CONTINUED: Taking Water

The boat crawled towards the coast with all six men straining to pick up any sound that could be heard over the growl of the twin diesels. Gunners Mates Jeff Ties and Alvin Jordan had the most important jobs; namely to blast any harbor patrol bastards that might blunder into them. Greenwood was given two machinist’s mates because the engines were not entirely trustworthy. Also: when you’re on an unfamiliar boat, its good to have mechanically inclined people in more than one spot to help figure things out. Then there was the communications specialist. His job was to make contact with the leader of the group they would be picking up. A great humanitarian and all around swell guy by the name of Colonel Nguyen Quoc Cuong.

The specialist’s name was Sappington, and he was the only man who had never been on a fast attack boat of any kind. He was the oldest man present; maybe thirty or thirty-five. He came off as a bit cold in the minds of the other small boat men, but he had a neat little radio that wasn’t any bigger than a wallet, and he made the claim that someday soon everyone in the states would be carrying one. Anyway, he was the man with the code lingo, which was almost as important as the fog that made this run possible.

Greenwood had naturally asked why the higher ups hadn’t scrounged for a boat pilot from the now captured bases at Rach Soi or Kien An. It was claimed that they couldn’t find any skippers with open water navigational skills that were up to this job. Greenwood was hard pressed to doubt them. Even with the all important fog their LST had to launch twenty miles out from the mouth of the Cai Lon River. River piloting was child’s play compared to the approach their picket boat would have to make. True, they had a radar unit that would help them once they got within three to four miles of the river entrance. But they needed a straight approach to that point, and he was pretty good at calculating cross currents.

Greenwood also suspected that they wanted a pilot who spoke Vietnamese, but couldn’t possibly turn out to be a Commie. The man they were going in to pick up was important. Not important enough to get picked up in Saigon, but worth a lot of fuss just the same.

“Well, he damn well better be punctual,” the pilot thought to himself while altering his compass heading after another glance at this watch.

The magic formula for their blind approach consisted of three things: minutes traveled on a specific compass heading, course changes at specific times and boat speed. At one point during the approach the skipper had buzzed the engine compartment and asked, “Beazek, what’s wrong with the throttle? The r.p.m.s aren’t holding steady.”

“Well sir, they’re bound to fluctuate a tad. But I’m pretty sure the throttle won’t stick on us.”

“That’s not my concern. We can’t compensate for these currents if we don’t have a consistent speed.”

“Sorry sir, but I’ve never been in a situation where it hurt to have the throttle wander a bit,” said Machinist Mate Darrel Beazek.”

“Well you’re in one now,” the skipper responded.

Beazek took out some more hard candy and gave a piece to his partner before loading up himself. It was Asian coffee candy with a very high caffeine content. Beazek was a tad out of shape and depended mightily on caffeine and sugar. His partner was a skinny black kid of eighteen named George Williams. Both men knew engines, but only Beazek had enough experience to know that officers always want more than they actually need.

“If we don’t line up perfect on the mouth of the river, it won’t matter as long as the fog holds---right?” inquired Williams.

“Sort of,” responded Beazek. “Nobody on this boat has ever worked this coastline. Oh we’ll find our way alright, but how much time will we waste in the process? That is the question.

The kid grinned sheepishly to himself.

“To tell you the truth, I feel like a fool being in the middle of all this.”

“Don’t we all…..but what’s your brand of dumb shit thinking?”

“I like working on engines, and I figured that a G.I. Bill would really help me afterward so I enlisted and put in for machinist school. But I didn’t care much for the idea of staying down in the bottom part of a big ship for years on end, so I volunteered for Mobile Ravine. I figured I’d just end up cruising around someplace pretty safe cause the war is over and we probably wouldn’t get into another fight for a long spell,” reasoned the kid.

“I never figured that for a second,” responded Beazek. “We gave the South Vietnamese government a solemn pledge to come back if the Commies ever launched a full scale invasion. It’s plain enough we aren’t going to honor that promise, but back when you were in boot camp, the rest of us were sweating blood that we’d be ordered back in to face longer and hotter river gauntlets.”

The black kid shook his head.

“I got a cousin who’s on the supply side of this navy and he told me that the South Vietnamese military machine has been getting cheated out of supplies by us for the past two years. Not a big surprise to those in the know, that the Commies would win out eventually. Then or now, I would have bet my autograph of Jimmy Hendricks that I’d never ride a boat on a Vietnamese river, or any other in Southeast Asia.”

“So they didn’t give you a choice in the matter?” asked Beazek.

“Did they give you one?” responded Williams.

“No, but I got experience. They always want that for a special op.”

“Well anyway, Jordan told me that we’re cutting through fresh water now so we must be pretty close.”

“Dunno. They say that you can scoop up a bucket of fresh water ten miles out from the mouth of the Amazon River.”

“Yea, but the Cai Lon is smaller, although I never saw any photos of it.”

Above their heads Sappington moved over beside Greenwood so that his voice wouldn’t carry.

He pointed to a tiny window on his wonder box and said, “I’ll get a flashing light when we’re within one-hundred yards of our contact. Just try to put us as close to the docks on the right side as you can.”

Two minutes later the boat scraped alongside the end of a pier and everyone tensed, especially the machinists who were afraid for the thin piece of wood between them and the water.

“I guess we’re close enough to the right,” muttered Greenwood as he lowered the r.p.m.s a bit more.

“I thought there was supposed to be lights at the entrance to this docking facility,” Sappington whispered in a rush.

“I was informed that a power failure would be arranged around 0300 hours,” said Greenwood. “You’ll appreciate that more when its time to take our guests aboard.”

“Yea, but your damn engines could still draw unwelcome attention,” put in the specialist.

Now Greenwood was absolutely convinced that this man was more than just a radio operator with a new toy. He was probably some kind of spook, not that it mattered a whole lot.

“Hopefully everyone who is sleeping on their boats will mind their own business. That is the only good thing about a communist take over: it tends to quiet people down,” the skipper theorized.

The boat crept along for another five minutes with the men topside staring warily at the silhouettes of boats and boat houses that were only partially obscured by the fog. Jordan swore he saw a man standing at the end of a dock staring right at them, but the man didn’t move and he probably thought they were N.V.N. Besides the fog, their best playing card was the fact that the new management was awfully busy trying to figure out who needed to be oppressed and in what order.

Because the local population was largely Khmer refugees who had relocated to the Kien Giang Provence, the newly arrived Communist occupation forces received very little in the way of cooperation. For that reason, the lives of half a dozen men hung largely on two possibilities: 1) That the boat people who were now listening to the rumble of an engine would conclude that a kindred spirit was in the process of defying the new authorities. 2) That a communist patrol boat was passing by looking for someone to arrest.

Either way, Greenwood was mostly concerned with the danger of damaging his hull in the damn fog and finding himself marooned in enemy territory. If it had been up to him, he would come in alone in a rubber zodiac boat. That way he could bounce off of piers to his heart’s content. Only drawback was that it would only take a few 7.62 rounds to put everybody into the soup.

Such thoughts were shoved aside when Sappington got his little flashy light fifteen-hundred yards from where they scratched the paint job on the boat. Greenwood let the boat run softly aground in section of river bank that had yet to be developed. Greenwood could smell the port city that was all around them, and he heard a dog barking maybe two-hundred yards straight in.

Their situation was absolutely ridiculous, but not nearly as much as it would be if they were conducting the same kind of operation on the east coast. That was where the important people struggled to get out of the country. The people on this side had blood ties with Cambodia and were amongst the poorest of the residents of Viet Nam. They had received some help from the United States, but now, they would be at the mercy of an unorganized authority that would see them as illegal aliens more than anything.

Sappington stood on the bow of the boat and cast a flashlight beam that swung back and forth between the two nearest docks that were well spread apart because of a small tributary that was only knee deep but fairly wide. Five minutes passes and gunners were growing more and more nervous by the minute. But Greenwood handed them some gum and soon thereafter a man waded in out of the fog and rewarded them for their patience.

Sappington kept his flashlight beam in the man’s face, and he had transferred his Colt pistol from its flap holster to his pants belt for faster drawing if necessary. But the man wearing civilian clothing was quick to offer up a large envelope that was quite possibly his ticket to ride. Sappington took it and walked the man back to where the skipper was waiting.

“I was told there would be five or six of you,” Greenwood said in Vietnamese.

“We had to disperse earlier in the night. Only the envelope matters. Now get us out of here.”

There was something about the colonel that rubbed Greenwood the wrong way, but that probably had something to do with the fact that thousands of friends and relatives were being written off by people who were being forced to play God. Greenwood had been told that the colonel would be making his way from the central commerce city of Long Xuyen. Apparently the move did not go without incident. Wherever his comrades were, the Americans could only assume that they parted company with Cuong of their own free wills.

The colonel was covered in mud and was likely pretty tired. But his predatory gazed never left the fog enshrouded bank for more than an instant while whispering answers to Sappington’s questions. The American JG was content to leave the men to their business while getting the boat turned around. They then back tracked on their entry route since the length of the piers on that side were now known to them.

They almost made it out of the river before a distant voice called, “Boat 37, is that you?”

Greenwood dared not answer because his American accent would have given them away. But the colonel fired back with, “No, this is boat 18. We pulled into the wrong damn river. This damn fog is going to drive me to drink!”

The engines drowned out the distant response as Greenwood gave the boat some more throttle. Nobody stopped sweating until they were out in open water and their radar showed an empty screen. At that point there was a lot of water between them and the mother ship, but after years of being shot at from riverbanks, the run from the coast would seem like a piece of cake indeed.

Greenwood broke radio silence and reported that the mission had gone off without a hitch. Only one man had been rescued but that was the Colonel’s problem if it was a problem at all. But the mother ship’s response was a bit less joyful.

“Beaver One, be advised that we have a blip on long range radar. Possible PT boat heading towards us from the south.”

“Say again Mother Hubbard. Is the bogey south of your location?” asked Greenwood.

“Affirmative. Vessel is approaching from the south. We will break out of the fog by sailing north by northwest. We have an Albatross ready to assist us in the open. Suggest you sail north on a parallel course with the coast until further notice.

“Understood Mother Hubbard, but it is very unlikely that your bogey is a PT boat. All such patrol craft should be north of these waters.”

“We will keep you informed, Mother Hubbard out.”

The skipper shook his head and asked, “Sappington, any chance that a special boat might be on the way out to our tender for the purpose of picking up the Colonel? We got a possible NVN PT boat approaching from the south.”

“The Colonel is supposed to stay with the ship all the way back to Singapore. As for the PT boat theory: you know more than I do about the NVN, but I was told that there are no small boat bases south of Rach Soi.”

“You know that, and I know that, but Lt. Commander Norland is now going to run away from what he thinks is a PT boat. So, we’ll have to head north and wait for Norland’s little mystery to clear up.”

“Trouble is the fog is clearing up even faster,” complained the special operative.

