Stephen Wright - Meditations in Green

“What the hell was down there?” asked Griffin.

“Nguyen’s Pizza and Hamburgers, Commie Community Drive-In Theater, who knows? I think what we’re looking at here is actually a site of random mineral exploration. Chop up the ground with explosives, see what rises to the surface. Damn country’s loaded with tungsten, you know. For filaments, light bulbs. Bombing this place is really keeping our homes back in the world clean and well-lit.”

“Never heard that theory before.”

“New shipment of books from my mother.”

The Mohawk passed over a huge rectangle of dry brown larger than any Griffin had ever seen on the film, or perhaps on film the size of defoliated areas simply appeared smaller than life. Beneath the rectangle, in the corner typically reserved for the artist’s signature were the large letters USA, also in brown. Soil sterilants, thought Griffin. Our mark.

The plane stepped over a second mountain range and then swung down over the jungle.

“Enough sightseeing,” Mueller announced. “Here we go, target number one.”

Fumbling with the maps, Griffin finally located the target box, a grease-penciled area centered on a route interdiction in the middle of the valley floor. The plane dropped abruptly toward a threadlike road, Griffin’s stomach bouncing around off the walls of his insides like an overinflated basketball; the ground, a bowl of undulating pea soup, prepared to dump its contents on top of his head.

“Now,” signaled Mueller.

Griffin’s white finger found the appropriate button and pushed. Somewhere under his feet a camera clicked off frames.

“Okay,” said Mueller.

Griffin released the button. The plane climbed rapidly cloud-ward, captured and securely preserved in its belly possible tracks of the invisible enemy.

“Well?” asked Mueller.

“I thought you guys worked for a living.”

The green half of the picture before him slipped off the screen and, pinned to his seat, Griffin gaped at a deep expanse of unblemished blue. His body’s position on the seat shifted and, lifting his head backward, he was presented with an equally breathtaking view of solid green. Then, as someone began dribbling his stomach down a tilting court, the green started to revolve like the painted surface of a child’s top, accelerated and blurred into a long green tunnel narrowing to one immobile dot of black toward which Griffin plummeted in a state of fear so intense it was exhilarating and, as memory preceded the physical body down the drain, he realized that beneath his spinning consciousness there was an identical dot toward which the other moved as if into a mirror, and the ground did a somersault over the sky and there was the green and there was the blue each in its proper location and, nestling on his lap, inside the plastic map bag, were the warm soggy remains of Griffin’s breakfast. Mueller hadn’t turned on the intercom but Griffin could see he was laughing, the fillings in his teeth.

“Thank you,” said Griffin, wiping his mouth on the corner of a 1:50,000 chart of Thua Thien province.

“Sorry,” said Mueller. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Never trust a pilot.”

“But you’re cool aren’t you, tell me how cool you are.”

“Right. These drops on my forehead are nothing but snowflakes.”

Except for terse comments relating to mission business they hardly spoke to one another for the remainder of the flight. Mechanically the camera collected images: roads and trails, river crossings, streams, an abandoned hamlet, rocks, trees, and a remarkable field of craters arranged in such neat nearly symmetrical rows as to resemble a bizarre species of farm crops. Banking away from the last target, a suspected truck park hidden under an impenetrable canopy of vegetation, Griffin was gazing indifferently out the window when he noticed to his surprise a long wide brown sear winding sinuously into the northern horizon through an immensity of dense jungle, a gigantic earthen snake warming itself beneath the tropical sun.

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

“Nine two two,” said Mueller, swinging the Mohawk around for an extended look.

Griffin recognized the number immediately, the route designation of a well-traveled section of the notorious Ho Chi Minh Trail. He was astonished at the difference between the insignificant tracing on a map and the broad avenue of actuality.

“It looks like an eight-lane freeway,” he exclaimed.

“Industrious little folks, ain’t they?”

Griffin turned to inspect once more this marvel of engineering and in the next instant the marvel was completely upside down as though the slide had been improperly inserted in the projector.

“Whoops,” said Mueller.

Griffin looked up at the platter of land, the mossy tombstone teetering madly over his head. This time he was determined not to get sick. Someone clinging to those bushes up there was signaling him with a hand mirror. Then there were glints of light like sparks from flint against stone. Behind him he heard the sound of a metal door being slammed shut, again and again. Who was getting out? He checked to see that Mueller was still beside him and saw black smoke streaming off the wing, the blades of one engine were no longer rotating. The ground descended with the speed of a palm slapping a bug; the jungle began separating out into individual trees, blotches of light and shade into distinct swells and depressions. When he finally realized that this was not another of Mueller’s jokes and that he actually was going to die the slide changed and Griffin beheld a pleasant composition of creamy cloud and baby blue.

“Bit of a problem back there,” said Mueller, still engaged in a wrestling match with the controls.

“What happened?” asked Griffin. His fingers were curled about the bottom of his seat.

“I’m afraid some camera-shy natives just tried to shoot us down.”

“Is that fuel spraying all over out there?”

“Don’t worry, I think we’re moving faster than the tank’s leaking. Boy, for a minute there it was like being back at Fort Rucker again. Surprise! You’ve only got one engine, now what?”

Suddenly everything got brighter, as if his hands, his knees, the instrument panel, the cockpit, the nose of the plane, the brilliant sky had all turned to crystal. His seat began sinking hydraulically downward. He grabbed for the handhold just under the windscreen. Vertigo descended over his head like a spinning dunce’s cap, his face went hot, then cold, the skin studded with greasy beads of sweat.

“Hey,” said Mueller, “are you okay?”

“I’ll never complain about the heat again.”

“This was not a routine mission.”

Griffin gave him a blank look.

“Usually there’s a couple SAM missiles to dodge, too.”

“Wonderful.”

Mueller contacted Looking Glass Control, informed ops of their situation. “We’ll roll out the fire trucks,” answered a bored voice Griffin thought might be Trips’s.

“Think I’ll put us in for a couple DFCs,” said Mueller. “How’d you like to star at the next awards ceremony?”

“The feel of firm ground under my feet will be adequate reward.”

His eyes kept darting toward the gas gauge. He felt violated, bruised. Like a peach that had been bounced against concrete. It wasn’t until he glimpsed the glittering sea shading off into the sky that he was able to begin to relax.

The landing was an exercise in delicacy. The plane seemed to float in softly as a ball of fluff. The wheels squeaked, the frame shuddered once, then coasted smoothly down the striped tarmac.

“Beautiful,” said Griffin. “That’s one I owe you.”

Mueller brushed the compliment away with a gloved hand. “Maybe someday you could doctor a mission report for me.”