Finding Moon

“We don’t have much time then?” And, as he said it, thought, Time for what?

Mr. Lee shrugged. “Again, I must guess. What is the movement of their wind and water? What is the movement of our own? How can we know what that holds for them? Or for us? Perhaps the Yellow Tiger Battalion will be fierce and chase their Vietcong brothers into the Mekong. Or perhaps the Vietcong will chase the Tigers all the way into the Gulf of Thailand.”

“Do you have any ideas?” Moon asked. Osa was sitting beside Mr. Lee now, looking thoughtful.

Mr. Lee said, “Probably the same ones you have. The alternatives. We could stay here. The Vietcong will come back for the rice, or perhaps the Army of North Vietnam will come to collect the aircraft and the other equipment. Then, perhaps, we will be shot or taken into custody. Or perhaps we will not be shot. if all is well we would be returned to our countries or held for questioning. It is all very problematic. Or we could seek some means to escape to the sea. Or we could seek some way to continue our mission.”

“I am remembering what Mr. Rice said about the River Patrol Boats,” Osa said. “Some people in that ship must have escaped. Ran away in the boats that were missing. Where would they go? We didn’t hear such fast boats when we were coming up the river. Where could they be? We should try to find one of those. We should try to get out the way we came in.”

To Moon that seemed awfully close to hopeless. But he could think of nothing better. “What do you think of that?” he asked Lum Lee.

Mr. Lee pulled idly at his gray goatee, considering.

“How do we find the boat?” He made.a wry face, shook his head. “However, one with no horse must walk. One with no helicopter must try to float.”

Mr. Lee laughed at his own humor. Osa produced a weak chuckle. Moon didn’t even try.

“I will go now and see what I can see,” Mr. Lee said. “But first I must find something to make me look more like a Communist. More like a Mekong Delta Communist.”

“I think you are too tired for that,” Moon said. “Rest awhile. Have some food.”

Mr. Lee studied him, tugged at his goatee. “I am remembering what Ricky told me about you,” he said. “I think you plan to do this yourself. But you are too big, and too white, too American. You would be caught, and then we all would be caught.”

“I know,” Moon said. “I thought about that. Let’s see if we can find anything useful.”

The door at the far end of the warehouse opened into an office: two desks, one small, new, and gray metal, and the other big, old, and oak; a tall old-fashioned five-drawer filing cabinet; a small safe, its door standing open; and a long wooden table with four folding chairs beside it. Moon sat in a swivel chair at the bigger desk, felt the smooth wood under his fingertips. Wood polished by Ricky’s hands. In front of him, just over the desk, he could see through the rain-streaked window the open door of the hangar from which George Rice, the Huey copter, and all his hopes had flown away.

Mr. Lee had disappeared through the door behind him into the living quarters, followed by Osa. After a while he would go there himself. He’d see Ricky’s nest. See whatever Ricky’s friends had left when they collected his things to send back to the States. But not now. It could wait a minute while he would simply think.

Moon heard voices, something clattering. The monsoon wind rattled the window with a fresh barrage of rain. Sweat ran down his back, made his shirt slick against the plastic of the chairback. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Today was what? The end of April. Victoria Mathias would be sleeping in her bed in her hospital room.

Mr. Lee emerged, dressed in loose and slightly dirty cotton trousers and an even looser dark blue smock. He was carrying a conical fiber hat.

“Not perfect, but a lot better,” Mr. Lee said. “I go now. Mrs. van Winjgaarden said she will take a shower.”

“I think you would fool me,” Moon said, “but are you going to fool these local Vietnamese? Are there any Chinese around here, do you think?”

“You forget that I, too, am Vietnamese,” Mr. Lee said. “And there are Chinese everywhere in Asia.”

“But how the hell-? Just what are you going to do?”

Mr. Lee stopped at the door. “I tell anyone I can find that my son was a cook on the U.S.S. Pott County. I came to visit him. I learn the ship has been sunk. Someone told me he got ashore on one of the motorboats.”

“Um,” Moon said.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” Moon said.

“Remember that I am an old man. Remember that the Vietnamese respect their old.”

“Like the old man with his ear cut off,” Moon said.

Mr. Lee stared at him. “The scar was old. Somebody in your CIA was collecting ears that year, I think.” With that, Mr. Lee disappeared through the doorway.

Another gust of wind rattled the window. From the living quarters behind him, Moon heard a shower ru

A half dozen ru

Then, through the doorway into the next room, he could see part of Osa: the back of her head, her right shoulder, the right side of her back, right buttock, right leg, the bare sunta

Moon pushed past her. A small young man was sitting on the floor in the bathroom closet, matted black hair, the side of his face black with clotted blood, holding a grenade launcher pointed at Osa.

He shifted it to point at Moon.

“Hello,” Moon said. Not Vietcong, he thought, or he wouldn’t be hiding here. An ARVN deserter. He might understand some English. Would he understand the grenade launcher? if he shot it in here, they were all dead. Moon bent forward, reached his hand back, felt his palm press against Osa’s bare stomach, pushed hard, was aware she was falling out through the doorway, heard her body hit the floor.

“You’re hurt,” he said to the man.

“You are an America,” the man said. lie said it very slowly, mouthing each word carefully, not sure of his English. He gri

Through his open shirt, Moon saw more dried blood, part of a tattoo, and dark bruises.

“There’ll be a first aid kit around here somewhere,” Moon said. “What happened to you?”

“Yes,” the man said, and something else which Moon didn’t understand.

Moon picked up the grenade launcher. The same model, he noticed, that they’d trained with at Fort Riley. He leaned it in the corner of the closet.

“Can you stand?”

The man looked puzzled. “Stand?”

Moon helped him up, helped him into the bedroom, helped him sit on the rumpled bed. Mr. Lee was standing in the bedroom door. Osa reappeared beside him, still barefoot but wearing her khaki pants now and a bra, with her shirt over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said to Moon, looking slightly embarrassed. “I guess neither of us have any secrets now.”

“No,” Moon said.

She smiled at him. “But you didn’t have to push me so hard.” She went into the bathroom, turned off the shower, and came out with a wet towel.

“First we need to clean off the cut places,” she said to the man. “Mr. Mathias here will go and find the medical box, and then we will see what we can do for you.”

He found four of the kits the U.S. Army issues to its aid men in the kitchen cabinet over the sink. Mr. Lee was standing behind him, looking pleased.

“I think we may have some help now, finding a boat,” Mr. Lee said. “Our man is one of the Sealord sailors.”