Greenwood turned ninety degrees to starboard and aimed his boat at waters that were sure to get crowded sooner or later. By 0700 the last of the fog had burned away and Greenwood was fast approaching a dilemma. Dead ahead was a peninsula that featured a coastal beacon. The place was called Cape Hon Chong, and it was there to protect ships from a chain of small Islands and reefs that lay just off to the west. But the NVA installed a coastal battery because the area had a history of Cambodian pirate activity.

Of course the NVA wasn’t losing any sleep over the fact that refugees bound for Thailand might fall prey to those wolves of the sea. Their concern was that smugglers could get rich shipping contraband merchandise down from Bangkok. Refugees were deemed undesirable, and were often ignored by the North Vietnamese authorities if the former had the good sense not to flaunt their illegal activities in front of the later.

A good example of that took place that morning of the 6^th. A forty foot open boat tried to make use of the heavy fog in order to get past Hon Chong. But their antiquated twenty-five horse outboard broke down and by the time they got it fixed, the fog had burned off leaving them only three-thousand yards from the shore installation. The gunners could hardly ignore the criminals bobbing out on the ocean in front of them, so the order was given to open fire.

A 40mm round kicked up a geyser of water some ten yards inbound from the boat. The man operating the outboard began steering a zigzag course which would keep them in range longer but also make things a bit trickier for the gunners. Greenwood waited for additional rounds to fall and was a bit mystified when that didn’t happen. What the naval officer couldn’t know was that the 40mm was having mechanical troubles. Its normal four round semi-auto feature was not working and the gun had to loaded and fired one round at a time.

Greenwood positioned his boat five-hundred yards directly behind the refugee craft and monitored the drama as it unfolded. Eight more rounds fell into the sea before the Vietnamese colonel left the box he was sitting on and approached the skipper.

“Lieutenant, it is my opinion that you are needlessly endangering your vessel. That shore gun could possibly throw a round out this far.”

Greenwood ignored him and called down to the engine compartment.

“Beazek, did you see to that smudge pot like I told you?”

Oh yes sir. A smoke screen is a man’s best friend when you gotta—-“

“Just be ready to deploy on my order,” interrupted the skipper.

“You’re not going to place this boat between the shore battery and its target,” the colonel stated with the certainty of a higher rank. “You have orders to get me to the recovery ship and this unfortunate matter cannot be your concern.”

“Colonel, my concern is that we’re leaving this part of Asia with our tail between our legs. Now please sit down and don’t distract me anymore.”

The Vietnamese officer went to stand over Sappington where he was seated and asked, “Are you not going to protest this unseemly conduct? This is a very important mission, and it is being willfully jeopardized.”

“Agreed, Colonel. I suggest we allow the smoke screen to be deployed and then insist that we rendezvous with the LST a.s.a.p.”

“And I say we leave this area without deploying a smoke screen!” shouted the officer so that Greenwood could hear.

Suddenly the nearest twin .50 was pointed in their direction.

Gunners Mate Jeff Ties gave them a most insincere look and said, “Begging your pardon, Colonel. I was just testing the runners to make sure the guns could turn properly.”

Then the big machine guns turned back towards the sea.

Jordon missed what the other gunner had said but understood that they now had something extra to think about. Williams was sent astern to man the smoke generator and the boat hooked around in a huge half circle to make a run from east to west. There were only sixteen people on the underpowered open boat. In the future, boats the same size would carry three times that number. The world would read about it in the newspapers and wonder why anyone could fear communism so much.

Greenwood and the others were getting a rough idea. Now it was time to demonstrate a different way of thinking. The engines came to full life and the high speed boat commenced its run just after another geyser erupted. A black cloud grew out of the boat’s stern and Greenwood was thankful that the cloak of soot was drifting straight at the gun emplacement. The skipper grinned at his handiwork and was about to turn and head off in the general direction of the LST. But suddenly there was a dull thud and a chorus of feint screams.

Greenwood raised his glasses and saw that the shore battery finally got in a lucky shot. The 40mm round obliterated the outboard and sprayed the helmsman and three others with shrapnel. The boat was now taking water from numerous small leaks, but the only thing that mattered was that it was dead in the water, and would eventually drift towards shore. (Assuming that the gunners allowed it to stay afloat long enough.)

Greenwood stared across the expanse of water and envisioned an entire country that had been written off because the politicians back in Washington didn’t know how to fight a war. A lot of anger came to a head and the throttle was pushed wide open for the second time. Colonel Cuong tensed at this latest absurdity as did Sappington, but they weren’t prepared to relieve the skipper of his command and nothing less would have gotten the boat turned around.

It seemed to take forever for the two boats to get lined up for a tow, and in the meantime the shore gunners managed to activate a 20mm that required a high arch trajectory but could lay down a pattern of random shots. Greenwood figured that out while approaching the stern with a tow line. Williams stood ready to accept the coil of tow line but the skipper kept it and tossed it to a man waiting at the bow of the other boat. The refugee was just in the process of securing his end of the line when a 20mm shell took his head clean off.

Everyone pushed away from the decapitated corpse and the tow line began to slip back off of the boat. A man who had been sitting in the center of the craft forced his way between to hysterical women and made for the snaking length of nylon. That’s when things went from bad to worse. The next 40mm round plowed through the gunwale at water level. A millisecond later it cut through both the man’s legs just below the kneecaps and sent another wave of hysteria through the now sinking boat.

“Aw crap,” exclaimed the skipper who then rushed back to the helm and brought the two boats together.

The instant the boats met Williams jumped onto the other boat and secured it. Then he turned expectantly towards his skipper and shouted, “We taking them all sir!?”

“Everybody who’s got a pulse!” bellowed the officer over the wailing of women and children. “Hand over the kids first!”

Half a dozen more 40mm rounds dropped off to starboard before everyone could be carried to the picket boat. Even the colonel lent a hand when he realized that it was in his best interest to get the work done faster. A 20mm hit was scored on the control cabin, but every other round fell short of the picket and continued to spray the refugees as they filed clumsily past Williams on their way forward. Three men still on their feet, five women and six children.

Greenwood ordered them to sit down with their legs folded in on the aft deck. He didn’t have time to place anyone in a nook or cranny where they wouldn’t interfere with the operation of the boat. Greenwood thought he heard the colonel complaining or threatening or something. His command of the Vietnamese language only went so far with people scared out of their minds, but he kept shouting that everything was going to be alright as some of the women and children continued to vent their fears.

Then came the cruelest cut of all. Greenwood was about to order Jordan to cut the line as Williams poised to launch himself back onto U.S. government property. The kid was only three feet away from his skipper, and everyone had gotten used to the idea that the joining spot between the two boats was kind of sacred, because it was a place that had been traversed by every refugee and half the attack boat crew. But suddenly an invisible hand swept the skinny kid off the sinking boat and into the water.

Greenwood dived in without hesitation and grabbed hold of the back of the kid’s Mae West. The colonel rushed into the control cabin when another 20mm flew in and took a women in the throat. He was still scanning the controls when Ties slugged him over the head with his pistol butt.

Jordan got the Skipper and Williams back onto the boat and then yelled for Ties to go ahead and open her up. Greenwood had focused entirely on the task of getting the kid out of the water. Only when he cleared the salt water out of his eyes did he realize that Williams never had a chance. The 20mm had ripped out his heart and spinal column.

Three hours later they were all aboard the LST, and Lt.Com. Norland ranted and raved about Greenwood’s incompetence for a long time before bothering to mention that the PT boat he had run away from was a marine research craft who’s crew thought they were far enough outside the communist sphere of influence. There was plenty of embarrassment to go around, but since small boat skippers weren’t in great demand at that time, the Brass was free to embrace regulations and remind everyone that when you go on a special op, you damn well better stay focused on what is expected of you.

Greenwood took full responsibility for all that happened and put up a minimal defense at his courts martial. Somewhere in the Gulf of Thailand he stopped play acting the role of a bureaucrat. For years he honestly thought the rules and regulations could be the framework of his life. But now he knew different. He didn’t really feel like going home, but it would give his wife a chance to make her dream come true, so he put on civilian clothing and headed for a drier climate.

Life wasn’t going to be perfect without a twenty year pension. Dreams had to be altered and Herb moved his wife into an apartment over a convenience store owned by a fellow Paiute who had also been in the Navy. He went through the motions of becoming a math teacher somewhere in the Las Vegas area, but his service record tended to create a bit of drag while competing against hundreds of specialty degree applicants from all over the country. Yes, it seemed like half the country wanted to go into teaching; and all of the schools wanted their students to at least consider that particular career path. Herb didn’t mind his lack of progress until his immigrant wife began to blow his doors off in the area of wage earning.

Nhu appreciated her husband’s problem. He had lost his career because he was just a bit more idealistic than the United States government could tolerate. No one was at fault really. You can’t run a military with people who can’t consistently follow orders. So Herb would find something to do and everything would turn out alright in the long run.

It did in a way. Nhu got a job as a dealer in one of the bigger casinos and Herb ended up teaching as part of an adult education program that was a division of the tribal health and human services department. But there was a strange hollow spot inside of him, and he had to contend with a growing demon that materialized every time some well meaning resident voiced his belief that Herb had gotten a raw deal from the Navy.

Then after twelve years, Nhu became the assistant manager of the casino and would wait no more for the house she always wanted. It was a few miles off of tribal land and Herb soon found excuses to take a friendly drink, even though he had never touched the stuff back in Nam. After another year of living the American Dream, Nhu and Herb were separated and Herb was beginning to foul up at work because of the drinking. That’s when Albert Sappington came back into Herb’s life; and at the time, it really did look as though it would be a good thing for the man who had left a part of himself on the ocean.

They met in the parking lot of a bar that was located on the edge of what Herb called “Glitter Town.” Some people might comment that Vegas could be described in terms of population density. The highest density was Herb’s Glitter Town where people came to have fun or find work. Then there was the residential community. Then there was the outskirts where you could let you dog run free or play a round of cheap golf. Herb couldn’t really complain. He had seen other tribal lands where there was nothing but shacks, junked cars and drifting sands.

Still, something had compelled him to leave the place of his birth and now that he was back home, he was rediscovering a life long melancholy. That combined with his failure in the service, pretty much primed him for what Sappington had in mind for him. When the government agent extended his hand in greeting, Herb didn’t know if he should shake it or break the man’s thumb. But a little voice told him not to start any trouble in a favorite watering hole, so Sappington was allowed to buy the drinks, and Herb would get him mind off his soon to be ex-wife for a while.

“How would you like to make ten-thousand dollars tax free?” Sappington asked with his usual lack of style.

“Do I have to work with you, or just work like you?” Herb responded with his own lack of diplomacy.

“The U.S. companies that work abroad would like you to go to sea again. Different ocean this time.”

“That doesn’t sound like a few days work to me, and waters I’m unfamiliar with seem to bring me bad luck.”

“I don’t know how you can say that. We had shells coming at us six ways to Sunday but we got through it,” the G-man said with a friendly smile.

“Not everybody,” Herb muttered into his drink.

“I thought we were talking about your luck,” the recruiter said before ordering another round.

“A year ago I would have told you to go to hell. But now I’m willing to have one more drink and listen to what you have to say before I’m finished. So its time for you to make your pitch.”

