but with the gooks nine is the lucky number.”

Moon now could see that the trees lining the shore were some sort of palms. Soon their crowns were outlined against the stars, almost overhead. And then they were past the palms. Inland. The air felt different: hotter, heavy with humidity. Moon was sweating. The soft sound of the current now drowned the murmur of the idling engine.

The sky lightened a little with a false dawn. Moon saw that the forest lining the river was no longer palms. And no longer alive. The jungle was leafless, dead. Barren limbs formed a black tracery against the horizon. He pointed that out to Osa.

“Agent Orange,” Osa said. “I think that’s what killed everything.”

“Only We Can Prevent a Forest,” Rice said, spacing the words. “That was the slogan of the C-One-thirty guys who dropped the stuff. They’d zap the jungle so we could see, then we’d come along and zap the Cong.”

The smell of the sea was gone now. Moon’s nostrils picked up the aroma of flowers, of decayed vegetation, of rancid mud, the perfume of sandalwood and smoke. Sweat ran down from his eyebrows into the corners of his eyes.

Rice throttled down the engine. “Better be quiet now,” he said. “This one we’re in they call Cu’a Cung Loi, I think it is. Probably means ninth mouth, or something like that. Anyway, it’s the mouth furthest from Saigon. Full of Vietcong before we got ’em-”

Mr. Suhua

“Something’s coming,” Osa said in a low, low voice. “Can you hear It?”

Moon heard it. The sound of someone crying. A child’s wail. A ti