Stephen (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

One of the spooks leaned over and tapped the map. “Intelligence says here. Whatever happened, they’re scared.”

“And you are certain my presence is justified?” The silver-haired guy didn’t look up from the map.

“Absolutely Professor Van Diemen. If there’s any truth at all to the reports we’re getting back, you’re probably the only one who could help,” the spook replied.

“The Pentagon said you were the man for the job after you consulted the State Department on that San Francisco business.” A general I’d never seen before.

“You know how serious things are, Professor,” the spook continued. “If things fall apart here, the entire world will be next. We need to stamp our authority on the situation, and anything that can help us is absolutely justified.”

Van Diemen nodded slowly. Finally he did look up at the faces turned towards him. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Operation Cedar Falls begins at eight hundred hours,” the General said. “The 1st Infantry Division’s 2nd Brigade will move into Ben Sue. It will distract the VC so we can fly you along the Saigon River to the heart of the triangle with the 242nd Chemical Detachment. There’s a small window of opportunity before the 173rd Airborne move in from Ben Cat.”

Back with the others I could barely conceal my excitement. “Who is it?” Justin had shaken off the dope haze with the speed of someone who always keeps his eye on the main chance.

“A professor. Sounded like he was from the Netherlands or Belgium.”

“Not Ann-Marget?” Chet said wistfully.

“Come on, Will,” Justin urged. His eyes had that hungry gleam he always developed when he sensed an opportunity – for good pictures, good sex or any kind of drugs.

“There’s something big kicking off tomorrow.” I hunkered in among them, whispering. “A push into the Iron Triangle. Operation Cedar Falls. But that’s not the interesting thing.”

I proceeded to tell them what little I had overheard, but it was enough to get their news senses tingling. Not knowing what lay ahead, we were very excited.

Back then we’d never have imagined Saigon falling. Or a lot of things that happened since. I’m tempted to take out the photo from that night, but I know it’s just a nervous habit, imbued with the desperate wishful thinking of a child. It’s taken me weeks to get to this point, following a trail that was not only two years out of date but had also been obscured by the old man himself.

He didn’t want to be found. Maybe he felt guilty.

From the outside the room looks non-descript. BLACKWALL IMPORTS-EXPORTS, the sign says. A front for the secret service and their employees. I never used to care about any of the grubby games the’ ‘adults” played; it had no bearing on my life. Now I’m building up a hard core of hatred in my heart for the lengths to which people will go. Yet I still can’t decide if I want to save myself or if I just want revenge.

My first glimpse of the room is a shock. Religious symbols everywhere: crucifixes, Stars of David, a Buddha, a shrine, the Bible, the Koran. But no Van Diemen. I don’t allow myself to get disappointed, not after everything I’ve been through.

I never took Van Diemen to be a spiritual man. Far from it. What I’d seen of him suggested he was completely mired in the stinking mud of the real world. Realpolitik , not prayer. He’s a symbol of everything that’s going wrong at the moment: frightened, old, white men trying to stop the world turning, going to any lengths to crush youth, hope, innocence at home, to eradicate different ways of thinking abroad. Men who see threats where there is only change. Men who want to seal the planet in a block of ice.

This is the room of someone obsessed. Beyond the religious artefacts are other, more disturbing items: occult books, signs scrawled on the walls in a frantic hand. The distant echoes of what we found that day in the Iron Triangle.

I remember, I remember . . . I spent a couple of hours that night developing the roll of film. The photo taken earlier that evening perfectly captured the moment, carefree grins, lazy, king-of-the-world expressions. Nature’s secret ironies.

We woke to a dawn of fiery reds and hateful purples. Justin was already up, loading his camera bag, checking lenses and stashing film. Alain helped me drag Chet out of his crib; he was bad-tempered and sluggish and it took a shot of Jack in a stained mug to get him moving.

At a five-minute briefing, the captain told us we could accompany the troops into Ben Sue. It was a big day, the start of the war’s turning, and we were there to capture the moment the US became the winning side.

We’d already made our plans, bribed the right people with a small sack of prized grass, and slipped into the back of the chopper just before it took off. Ben Sue was far behind us when we were discovered, and by then what could they do? We were threatened with losing our accreditation, told we’d be shipped out of ‘Nam the minute we got back to camp, ordered to remain with the chopper ready for dust-off. We made the correct contrite noises and then laughed among ourselves when the Captain went back to his seat.

Van Diemen sat with the brass and the spooks as if they were afraid of allowing him contact with the regular grunts. I watched him carefully, thought how troubled he looked, how deeply sad; wondered what he had done in San Francisco that made him such a vital resource for the Government.

We came down in a clearing not far from the silver-gleaming river. The troops fanned out to clear the area; there were about twenty of them, with a further twenty Tunnel Rats from the 242nd Chemical Detachment, for whom I had the ultimate respect. In a country of nightmares, theirs was the worst, crawling into the Viet Cong tunnel system with nothing more than a hand gun, a knife and a flashlight to flush out the enemy.

Finally Van Diemen and his shiny, stiff shadows ventured out and we followed close behind. Nobody told us to get back, and we knew why the minute we were on solid ground and the chopper’s engines were stifled.

When you’d been In Country for a while, you started to develop what the grunts called “Jungle Sense”. You knew when danger was rolling towards you like a tropical storm on the horizon. This was worse than that feeling. I could see it in everyone’s faces the same: an expression of distaste overlaying dread.

The air was dead. No birdsong. No animal sounds. No evidence of human life. It felt like we were trapped in a bubble.

“Is this part of it?” the spook said to Van Diemen ahead of us.

“I think it possibly is.” Something odd had happened to the old man. Once he stepped into that disturbing atmosphere he appeared to come alive with strength and purpose in his movements.

The point man followed the Captain’s directions deep into the trees. It was already growing hot and humid. Nobody spoke. All eyes remained on the green world pressing tight on every side.

After fifteen minutes we reached a makeshift shelter. Smoke drifted up from the embers of a small fire over which hung a pot of water. In the shelter a rifle lay on a blanket next to an oily rag as if it had been dropped in the process of cleaning. A dead radio stood on a splintered fruit crate.

“Where’s the resistance?” The Captain looked like a surfer, sun-bleached blond hair, blue eyes, still younger but ageing faster than time allowed.

“Maybe they ran when they heard us coming,” Chet ventured.

The spook whirled as if he’d only just realised we were there. “No pictures! Of anything! This is a top-secret mission! Any problems and you’ll be shot for treason.”

That sounded a little extreme, even for ‘Nam. The Captain suggested we be escorted back to the chopper, but the spook’s attention had already wandered uneasily back to the shelter.