“Ok, it goes like this: Have you ever heard of The Gulf of Aden?”

“Yea. Studied a lot of geography in the Navy. Thought it might come in handy after Nam.”

“Well, we want you to go to work there. You and a man named Cory Decker will sail an old yacht off the coast of Puntland. That’s a coastal region of Somalia.”

“So what are we supposed to do on this old yacht?”

“There is a ninety percent probability that you won’t do anything except cruise a day or so near the Arabian Sea and then tie up, collect your money and go home.”

“That leaves you to describe the remaining ten percent.”

“Do you know what Q Ships were back in WWI?”

“Yea. They were small Allied ships not worth spending a torpedo on. So a German U Boat would surface and order the crew into life rafts so they could sink the ship with their deck gun. But the ship’s crew would have a surprise for the Krauts. They would have disguised gun batteries that would be brought out and the U Boat would get clobbered.”

“Correct. Now the fact is The Sea Of Aden used to be plagued by pirates; for many centuries in fact. That pretty much ended with modern times, but now one of the world’s oldest professions is returning to that area.”

“Which you were talking about prostitution,” Herb muttered.

“Some of the Somali have taken to speed boats and have begun to kidnap wealthy people who cruise through those waters. They hold them for ransom. It looks like the situation might be escalating. Oil people are becoming interested in Puntland. They’re thinking about exploring for oil both on and off shore. Countless ships ply the coast and would have to exhaust fuel needlessly in order to stay clear of the area. Lots of people want this kidnapping thing nipped in the bud.”

“Tell them to put a 20mm on each ship and give some of the crew combat pay if they have to do any shooting,” advised Greenwood.”

“You know better than that, as an ex-navy man,” the recruiter gently scolded. “Just one case of mistaken identity and the company owning the ship could lose a fortune in court.”

“Mistaken identity my ass,” retorted Herb. “When a ship is doing eighteen knots and some clown tries to board it from another craft, you got yourself a hostile action. Only a fool could see it any other way.”

“Just the same, folks in the shipping business hope to address this issue with special contactors who will sail on their own. That’s where the yacht comes in.”

“An old yacht you said.”

“The boat was given a facelift you might say. She looks far more expensive than she really is.”

“The boat has to be expendable because you’re expecting trouble,” guessed the ex Navy officer.

“No, we purchase old boats because we need more than one or two. You have to understand that the pirates aren’t stupid. They have relatives who are fishermen and those guys will take note of expensive looking boats that keep cruising up and down the coast week after week.”

“And different men to be seen on them?”

“Well, the hunters are always on board, but yes, the men who help them sail the boats tend to come and go. Each trip lasts about three days. One day to sail into the danger zone---one day to act as bait---and one day to get back to your super secret docking facility. Then you can go home unless you want another cruise.”

“That sounds like a good plan for Lake Superior, but not the Arabian Sea,” Herb scoffed.

“The oil people aren’t interested in the whole damn Indian Ocean. They’re interested in Mr. Skinny’s back yard. Hopefully if we can demoralize these people, we can get them to behave themselves.”

“Doesn’t sound to me like you know much about pirates.”

“I’m not a hunter, Mr. Greenwood. But if you have something useful to say on the subject I’d be pleased to pass it along to the men who are in the thick of things.”

“A boatman turns pirate for one of two reasons: either because his livelihood has been taken from him or because he likes to wield power over others. You’ll find both kinds on the water and they all have a problem with authority. You don’t teach these guys a lesson by putting them in jail.”

“Well, certainly not a jail where loved ones can come and visit them. One of the interesting facets of this operation is that the pirates we collect just sort of----disappear.”

The recruiter smiled at his own statement.

“When people mysteriously vanish, it gives the next ones in line something to think about regardless of how they feel about uniforms.”

Herb refocused on the claim that he probably wouldn’t see any action if he only went out one time.

“Well---I could get a week off if you’re sure I won’t need more than that.”

“It’ll be cutting it close but we are really short handed so I’m just about positive I can line you up with a boat anytime you arrive. Air transportation is available seven days a week. We can move you around like you’re a real big shot.”

“Yea, that was one of the cool things about the military,” admitted Herb. “You could be flown anywhere anytime. Only problem was that sometimes guys ended up making the return flight in a rubber bag.”

“Just so the answer is ‘yes,” thought the recruiter as he tipped the waitress.

The term Any Port In A Storm could very well have been coined in Bargaal Somalia. Until the 1980s only sand swept earthen roads connected the tiny port community to the parts of the country that men were willing to kill each other to control. It’s location was considered perfect, and it would have been easy enough to spot from the air. But you could bet your sweet ass that at least one resident would be on retainer, to inform the local pirates that some white folks were doing something suspicious just down the road. Therefor it had been decided to build Satrap 4 approximately five miles north of the tiny port town.

One fog covered night a U.S. Navy LST came in and dropped off a Seabee crew that dredged a twenty foot berthing pen for the various yachts that would come and go. Trawlers would fuel them at sea when the coast was (quite literally) free. Special camouflage netting would cover the parked yacht when it was nestled in its little coastal nook. Such modest little hide-a-ways were designed to allow the hunter yachts to cruise the coast line with anonymity; or at least as much as they would need until the operation could be considered a failure; and no other outcome was possible.

Hunting pirates who live on large sailing ships was always relatively easy. But hunting men on speed boats who are back on land after a few hours; was another matter entirely. The fishing communities were largely on the side of the pirates, and the international corporations that needed use of the waterways were looked upon as apathetic wealth that was always going someplace else.

The pirate hunting program that Herb had just hooked up with was bound to fail, but a few adventurous types would make some money for a while because the shipping companies and local governments were compelled to try everything they could think of.

(Even things that didn’t stand a chance.)

Herb was boated in to his assignment at 0400, and his ride had to use a homing device because the use of signal lights were strictly forbidden. Even in the daylight hours you couldn’t spot the place where the yacht was parked unless you came within fifty feet of the camo netting. Most of the coastal area consisted of short sandy bluffs but the engineers who had dredged out a docking stall had selected a spot that was sandwiched between two rock formations. It helped cut down on sand drift when the winds shifted to a coastally quarter.

As for accommodations, everything was on the yacht. Toilet, cooking facility, and of course sleeping bunks. Only the camo netting stood on terra firma, and that could be taken down in three minutes. The lone occupant of the tiny getaway wanted his meeting with his new partner to start out with a dose of levity, so when he the shuttle boat eased up to the beach, Cory Decker turned on a small lamp to display himself in a Japanese bath robe with a martini glass in one hand.

“No lights outside your cabin damn it,” grumbled the shuttle pilot.

“You’re in greater danger of damaging your hull on a rock than you are of being spotted,” responded Cory in a bored tone. “I gotta explain that to every guy who sails out here.”

The man in the bathrobe then extended a friendly hand to Herb and said, “Cory Decker at your service. Step up on deck so you cabbie can get back underway. I’m certain he is anxious to pick up another fare.”

The boatman didn’t respond to that, he just silently threw his engine into reverse once his passenger was off loaded.

After the shuttle was swallowed by the dark Herb said, “That guy didn’t seem happy in his work.”

“He’s the nervous type. He keeps thinking that a speedboat full of pirates will come along and shoot him while he’s on a run.”

“At this hour?” queried the newcomer.

“It’s never happened but it is theoretically possible.”

“Is that the only thing that was eating him?”

“No, in truth our support people aren’t terribly crazy about guys like me.”

“Yea, shooters seem a little spooky to regular nine to five folk. I’ve transported more than on Special Ops team in my day, and when I was bringing them back, there was always a grim sort of atmosphere on the boat.”

“Wouldn’t know anything about that,” Cory responded with a shrug. “Want a coke?”

“Sure.”

Herb took his drink and sat down in the stern section to get acquainted with his new companion. Cory was twenty-six. Big but not athletic, with short sandy hair, a weak chin and the cheesiest looking mustache in the world. A couple of years ago he had completed a tour of duty in the Air Force where he had served as a Munitions Systems Specialist. That is where he understandable interest in a weapon that became a turning point in martial history.

“Doesn’t seem real to you I suppose,” then put forth with a grin.

“What doesn’t?”

“The fact that in a few hours we’re going out to find some guys we can kill.”

“I was told that our chances of a contact were about ten percent,” said Herb.

“Oh, far less than that under normal circumstances. But yesterday before sundown I went over to the village and asked if they had any goat ribs I could buy. Then I told them that I’d be sailing by their village again the day after tomorrow if anyone was interested in making a little money selling meat.”

“I was instructed not to allow any locals to get a close look at us,” Greenwood said coldly. “We are to cruise from point A to point B and under no circumstances deviate from that plan.”

“Plan was no good Herb. Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘it pays to advertise?”

Greenwood’s dour expression grew even more intense (if that was possible.)

“Did somebody offer you a bonus for every kill you get?”

“Hell yea, didn’t they tell you?”

“Must have skipped Sappington’s mind,” Herb muttered half to himself.

“Don’t know him. I got recruited by someone else.”

The older man let out a sigh and said, “Look here, I’m being paid to follow instructions and that is what I’m going to do. I suggest that we sleep in and then you can teach me all I need to know about the boat. The day after we’ll head for Satrap 5 and when we get there we can discuss your ideas about advertising with the field supervisor. Who knows, maybe he’ll agree with you. But then my tour will be over and I’ll be heading home.”

“You expected to get paid for doing nothing,” Cory said with a bluntness that was almost comic.

Herb fixed the other man with a hard stare and said, “We are two white guys in the middle of pirate territory. Some kid could come looking for a stray goat and find us here. Out of the water we’re two guys with a light machinegun until we get to our next hole in the wall. As far as I’m concerned; that ain’t nothing. That there is something.”

The next day Herb got settled into what would be his home for the next few days. The old powerboat was a forty-eight foot cabin cruiser with ten feet of deck space fore and aft of the cabin. Like every ocean yacht, it contained fold down tables and various domestic features common in camping rigs. But what really threw Herb for a loop was the stuff that Cory had been hiding under a couple of tarps right next to where Herb had been sitting the night before.

Herb’s eyes fairly bugged out when the tarps came away and he found himself staring at a M134 mini gun. As far as Herb knew it was the baby of the mini gun family. It only weighed eighty-five pounds and fired the 7.62 NATO rifle round. The most common mini gun model was the 20mm multi cannon, but even a maniac like Cory couldn’t hope to load such a weapon onto a yacht without help, a prayer and a specialized deck. So he contented himself with the 7.62.

Herb wasn’t surprised to discover that the weapon was purchased by Cory on the black market. It was explained to him that the other boats were equipped with war surplus M-60 machineguns. Cory was different, and maybe that’s why the shuttle guy didn’t like him. Well, they weren’t going near Bargaal, so it wouldn’t make any difference to Herb.

“So the other tarp is covering the ammo? Jez, I’m surprised we’re not lower in the water with all that lead.”

“Actually I’ve only got a thousand rounds. Got my other secret weapons laying on top of that.”

“Rockets?” guessed Herb.

“More like Rockettes,” quipped the younger man who was referring to dancers that went out of style before he was born.

Cory took out a pair of department store manikins dressed in bathing suits.

“What in the hell…” breathed Herb.

“We’re supposed to be rich guys on a pleasure cruise ain’t we?”

“Well yea…” Herb responded with a befuddled look. “But when those pirates train their field glasses on those dummies, they’ll probably notice that they aren’t moving and get suspicious.”

Cory laughed at that and said, “The only thing they’re gunna get is horny. Anyway, that gun of ours can turn a boat into a sieve at eight-hundred yards or better so you got nothing to worry about.”

Herb raised an index finger and warned, “Hey, you will not fire on any boat that is more than one-hundred yards out. We have to be certain of their intentions and we can’t do that if they’re half way to India.”

“Look Herb, I appreciate the fact that you’re new to this part of the world so let me explain something to you: Skinny’s don’t run around burning up gasoline in speedboats cause they’re fishing. Now there is the possibility that we could run into a government boat, in which you will see uniforms and guys busting a gut to make it clear that they are not pirates. Every guy who is legitimate in these waters understands how important it is to not be mistaken for a pirate. So when bad guys show up---we’ll know it.”

“Cory, I appreciate your line of reasoning but I want your promise that unless somebody goes for a weapon you will not shoot to kill before I’ve had a chance to speak with them.”

“Well what other kind of shooting do you think I’d be doing with a mini gun?” growled Herb’s partner.

“You could blow up a wall of water with a gun like that. Scare the shit out of them and make them think twice about opening up on us.”

“I don’t think appreciate the limitations of my set up,” responded Cory. “This weapon will super heat in three seconds. It isn’t for firing warning shots. You got the bull horn. You can start begging them to surrender any time you want. But they will NOT get close enough to try any boarding tricks. You’re problem Herb is that you don’t understand just how fast these things can happen. They know damn well they can’t give us time to think about anything.”

Herb could feel the tension that suddenly existed between them. Cory was obviously an easy going man by nature, but now it was equally obvious that he wasn’t going to take even the slightest gamble with his life in order to avoid blood shed. The man from Nevada wasn’t entirely surprised to discover that he was on the wrong boat….again.

On the morning they were to pull out, Cory fired up the old Volvo diesel and they crept out of their hiding place like a man sneaking out of a married woman’s house. Herb took the helm (and not just because Cory was supposed to ride shotgun.) Herb wanted to show his partner that when he said they were heading away from the village, he really meant it. Cory didn’t argue. He would be cruising these waters for quite a while and he didn’t want the people he was working for to think that he couldn’t get along with others.

“Mind some music?” he asked innocently enough.

“Not at all,” responded Herb.

Cory turned the volume knob and nothing happened. He cranked it all the way over and still the expensive speaker system didn’t let out a peep.

“Huh---what the hell….?”

Then he grinned at his own absentmindedness and said, “Oh that’s right, I unplugged the extension cord for the forward electrical system. Jez, you’d think would know this boat after being on it for two weeks.”

Cory switched cords, and when he did a blast of electric guitar music rolled over the shallows and up each end of the coastline. Of course the volume was turned down after about five seconds.

“You know, back in The Nam, there were boat skippers who would have made you walk home along the banks for doing something like that,” said Herb.

“Hey man, every day the people in this region get a little bit more modern. More and more radios and tape players are being purchased. More and more electric power to keep them running. Probably nobody heard that but if they did, they’ll figure that some kid tuned in to the wrong radio station. Anyway, we’re not sitting ducks anymore so go ahead and point the bow any direction that suits you.”

Herb rolled his eyes at that and powered the boat away from land for half an hour. Then they turned north and Herb throttled back to conserve fuel. The sea was perfect and the ex-naval officer spent the next couple of hours contemplating the history of the waters around him. Most Americans would only think about Egypt, Greece and Rome when the subject of ancient civilizations came up. (In most cases such content came in the form of a rerun of Cleopatra staring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.)

To the north on the coast of Yemen there was an ancient port city called Aden. It was the name sake of the gulf they were slowly heading towards. In the 6^th Century B.C. the ancient Awsan received trading vessels from The Red Sea area and even merchants from as far away as India. From that time until the present, there was always the possibility of a pirate attack. But the sea going brigands always distributed their ill gotten gain amongst the local population of their home port, so the only way to catch a pirate ship was by happening upon it out on the open ocean.

The majority of the ships that sailed through the area were never challenged, and localThird World naval forces could not afford to escort every ship that sailed along their coasts. So the various concerned parties in the gulf area became receptive to various possible solutions to a problem that kept getting bigger. So there they were, two mercenary boatmen pretending to be fat cats. One hoping to bag some bad guys, and the other hoping to sail without incident.

The two men spent most of the day talking about the shortcomings of where they grew up. When they got into the realm of adult experiences Corry managed to put his foot in his mouth at least once per nautical mile. Herb didn’t much care. You couldn’t grow up a Native American in Vegas unless you had a thick skin.

“So you married a Vietnamese huh. Man, sometimes I think you guys fought the last traditional war in American history.”

“How so?” queried Herb.

“Well, drinking and whoring are natural parts of military experience. Your war provided plenty of both. But the poor kids in the military now-a-days got nothing to do but play with their lap top computers. This Muslim world isn’t a fit place for any western fighting man. Everything that comes natural to a warrior is frowned upon in these parts and yet they chop people’s heads off for stuff that wouldn’t get you six months in jail back home. They’re all gunna end up with cell phones and air conditioning but they will still be a pack of savages because they would rather see their daughters dead than in bed with Jews or Ethiopians.”

Herb couldn’t remember the last time he felt so polarized by a new acquaintance, but he hated prolonged silence even more so he decided to run the risk of starting an argument out in the middle of nowhere.

“There were a number of what you might call flesh pots in the country where I fought. But for the most part the young women had fathers or brothers and you wanted to think twice before attempting to trifle with any of them. To this day I’m not one-hundred percent sure my ex-brother-in-law wasn’t a VC sympathizer, but I can tell you that he owned an SKS and my uniform wouldn’t have cut shit with him if I had approached his sister in the wrong manner.”

“Well sure---I’m just saying that proper R&R was available back in that war. But in these parts you gotta be a John Wayne type and live for shooting guns because there isn’t much else to do where the women wear tents and the booze has to be shipped in by the military itself.”

“Oh I’m sure there are some entrepreneurs here and there who help our boys in uniform get by,” responded Herb.

“But not nearly as well as what they would have just about any other place on this planet; that’s all I’m saying.”

“So says the man who has two department store honey’s in his boat,” Herb muttered half to himself.

“I would have cheerfully accepted the company of real live female operatives provided that I wouldn’t have to share my bonus money with them,” Cory half joked. “You know, that’s another thing that’s going to cause trouble in the future: women wanting to---“

Herb’s field glasses suddenly came up to eye level and Cory quickly followed suit.

“Small boat heading towards us,” stated Herb.

“Yea, coming straight out of the west with the damn setting sun almost behind him. You gunna tell me that doesn’t look suspicious as all hell?”

“Lock and load but for God’s sake don’t ignore me,” was all Herb had to say while checking the pistol he had been issued. “They could be coming out to sell us bait or something.”

The boat turned out to be a twenty-seven foot Sea Hawk with three men on board. They came in with broad smiles and waving hands as the boat drew a huge playful circle in the water while staying seventy-five yards out. Then the engine was powered down and the circle got smaller.

Herb got on the bull horn and put his best diplomatic foot forward.

“I sure hope one of you guys speaks English!”

“But of course! You can’t make any money on the coast if you don’t speak English!” shouted one of the three.

“And what service are you providing so far from land?!” Herb shouted back.

“One of the oldest of all professions!” the Somali shouted with the first half of his favorite joke.

Herb tensed and drew his pistol from the small of his back.

“Surely such fine upstanding gentlemen as yourselves could not be talking about prostitution!”

“God forbid! Besides, I don’t think you two could handle real live women, or you wouldn’t be entertaining yourselves with store window dummies!” the man called out as two Ak-47s were brought up.

Herb was amazed by the physical sensations that nearly overpowered him at that point. He was a combat veteran but that didn’t matter a damn bit as the speedboat brought the gunmen ever closer. He was scared. Stomach turning bladder screaming scared and the pistol he had almost distained to carry was now shaking in his hand.

Suddenly one of the manikins was blown in half by a horizontal flame that seemed to reach all the way across the water to the smaller boat. The Sea Hawk had tightened their circle to forty-five yards which constituted easy enough shooting for an Ak, but for a mini gun it was execution style killing and nothing less.

The stream of 7.62 rounds blew up the starboard side of the speed boat hull and then chewed up everything astern like a fern subjected to a hail storm. Two of the men were shoved out of the boat by an invisible sweeping hand that turned the corpses inside out before they could slap the surface of the water as two crimson objects that no longer looked like men.

Both Herb and Cory expected to find the third man dead and sprawled out on the bottom of the boat. With hundreds of bullet holes in the boat it was a logical assumption. Herb brought the yacht in closer so that they could view the contents of the craft that was rapidly taking water. Cory leaned slightly over the edge of the forward deck and saw something that had his eyes go wide.

The last remaining Somali was indeed laid out on the bottom of the boat. His left leg was bleeding but Cory didn’t really notice that. He was too busy staring at the rocket propelled grenade that was pointed at him. In Cory’s mind he was bringing his 9mm to bear on this horrifying threat, but it was nothing more than a split second fantasy that the American would carry with him into eternity.

The rocket launch was not experienced, nor the explosion that ripped the deck out from under Cory and ruined both his legs. But the total silence that followed the blast, and the sight of Cory slipping into the water made up Herb Greenwood’s total existence for the next few seconds; or maybe it was minutes. It was a form of shock that he had never experienced in Viet Nam, and when it wore off and he could hear again, he could only think about finding Cory. Toward that end he tried to venture around the port side of the cabin housing; mindful of the fact that there was still an enemy off to the starboard side.

Sure enough, when he ventured a tad too far forward, he discovered that Cory’s assailant was armed with more than just a single shot RPG. A hail of bullets drove Herb to the deck and forced him to crawl backwards to a move defensible position. When that was accomplished he called out to the remaining pirate.

“Do you speak English!”

“I’m the same man you were talking to before you ambushed us!” the Somali shouted back in anger.

“I think we ambushed each other. Or were you planning on selling us those rifles you brought out?”

“You white men never change. You only fight when you can employ a great superiority in firepower!”

“And you showed up with an RPG to take a couple of vacationers prisoner! I don’t think either one of us is Mother Teresa material!”

“I will not be taken prisoner by any representative of the United States government!”

“Dying is NOT preferable to my company, Mr. Long John Silver!” Herb responded while still hoping to catch a glimpse of Cory.

“You boat is badly damaged. Leave this area and I will not shoot at you!”

“Hell, all you did was give the cabin a sun roof. Your boat on the other hand could be used to grate cheese, and its going down fast!”

“I have a life preserver. Whether or not I make use of it depends on you. I say again: I will not be taken prisoner!”

It occurred to Herb that he could grant this idiot his wish and sail off, but he very much wanted to retrieve Cory’s body; assuming that the other American was truly dead. He also liked the idea of taking a prisoner, and to his way of thinking, that’s what this whole operation was designed for in the first place. Herb’s pistol hand wouldn’t stop shaking. He had never gotten this close to an enemy that was determined to keep on fighting and he felt certain that if he broke from cover and shot it out with this last pirate, he would be the loser. Sadly, he concluded that it was time to do something really stupid.

“I’ll make you a deal!” he shouted from his hiding spot. “I’ll throw my gun overboard and you can keep yours. Then you can come aboard my boat and I’ll take you to shore after I’ve retrieved the body of my partner!”

There was a pause and then the voice said, “Agreed, but I need to see the pistol fall into the water!”

“May fortune favor the foolish,” thought Herb before he lobbed his pistol into the water some three feet off the speed boat’s half submerged stern.

Herb slowly straightened his legs and moved around the cabin with a tension he hadn’t felt in years. He half expected to see a man standing in knee deep water preparing to shoot him, but in fact his adversary was still on the bottom of the boat, which meant that he was now chest deep in sea water.

“I thought I could stand up, but I am having difficulty with this leg,” the young pirate was forced to admit.

Herb to the yacht’s bow line and threw it down where it soaked in the water that now filled the speed boat. Then he awkwardly lowered himself into the crimson tainted water. When he offered his hand to the Somali, the later raised a pistol higher and glared at the American.

“I don’t trust you. I have a pole for sculling. You may use it to pull me up onto the yacht.”

Herb picked up the four foot long pole and then tried to get the water filled boat hip to hip with the yacht but the former was too heavily laden with water.

“You’re going to have to move over the bow,” Herb reported unnecessarily.

The young man shook his head.

“I’ll just slip over the side and you can pull me up.”

Herb then noted something that was most disconcerting. One of the Somali corpses had suddenly regained some of it’s animation, and it wasn’t because the man had come back from the dead.

“We got company. You gotta go from boat to boat. You slip into open water and they might take you.”

The young man grimly observed one of his dead comrades being devoured by a shark and said, “It is a distraction. I will be safe for a few moments and that is all you will need.”

Now it was Herb’s turn to look skeptical.

“I’m not a weight lifter in his prime, and we don’t know how many critters have come calling. I’m going to take you piggy back.”

“What are you saying about pigs?” the Muslim growled through his growing pain.

“It’s an American expression. I’m going to have you climb onto my back.”

“I thought you just said you are not good at lifting weights.”

“Legs are stronger than arms. Now don’t argue with me anymore---we’re running out of time,” Herb shot back.

The ex-Navy man then positioned himself in front of the thin Muslim and lowered his center of gravity until he was almost squatting.

“Come on, let’s get moving before the bow rises up on us.”

“I still---do not—trust you,” the pirate grunted out as he made a maximum effort to get his good leg under him.

“Yea, well---you got the pistol behind me. Don’t go asking for more insurance than that.”

The Muslim wrapped his left arm around Herb’s neck so that he could continue to hold the 9mm in a blood stained fist. Then the two of them slogged one impossible step at a time to the precarious point were the two boats were jointed together. Herb had semi-secured the yacht’s bow line so that if the speed boat turned into a submarine, the line would come undone and not tilt the larger boat.

Climbing Mt. Everest would have been more of a challenge, but for a few moments, Herb was convinced that he’d be left with a wrecked lumbar and a double hernia while struggling to board a deck that was only twenty-eight inches higher than that of the speed boat before it dipped below the ocean’s surface. At some point in that joint struggle the young pirate stopped pointing his pistol at Herb’s head and the American stopped expecting to be shot execution style. The two of them lay side by side while struggling to get their wind back, then Herb finally thought to evaluate the young man’s leg which was oozing watered down crimson.

“I gotta----get a combination tourniquet---- and splint---- on that.”

Like a drunk Herb lurched onto unsteady feet and went to rummage through the boat’s advanced first aid kit. It was a huge bag containing many battle dressings, a splint kit and most importantly, compact morphine syringes that would get the Muslim high for the first time in his life.

Then Herb peered around the immediate vicinity of the boat until he spotted Cory’s body floating face down. Starting up the engine Herb managed to get close enough to the corpse to hook it with a gaffing pole. Herb wouldn’t have bet more than pocket change that he could get the corpse on board, but he had to try. So after gathering his second wind he gripped the pole tightly and placed one foot on gunwale for a bit of extra leverage. He strained with protesting muscles but only for a moment.

The hook slipped off and the body rolled sharply over as additional blood mixed with the frothy water. Then an ugly head became visible for just an instant before fading away again. Herb was startled by the sight of the shark, but he didn’t realize that he was in the process of losing a contest until the body promptly disappeared under the red slick that merged with the shadow of the boat.

“One more memory,” Herb thought grimly before fetching a water jug and placing it beside the wary African.

“Hang tough Young Fella, help is about forty-five minutes away.”

“My name is Labaan,” the Somali informed him.

“I’m Herb Greenwood.”

After a pause the American asked, “Got a last name Labaan?”

“Not one I wish to share with an enemy,” was the curt reply.

“Right,” Herb half muttered while starting the engine up.

The yacht headed back toward the African coast as the last rays of the sun enabled Herb to re-examine his pistol packing patient. Herb wanted to place the Somali in one of the two bunk beds but Labaan wouldn’t hear of it. So the pirate sat on the stern deck with his back braced against a combination seat and storage compartment. Thus, he could not help but stare at the hated mini gun that had wounded him and killed his comrades.

“You meddle in matters that are none of your concern and then you have to fight with weapons that give your opponents no chance at all,” the Muslim declared with a sneer.

“That gun was the private property of the man you killed. We just teamed up together yesterday but I’m inclined to think he was a bit odd,” said the American.

“No more so than any other meddling trigger jolly American thrill seeker,” the black man responded.

“The expression is trigger happy my young friend; and we’re not meddling, we are reacting to unlawful behavior.”

“These are not international waters. Any ship that sails on Somali waterways should pay a duty to the Somali people.”

“Sounds fair to me,” responded Herb with a shrug, “but ninety percent of all vessels operating on this side of the continent are giving this area a wide berth, so if you people want to float a toll booth on a cooperative shipping lane, you’re going to have to stop kidnapping people and holding them for ransom.”

“Piracy is not the cause, it is the effect of what has done so much damage in this region,” hypothesized the young black. “The coastal fishing industry cannot survive intrusions from foreign trawlers. Also, more and more toxic waste materials are being dumped in our seas.”

“Yea, I know a little bit about that sort of thing. It’s the same story in many parts of Southeast Asia. But you should take a lesson from the environmental organizations that specialize in meddling as you would put it. They form blockades and cause freighter captains to grow gray hair by playing chicken with them, but they do not wave guns around and take hostages.”

“We are just getting started,” the young man clucked. “Someday our people will have the recourses to venture two-hundred miles from the coast. You will see.”

“You know something, if all you Somali are such big mouths when you get a snoot full of something, then I’m actually glad that sedatives are against your religion.”

Labaan snorted at that and asked, “Do you think our doctors allow the patients to suffer? Do you think we actually live in the 7^th Century just because the last of the prophets came to us at that time?”

“Well excuse the hell out of me,” Herb responded. “Now with your permission I’ll take you to Aluula. It’s not the closest piece of land, but I’m guessing they have some kind of clinic or something.”

The African shook his head in the gathering darkness.

“Do not confuse us with the unfortunate people who live along the Ethiopian frontier. The sea has brought us prosperity for centuries. It is not our concern that you judge us by how many Disneyland parks we have.”

“Must be the morphine talking,” thought Herb.

After that both men kept quiet until a few electric lights served to guide the yacht to the correct point on the darkened coast. Herb was just grateful that the weather wasn’t being a problem. Hopefully he would be able to get in and out of port before sunrise.

When the American announced that they were approaching their destination the younger man became more talkative.

“It is good that we draw near. The painkiller is beginning to wear off.”

“Good, it will add to the drama,” joked Herb.

The African looked thoughtful for a moment and then asked, “Why have you not used your radio? Have you no comrades who need to know what has happened to you?”

“Yup. But if I had called them earlier, they would have instructed me to take you to a place that you wouldn’t like. Of course they won’t be pleased with how things turned out, but I’ll tell them how this mighty Nubian war god leaped onto my boat with an Uzi in each huge hand and ordered me to patch up his wound. Hell I’m not Rambo and they better be reasonable enough to accept that.”

“I would not carry an Uzi. That is a Jewish gun.”

“Ok, I tell them they were Ingram Mack 10s.”

Labaan grimaced as a wave of pain washed over his leg.

“You Americans are crazy. You have no idea what is important in life.”

“Yet people from all over the world want to come and live with us,” Herb pointed out. “Maybe someday we’ll even get a wave of Somali immigrants.”

“Ha! More likely Ethiopians. It would be wonderful if you took them all. We fishermen will always do well so long as we can keep greedy foreigners from ruining our waters.”

“As long as you got generals up against commies I don’t believe you’ll ever have political stability. I hate to tell you this Labaan, but the international community doesn’t give a damn about African fishermen. All they care about is who is riding a limo to the palace every morning. Somebody with bullet proof windshields if he’s smart.”

The younger man’s thoughts once again returned to the mini gun.

“I want you to throw that filthy weapon overboard.”

“Ok, but there’s plenty more where that one came from.”

“I don’t care. The sight of it offends me. Besides, if the wrong people should see it, you might not get out of the harbor alive.”

“So you know some pirates in Aluula.”

“I know people who read about the American C.I.A. and do not like what they read.”

“So they might murder me before going out to feed their wives and children. You see that’s one thing that’s a bit different about my country. In the United States men own guns to go deer hunting or target shooting. When someone protests something with flying lead, we call that person a criminal.”

“Does that mean you want to preserve that gun at the cost of your life?” asked the Somali.

With a long suffering look the American unclamped the weapon from its special mount and heaved it over the side.

“If you ever do come to the United States maybe you can get a job working for the A.T.F. Herb muttered while returning to the helm.

The Somali had no idea what that meant but he was fairly certain it was another lame American joke. By the time they reached the side of a well maintained pier, Labaan was in no shape to laugh at anything. The morphine had worn off and he wasn’t about to ask for more while his countrymen were staring at the boat and the white man who had brought him back from the sea. An ambulance was called and the Harbor Master was gotten out of bed.

Herb gave some real serious thought to jumping back on the yacht and high tailing it out of the dark silent harbor before anyone in a uniform could show up. Technically he wasn’t guilty of any crime, but politics alone can kill a man if he sets off a hair trigger temper or two. So Herb stood on the dock some ten feet from his boat and waited for some official looking guy to show up. Maybe even the mayor wearing a sash and a goofy hat or something. What he got was an old man in a night shirt. Well, actually it was a long shirt called a Khameez. Despite the gravity of the situation Herb found himself wondering where the man kept his wallet.

Not surprisingly, the harbor master didn’t know a word of English and a boy of perhaps twelve had to interpret. The youngster couldn’t have been happier since it made him feel very important. His name was Fowsi, and he had the honor of speaking on behalf of Cabaas Samatar Esquire. (Actually Herb got this long formal title thrown at him but he caught the Cabaas Samatar part.)

“The Harbor Master asks if you are responsible for the injured man’s wounds,” put forth the boy.

“Yes. He is guilty of attempted piracy, and he was shot while combating myself and a companion who is dead.”

“Where is the pirate boat?” the harbor master then asked.

“It has been sunk, and the bodies were taken by sharks.”

“With what weapon did you sink the pirate boat?” was the next inquiry.

“A very special machine gun that was lost in the battle.”

Soon after the boy said, “It is not my place to deal with such serious matters. The chief constable is being alerted and will arrive shortly. In the meantime you may wait in my office. Please follow me.”

“Wait. I need to go aboard my yacht and send a radio message so that my people will know where I am.”

“I will not permit this, but it is possible that the chief constable will. Please understand that I have no training in these matters and I must therefore err on the side of caution.”

Herb looked around. Five men stood at the entrance to the pier. A sixth stood beside the harbor master with the boy on his other side. Son and grandson? Quite possibly. He wasn’t getting any negative vibes from these people but that could change very quickly. He had heard many a frightening story about foreigners who ended up dead. Most of it was probably bullshit, but then most foreigners didn’t go around shooting the native population with a mini gun.

Herb let out a long regret filled sigh and made his decision.

“I am sorry, but if you will not allow me to use my radio within the confines of your harbor, then I am forced to head back out onto open water.”

“You are saying then that our laws mean nothing to you,” responded the harbor master.

“I will face your due process of law at the proper time,” Herb promised. “But I must contact my people before I place myself in anyone’s power.”

The grown man standing next to Samatar was a strong looking fellow and without orders he made a move towards the American.

In a flash a 9mm pistol was in Herb’s fist. The Somali froze in his tracks and Herb was mighty grateful for that. Then while the other Somali rushed up the pier to add their numbers to the Samatar family, Herb used his experience as a swift boat pilot to get his yacht backed away from the pier in double quick time. That was one skill that every riverine pilot excelled at out of absolute necessity. Herb was toying with the idea of returning to the pier in the morning when suddenly familiar flashes of light appeared from the shore and medium velocity bullets whined by him.

“I knew some of those guys would have guns on their boats,” thought Herb as he hit the deck and allowed the yacht to race out to sea with no one at the wheel.

When there was a thousand yards of water between him and the shore he chanced getting up from his prone position and making for the short wave Kenwood that had been largely ignored up until now.

Keying the mike he said, “North Star this is Gatling Gun. North Star this is Gatling Gun. Do you copy?”

There was a pause that suggested that the chief of operations wasn’t expecting any of his boats to be calling in after dark.

“Gatling Gun this is North Star. What is your situation?”

“North Star we have made contact with pirates. My gunner is dead and I am running west of Aluula.”

Another pause.

“Hug the coast. We will get to you before you reach Abo.”

“Acknowledged,” Herb replied with a hollow feeling.

Cory had told him that Abo was supposed to be a tiny bad weather sanctuary for small boats. But only if you belonged to the right tribal clan. It was also supposed to be inhabited by pirate informers. There was one friendly satrap located west of Abo, but Herb didn’t know where and he didn’t know if it was the same set up as what he and Cory shared briefly or perhaps a bit more elaborate. It probably wouldn’t accommodate two boats but there was just no way of knowing.

Herb didn’t care much for the idea of trying to get there, but he was even less enthusiastic about heading back the way that he came. He was cruising in the dark, knowing that the dawn would bring hostile attention on him. Somebody would have to find him in the next few hours or he would become the subject of a race between Somali law enforcement and the vigilantes.

Herb thought a little more about what Labaan had said. Would the pirate activity become wide spread someday? Would ships sailing hundreds of miles away come under attack? It seemed highly unlikely. These guys were just freaking out fishermen under the canopy of a weak government. What made Labaan so sure the piracy problem would escalate? Herb would have to wait for the 1990s to get his answer. At the present time, few Americans knew anything about Somalia, and even fewer were aware of the fishing issues in that part of the world.

It would have been a beautiful sunrise on the ocean if not for the fact that the yacht was running low on fuel and Herb didn’t trust the disembodied voice that had promised help several hours ago. Only the calm water offered any comfort, and Herb briefly mused that river piloting tended to spoil a boatman. Out on the ocean you had to be able to navigate a rough sea now and then or there wasn’t much point in having a boat at all. But then it really wasn’t necessary to be all that grateful to old Neptune. He wasn’t in the north Atlantic; he was just someplace where boaters shoot at other boaters.

He snacked on cookies and coke for the better part of an hour. Then he got a bit of a surprise when something left the coastal bluffs a couple of miles up ahead and proceeded towards him at an altitude of maybe fifty feet. Soon enough it was recognized as a war era Huey. Of course that didn’t necessarily mean that it would be friendly. Every government in the region had a fleet of choppers in their military. But seconds later a familiar voice called out from the Kenwood and it lifted a great weight from Herb’s shoulders.

“Gatling Gun this is North Star. Proceed immediately to the beach. Do you copy?”

“Acknowledged,” said a very relieved Herb Greenwood.

But as the yacht approached the shore Herb became a bit confused. He half expected to find another satrap, or at least a patch of beach that was receptive to a yacht’s keel. But all he saw was rocks that served no purpose but to render the area useless to man and domesticated beast. That did provide a measure of privacy which would be in short supply when the search boats finally arrived.

“Gatling Gun to North Star---just so you know this landing could earn me a punched in hull.”

“Understood Gatling Gun. Proceed and disembark.”

Herb took to the rocks as gently as he could, but the scraping sounds underneath him were far worse than fingernails on a chalk board. That didn’t keep him from monitoring the movements of his airborne confederates however. He noted with great interest that almost immediately after disappearing behind the edge of a bluff, the chopper’s engine slowed down considerably. It was most definitely making a landing just beyond a cliff. Herb stared ahead at what would be a thirty foot climb while killing the engine. No ropes would be needed but he was glad he wasn’t going to have to ascend the rocks at high noon.

He was just about to begin his climb when a young man of perhaps twenty scurried down the rock face with what turned out to be a satchel charge.

“Is the stiff onboard?” asked the young man.

“You mean Cory? The sharks got him. I would have explained that but I was instructed to keep my transmissions as short as possible.”

“Well, I guess that simplifies things,” the younger man muttered half to himself.

As Herb watched from the shore, the other man climbed aboard the yacht and quickly had the engine running in full reverse. The keel screeched in protest but that meant nothing to the man at the helm. When the boat was finally free of the rocks, the boat’s lone occupant got out a strange device that was shaped like a World War I army helmet.

Built into the brim section on four sides were some curious little devices that were detonated with a hammer that the young man had with him. Each contained a .22 blank cartridge that instantly drove a sheet metal screw down into the deck. With four prompt BANGS the helmet shaped device was secured to the boat’s deck. Then the man leaped off the bow and got out of the water before any aquatic predictors could take an interest in.

“Alright, let’s get climbing,” he said with a clap of the hands before passed Herb and starting up a fairly precarious rocky slope.

By the time Herb had made it to the top, the younger man had gotten the radio detonating device from the chopper pilot and had armed it. Then with the push of just one more button the man created a disturbance that caused Herb to turn his head in alarm. He watched bits of deck material sail up into the air and rain back down on a boat that was now taking water. The gaping maw would allow the sea to flood in until the cabin and hold were completely awash. Herb guessed the boat would go under in about twenty minutes; maybe less.

“That’s kind of wasteful don’t you think?” queried Herb.

“I don’t get paid to think,” the young man replied while leading the way to the chopper.

“I’ll bet that’s the dying truth,” Herb thought.

In the back of the Huey sat the man who had communicated with him moments ago. The man stared at him like a teacher catching a student putting gum on the underside of his desk. He was wearing a helmet with a com-link built in. He offered another such helmet to Herb while the younger operative helped himself to the co-pilot’s seat.

As soon as his head set was in place the chopper rose above the parched bluff top and headed out to circle the yacht as it settled lower and lower in the water.

“I’m Henderson. Now exactly how did the shoot out go down?”

“We were approached by a speed boat carrying three guys. As soon as Cory spotted their AKs he opened with that mini gun of his. He got two but the third had an RPG that took out our forward deck and Cory with it. It was a miracle that I didn’t catch any shrapnel but I suppose Cory’s body shielded me for the most part.”

“Where is the mini-gun?”

“Well, that third pirate sort of got the drop on me for a while. He threw the gun overboard in a fit of anger,” fibbed Herb.

“But eventually you were able to turn the tables on him right?”

“That’s right. He was hurt in the leg and after losing a few pints of blood he became manageable”
“So he zoned out and you terminated him?”

“No. I took him to Aluula.”

Herb braced himself for a tirade, and it came to him with such volume that he didn’t need the com-link to hear over the roar of the helicopter engine.

“God dammit Greenwood, you broke our most important rule! You capture or you kill, but you do NOT hand any prisoners over to any locals!”

Herb took one last look down at the sinking yacht before the Huey completed its reconnaissance circle and started a run to a private air strip. Then he fixed Henderson with a look that belonged to a free man.

“I wasn’t going to admit this, but the truth is I made a deal with that last surviving pirate. I would take him to land and set him free if he would temporarily surrender to me. If I hadn’t made that deal, I might have been killed in a gunfight and I didn’t see any reason why I should allow that to happen.”

“And what about your dead partner? Didn’t you figure that you owned him some payback?”

“We killed two of them and sent their boat to the bottom. That was about as good as it was going to get that day,” was Herb’s response.

“Well, you’re all done here and you’ll get debriefed by a C.I.A. man when you get back to The States. Something tells me you won’t be able to use him for a future reference. I’m sorry you almost got killed Greenwood, but dropping that Skinny off at Aluula was a big mistake, and I’m sure you’ll get called on it.”

Herb certainly didn’t give shit about that. He had never gotten so fed up with something so quickly in his life. Even Viet Nam came in a poor second to the foolishness he had been subjected to in less than forty-eight hours. He was most definitely ready to give up pirate hunting and return to Nevada.

Herb returned to work a day late but that didn’t upset anyone terribly and the money that he brought back with him looked real pretty in the form of a car that wasn’t new but it was better than what he had before. He returned to his favorite watering hole after work each evening but he had settled into the practice of having three drinks only and then walking out. It was his idea of a structured life in a city where getting drunk was big business. There was something about the number three that appealed to him, and sometimes he would regale himself with a low volume ditty while exiting the drinking emporium.

“And its one—two—three drinks yer out of the ohhhld barrr game,” which of course was a take off on Take Me Out To The Ball Game.

In the months that followed Herb’s performance as a teacher lapsed into something that was less than sterling. But it didn’t warrant dismissal, just a bit of gossiping from the few people who were associated with his academic activities. He was grading some papers at home when his estranged wife surprised him with an unexpected visit.

“Good afternoon sir, can I interest you in our latest line of Avon products?” joked the Asian.

“Which is sold by women who don’t need that stuff,” put in Herb while holding the door open for his visitor.

“If you’re talking about me, then your memory must be going. I never left the house before putting on my war paint.”

“Yea, marked His and Hers,” the Native American joked back.

“Glad to see you’re in good spirits, Herb.”

“The spirits will be in me after I’m done grading these papers. Tried grading papers a few times with a snoot full and the results were soon brought to the attention of Principal Andrews.”

“Why do you call him that anyway? You and two other part time adult education people share a meeting hall that hasn’t been busy since they did away with the ping pong championships. Greg Andrews is just a tribal council member who is in charge of the building because he changed the locks on the doors and keeps the keys.”

“He’s a very well read man who is ready to jump in and substitute when needed,” put in Herb. “The principal thing started out as a joke but in truth I think he kind of likes it.”

“Yea, I get that impression as well. Ok, fine, I understand that he sticks his nose in your business because he’s bored and sometimes that works out good for you because he’s willing to cover your ass.”

“I do not deny that I’m too informal to work in a real school where they have what is called standards,” said Herb.

“You would be if you gave up drinking and bothered to lift a foot to step up higher on the professional ladder. But we’ve been over this before and I didn’t come here to go over it again.”

“But you just did,” Herb muttered.

“With apologies,” put in the Asian with hands held out in surrender.

“So why are you here? It couldn’t have anything to do with the money I earned off the Somalia coast. That was chump change compared to what you’re making now.”

“Oh no. Like I said before, whatever you can earn is yours. I’m doing fine at the casino.”

Herb was tempted to say how unnecessary that last statement was but he decided it was time to find out what the woman wanted.

“So---what can I do you for?”

“Well, the fact is we’ve been invited to a party. You and I.”

Herb perked up a bit with that piece of news. Parties meant drinks and usually when he had a glass in his hand the semi-ex-wife would be occupied elsewhere instead of sharing in the fun.

“Great. So what’s the occasion?”

“This is so very cool Herb. Those boat people you saved have all established themselves here in The States. I guess they’re all doing really fine. So now after all this time they want to honor you with a party on a cruise ship. Isn’t that neat?”

The ex-naval officer’s expression turned inward and for a moment he was far a way and in a different time. Nhu recognized the look instantly and sensed that this wasn’t going to be an easy sell.

“You know Herb, I’ve been thinking for a long time now that it would be good if the two of us tried to spend some real quality time together. I freely admit that my job has stood in the way of that sort of thing far more than any bad habits that have come your way since becoming a civilian. So I think now is the perfect time for me to go tell my boss that I want some time off and I won’t take no for an answer.”

Herb let out a long and awkward sigh before asking, “Why can’t we have this party here in Vegas? It would make all the sense in the world.”

The woman shrugged slightly.

“Maybe they’re thinking we’d enjoy getting away from this place for a while. After all, its a vacation place for most people, but its a home and work place for us. Besides, a cruise ship thing is kind of, what you call ritzy. I’m sure they want to thank you in some sort of big way.”

“Yea and I know a few things about Asians,” muttered Herb to the nearest wall.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nhu inquired with suspicion.

“Maybe they just want to show off how well they’re doing these days.”

“Compared to you for example?” the woman shot back instantly. “I swear I don’t know what eats at you the most: war memories or the fact that success hasn’t been handed to you on a silver platter.”

“Says the woman who gets paid to play card games,” grumbled the part time math teacher.

The woman’s expression turned to stone and she rose from her chair intending to return to a world that was easier to work with.

“A man died on me while I was working that temp job,” Herb said to her back.

The woman slowly turned around, somewhat pleased to finally find out what the job had been about.

“Somali fishermen are up in arms over trespasses taking place in their waters. They’re getting crazy about the whole thing and some of them have turned pirate. I joined an outfit that is supposed to discourage that sort of thing but they’re going about it all wrong. I got paired up with a guy who had a yen for adventure and he got blown to hell. I had a gut feeling about the guy but I played along because the odds were supposed to be ten to one that we wouldn’t see any trouble before going home.”

“Did he have a wife?” asked Nhu.

Herb smiled briefly and said, “No, I got the impression that he wasn’t the relationship type.”

The woman let out a sigh.

“You should have said something.”

“Truth is I was ushered into this man’s office in Washington D.C. and told what would happen to me if I did share my experiences with you.”

“You don’t suppose they’ll contact you again do you?” the woman asked with a look of foreboding.

“Not likely. I didn’t perform within acceptable parameters…..Just like before.”

“Which brings us back to all those grateful people who would like to see you again,” Nhu put in quickly. “Fair warning Herb, I won’t turn them down on your behalf. If the answer is no, then you’ll have to deliver the message yourself.”

“You think I can’t?” he shot back.

The woman then took a slip of paper out of her handbag and fairly slammed it on Herb’s improvised desk. Then she marched out of the efficiency apartment that had been their first home in America. Herb stared at the phone number off and on for several hours before finally dialing it. Then he wimped out and said he simply couldn’t get away from work to go on a sailing trip for at least a couple of years. That pacified all concerned parties for a year; and then, something interesting happened.

Herb lost his job, but then so did everyone else in the make shift educational facility. The Federal Government decided it just wasn’t proper having Paiute waiters and hotel maids getting a second class education when superior learning centers were so close at hand. So everyone was given a grant to attend The University of Southern Nevada. Of course Herb was made the same offer, which could in time get him better teaching credentials. But instead he got a job driving cab, which he liked because very often his fares would leave their bottles in the back of his cab.

One time he actually went out with a snoot full and discovered to his delight that if his clients were drunk, they wouldn’t notice that the driver was drunk. But he was sensible enough not to push his luck in that area. He didn’t want to end up vacuuming carpets at 3:00 a.m. so he disciplined himself to maintain a proper detoxification period before going to work. This routine he was able to maintain for number of years, and all that while he waited for Nhu to come and ask for a divorce, but that never happened.

Then one evening he was working the airport and picked up a fare that stared holes through him as soon as he got out of the car to load up the trunk.

“Excuse me, were you ever in the United States Navy?” the customer inquired.

Herb sized the man up under a powerful airport security light. He was perhaps sixty years old. Thin, well dressed except for the white socks; and strangely familiar. The most telling thing about the man was that he was Asian.

“Yes. I was in charge of a river patrol boat in the delta region of South Vietnam during the war.”

“So you were never on the Gulf of Thailand?” the Asian probed further.

Herb froze in his tracks. Then he struggled to picture the faces of the men who had seen on the boat. It was hard now, in part because he had tried so hard to forget what they looked like.

“Yes I was, for a very short while. Why do you ask?”

“You look very much like a man who came to my rescue during the last days of the war. I was on a boat that was attempting to make its way to Thailand. The communists open fired on us from the shore. An American patrol boat made a long cloud of smoke and then picked us up. Three men, five women and---“

“Six children,” Herb finished.

“It is you,” the man said with a look of wonder. “I came here to find you. How amazing that we should meet like this. My name is Bao Phan. I am the brother in law of the man you spoke to on the phone.”

Herb had to do some fast thinking. What were the exact details of that lie? How very true that an honest man does not require a good memory.

“Yes---uh---I was teaching math at that time. Then I got laid off and so now I’m driving a cab obviously.”

“Is this a---oh, what do you call it when your luck turns bad?” asked the Vietnamese.

“You mean a misfortune or perhaps a setback? Meaning khong may.”

“You speak Vietnamese!” the Asian responded with a wide grin of approval.

“Not as well as you speak English,” Herb responded in the Asian tongue.

“So our hero is a man who straddles two cultures. In truth you might have spoken my language on that fateful day when you saved our lives. I was so terrified, I didn’t really understand anything that was going on around me.”

“Seems to me I did give one or two orders in Vietnamese. But I did all my cursing in English.”

“Yes, one of your valiant sailors lost his life for us. I would very much like to drink a toast to his memory. May I have the honor of buying you a drink when you get off work?”

Herb struggled with an impulse to decline and finally said, “On one condition: We speak only of my crew and your people. I don’t want to hear any more talk about how heroic I was.”

“Modesty befitting a hero,” thought the small man, who then nodded with a slight bow.

“In that case Mr. Phan, I think I just got off work.”

“Please call me Bao,” begged the Asian, who placed his own luggage in the car trunk before Herb could get to it.

“Alright, but only if you call me Herb.”

Ten minutes later they were at a table in Herb’s favorite watering hole. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with his drinking companion, but he was bound and determined not to drink more than the man who had come to find him. Needless to say most of the conversation centered around the deceased; especially George Williams. Time and time again Herb found himself on the brink of despair. But each time he threatened to fall, the now inebriated Asian would crack a stupid joke and slap Herb good naturedly on the back. This only made sense to Herb because as it turned out, Bao Phan had been a combat veteran, in the field for nearly ten years.

As it turned out, it was not the shelling that had terrified him, but rather, the prospect of ending up in the water. Poor Bao suffered from acute aqua phobia, and the only reason he didn’t try to walk to Thailand was because his wife was with him, and she had a bad hip.

“I’m forgetting something,” the Asian said with a pronunciation problem that was getting worse. “My sister mentioned it just before leaving me at the St. Paul airport….”

Suddenly the Asian snapped his fingers and said, “I remember. Her daughter wants to be a professional singer. He could not get a job singing here, but she was told that she could sing on a cruise ship if she came with enough relatives.”

“Ah ha! There is the real reason you guys want to throw me a party,” Herb said jokingly. “You want to launch the career of a relative. Well at least that makes sense to me.”

“No no! We really want to honor you!” Bao said while giving Herb his one-hundredth hug.

“Well, I’m honored enough getting drunk with a man of your combat experience,” responded Herb. “I got shot at five times before we met, and only one time was I incapable of powering up and running away from those nasty little bullets. But you must have collected one hell of a lot of gray hairs in ten years. Man, I think your family wants to honor the wrong guy here. In fact I’m down right embarrassed by the whole thing I swear to God.”

Bao shrugged good naturedly.

“There was one time: There was a comrade on my right, and a comrade on my left. Both men were hit and killed by machine gun fire, but I was not touched. I swear to you---true story.”

Then the waitress delivered the bill and Bao snatched it up with the speed of a striking cobra.

“Well now---I can see how you stayed alive all those years my good sir. You have the reflexes of Wild Bill Hickok!”

“Was he in the 73^rd Regiment?” Bao asked with a straight face.

“No, that came after him,” responded Herb, who was getting too tired to think of a more witty response.

“Well, I just know that David Williams offered to pay for the entire outing when he found out what we want to do. He said he would really like to see you after all this time.”

Herb shoved his last drink away and stared at the Asian with eyes that were suddenly more intelligent.

“He wants to see me?”

“Yes---very much.”

“You’re saying that he’s forgiven me?”

Bao had a little trouble with that. Maybe because of the rice wine, maybe because he had not been present at Herb Greenwood’s court-martial.

“You think he was angry because you were in command that day?”

Herb allowed his thoughts to slip back to those painful days when the Navy Brass weighed his conduct with an objectivity that was only possible after the fact.

“He never looked at me once. I kept trying to catch a glance from him but he never looked my way once. Not in three days.”

Suddenly Bao was also a bit more sober.

“I did not realize---but---if there was any anger back then, it is gone now. I swear, he wishes to speak to you.”

Herb’s eyes moistened slightly and he placed his hand upon his new friend’s shoulder.

“And I want to speak to him. Anytime---anywhere.”

The cruise ship Fantasy set no records for size. She was eight-hundred and fifty-five feet long and measured one-hundred and three feet abeam. She had crew of nine-hundred but most of those folks were dedicated to the comforts of the passengers. Her home port was Charleston South Carolina and her ports of call would be Grand Turk, Half Moon Cay and Nassau.

Herb didn’t much give a rip about any of that. He was on the ship to meet a man, and nothing else mattered to him. Nhu was a bit more festive, and under different circumstances Herb would have appreciated the fact that she lost twelve pounds and got her hair styled for this occasion. They were given separate cabins because the sponsors of the cruise had been informed that the couple was separated, but Nhu was constantly hanging on Herb’s arm and the later worked extremely hard not to say the wrong thing to his only close companion on board.

“What do you think we should do, sit in the back?” Herb asked Nhu when it was finally time to enter the main entertainment room.

“Actually Dear, I think we’re supposed to be up front. But since you are as unassuming as you are heroic, I suppose we could sit halfway up. That way your neck muscles will get a good workout looking for Williams.”

“That’s not funny. This is no time to be funny,” Herb responded as if the two of them were secret agents.

Nhu chose a table for them and unwrapped a salad fork before placing it next to a crystal water goblet.

“Your right. I should stop playing with you and inform you that this is going to be the best evening you’re had in over sixteen years.”

“How can you know that?” Herb asked with a ultra serious look. What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing that can’t wait thirty seconds Sweetie Pie,” cooed the woman before tapping her glass with the fork.

Then it happened. An elderly black man walked into the huge room and fixed a solemn gaze upon Herb while making his way between empty tables on his way toward theirs. In slow motion Herb rose from his chair, now totally oblivious to his better half. Nhu for her part felt electrified by what was happening. Herb never would have believed it, but the truth was that the Vietnamese woman was waiting for a kind of redemption, just as Herb had always hoped for.

David Williams knew exactly what to do. He too had been waiting for this moment a very long time. So at precisely the right moment he extended his hand to Herb, and fixed him with a look of infinite wisdom. Herb took the hand as if in a dream and then waited on what would come next.

“You’re looking good Herb. You don’t mind if I call you that do you?”

“No sir,” Herb answered quickly.

“How does that old joke go?” the elderly man asked rhetorically. “Don’t call me sir, I used to work for a living?”

Herb’s grin was silly but genuine.

“Mr. Williams, I am very grateful that you are willing to meet with me like this.”

“Well you should be Herb. I hate getting dressed up, almost as much as I hate being fussed over. But I had a great lunch, and expect an even better supper.”

Herb’s mind was blank for a second but then he remembered to offer the man a seat.

“So how did you meet this fine wife of yours, Herb?”

“Well---I was studying Vietnamese in what you might call a suburb of Saigon and my regular teacher took sick. Nhu subbed for him and uh, well, I just made up my mind that I wanted her to continue teaching me.”

“Because she was a great teacher or a great looker?” the old man asked with an impish smile.

“I think her appearance speaks for itself, sir, but I’m sure you’ve also noticed that Nhu speaks English without an accent, and I have yet to find a slang term that she is unfamiliar with.”

“A woman’s beauty should never have to speak for itself, Herb. That’s your job. It is also your job to love her. If you do that properly, everything else will fall into place.”

Herb stared at the table cloth, not sure how to respond to that.

“I was told you lost your wife two years ago, David. May I expend my belated sympathies,” said Nhu.

Williams nodded slightly and then placed his gaze back on Herb.

“That damn court-martial was a fine example of how life isn’t always fair. I’m sorry I didn’t approach you sooner on that matter.”

Herb looked into the other man’s eyes and found something he thought he could hold on to.

“Without discipline, no military organization can function. Men are ordered into harm’s way by the thousands in times of war and any man who rejects his duty to obey is forsaking the oath that he takes when he signs up.”

“I recall that you pled guilty to the charges brought against you and offered a very brief defense. Did you notice however that you received no prison time for what you did? That of course is because every man at that trial understood that you acted honorably, and they weren’t going to put you behind bars for that.”

“My first responsibility was to the mission and the men on my boat. I know it was a hard choice to make, but as an officer in the United States Navy I should have been up to that task. In that regard I failed, and that is why your son died.”

There---it was out, and now Herb would defy anyone to give him an argument. David Williams was up to that. He was the one man uniquely qualified to do so.

“I didn’t look at you once during the trial. The fact is I didn’t want you to be punished for what you did, I just couldn’t look at you because you represented a truth that I wasn’t yet ready to embrace. Military people understand that freedom isn’t free, but from a parent’s view, it’s got to be someone else’s child who pays the price.”

“I understand that sir,” Herb responded as if speaking to an admiral.

“Do you? Then hear this Mister. I got past the grief, to the point where there was nothing left but pride. My real sin is that I didn’t meet with you much sooner than this. For that I do apologize. But you, are still very much in the dark about this whole thing. You say you deserved to lose your career in the Navy. Alright, let us all acknowledge here and now that justice was done when they gave you a dishonorable discharge. But that wasn’t enough for you. I am of the belief that if your legs had been blown off or your sight had been taken from you that would have been something you could have lived with so long as all your men were ok. So let us talk no more about how you disobeyed orders.

No, you have been kicking yourself simply because a projectile hit George instead of you. Going after those people was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do. Only George’s death made it a mistake. I know that and so did Claire.”

Herb’s eyes suddenly moistened and he glanced around to notice that during their exchange the room had filled up with people. Herb didn’t miss the fact that at least half the assembled guests were Asian.

Greenwood let out a sigh and said, “I thank you sir with all my heart for your forgiveness. It is more than I deserve.”

Williams rose to his feet with a look that was cool and confident.

“You’re a stubborn man, Herb. But this matter has not been settled yet. And for crying out loud, stop calling me sir.”

With that he turned his back on the table and headed toward the back of a small area that served as a stage.

“Where’s he going?” Herb asked with concern.

“He’s going to reload,” answered Nhu with a ghost of a smile.

“What?”

Suddenly a man in a Navy style uniform appeared on the floor space that had been kept clear of tables and chairs. He was an employee of the cruise ship and he was carrying a cordless microphone. He gave the forty-two diners a well practiced smile and brought the mike to his lips.

“Greetings one and all. The buffet will be brought out shortly, but first we have some entertainment for you; which I believe is no surprise to most of you.”

“It is to me but I’d rather have Williams back,” Herb whispered to Nhu.

“As I understand it, many of you good folks are related to the young lady waiting in the next room. So I’m sure I won’t have to coax you into giving her a warm reception. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Chien Phan.”

Everyone applauded, even the dozen or so diners who had no idea that a singer would be appearing before the meal. The pretty young Asian lady smiled sweetly and held her own cordless microphone with a dainty hand.

“Good evening one and all. I hope to entertain you with a song that has recently been made famous all over the world by the singer Celine Dion. But I would like you all to know that my selection was not based on popularity, or even my ability to sing in a particular key. The words are what matter. You see, there is a man in the audience who is very special to me, even though I’ve never spoken to him. I am here now to thank him, because when I was little more than a baby, he not only risked his life for me, he also changed his own life by sacrificing a career. I cannot change what has taken place. I can only share these words that seem so very appropriate at this time.”

Then the beautiful woman began to sing, and during the first three verses she seemed to be gazing at some imaginary person who could have been in the back of the room somewhere. But when she reached the fourth verse, a magical thing occurred. Her eyes bored into Herb’s, and from then on, there was just the two of them in all of time and space.

“You were my strength when I was weak

You were my voice when I couldn’t speak

You were my eyes when I couldn’t see

You saw the best there was in me

You lifted me up when I couldn’t reach

You gave me faith cause you believed

I’m everything I am because you loved me

You gave me wings and made me fly

You touched my hand so I could touch the sky

I lost my faith, you gave it back to me

You taught no star was out of reach

You stood by me when I was small

I had your love, I had it all

Maybe I don’t know that much

But I know this much is true

I was blessed because I was loved by you

You were my strength when I was weak

You were my voice when I couldn’t speak

You were my eyes when I couldn’t see

You saw the best there was in me

You lifted me up when I couldn’t reach

You gave me faith because you believed

I’m everything I am because you loved me

You were always there for me

The tender wind that carried me

The light in the dark—shining your love into my life

You’ve been my inspiration

Through the lies you were the truth

My world is a better place

Because of yoooo…

The woman’s voice broke at that point and every soul present felt suspended in the emotional energies that filled the room. Then just as suddenly the young singer regained her composure and finished the song with more power and presence than what had been heard before. But there was one more surprise coming at the end of the song. Without any prompting, thirteen Asians rose from their seats and ushered with them five offspring that were preadolescents. The people all assembled around the young singer and as one they bowed to Herb.

The American rose to his feet and returned a shorter bow, with the steely eyed appearance of a Naval officer of years past. Herb wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do after that, so he just came forward to accept a hug and kiss from Chien and then either a hug or hand shake from the others.

“Well, there goes the mascara,” a teary eyed Nhu half joked when her husband finally returned to their table.

The next three hours were the best Herb had experienced in a very long time. Williams also had a very good time, and threw Herb a funny little salute just before Herb and Nhu stepped out onto the deck to look at the stars and the promise of a wonderful tomorrow.

“A penny for your thoughts,” the woman said when they reached the safety rail.

“Well---I’m thinking I should go back to school.”

“You’re never too old,” the woman responded with a nod.

Herb gazed out at the vast expanse of water and said, “There’s always been this code of the sea. Hasn’t always been obeyed of course.”

“Not enough Herb Greenwoods in the world,” quipped Nhu.

Herb shrugged slightly and said, “Maybe-----maybe a girl’s gratitude can trump the mistakes I’ve made.”

“I think it will live longer in people’s memories. I do believe that song was worth every drink you ever spilled and every argument you ever ran out on.”

Herb turned and took Nhu by the shoulders.

“I’m giving up drinking. I really want to now.”

“I’m glad to hear that Sweetie, but you know once we get back home I think you’ll find that kicking the habit is a little tougher than if feels at the moment.”

“Puppy Toes, need I remind you that I have spent my life in a number of places where demon rum was both a neighbor and a shipmate? Yea, I know it ain’t gunna be easy.”

“Then I think you should move back in with me,” said Nhu. “Besides, I’m tired of guys who think they have a shot at me just because we’ve been separated.”

Herb gazed upon his own personal hero and said, “You never asked for a divorce.”

“Well Herb---I guess I just kept comparing our problems to that damn war.”

The man nodded and put his arm around his wife.

“I guess we better get back to my adoring public.”

“I think I’ll start a scrap book,” Nhu said half to herself.

Arm in arm the couple walked out of the dark and back into the light.