Bred out of a game of DnD my loser friends and I have been a part for five years. This is for the boys at the table... and you guys.
Hope ya enjoy the narrative as much as us
Transmission #8-0-1-0. Designate: Aleut
Infiltration at 10.8231° N, 106.6297° E
Ground team in support
2100 hrs; November 1, 1963
Smoke drifts up into the rafters like wayward ghosts searching for a way out...
And damn it if he can't help but relate as another long drag billows from his dry lips.
The cigar in his mouth is Cuban, the wine he swirls in this glass Italian, and the starched banana wood bar with the empty red leather stools French. He himself is...nothing. Not today, at least. Not on paper, at least. For now, he is whatever they need him to be. And now it's another nameless whitey surrounded by round, brown faces; a sweaty Tay with a bad habit in a land of plenty of things that can scratch an itch.
He sighs, and another long line of acrid smoke puffs out coating his clothes, his skin, and his hair.
The air hanging about the empty bar is feverish, requiring a cold shower and a better perspective to clear his head. A quick swig of the '59 vintage swims in his mouth and he lets the buzz rock his head. Like most every night this week, he sits alone here. Silent, and patient. Eliciting the image of a scarred dragon lounging upon his horde, yet he's no dragon. More a rat than anything. And in Saigon no matter what the French thought, there were plenty of them.
A shattering sound of a bottle breaking rings out, followed by a bright flash of light as people shout. Past the blinds the front of the APC is now ablaze in a spout of fire. God, these people... They were throwing Molotovs around like it was Stalingrad over here. Weren't they supposed to Buddhists?
He brings the cool, crystal glass up to his lips, but the wine does little to drown the chants. "Đả Đảo Diem! Đả Đảo Diem! Đả Đảo Diem!", shake the walls of the bar. It means "Down with Diem", yet the line of white helmeted riot police do not budge. These were tall-men, well-fed men, specifically chosen for the Cần Lao party's infamous anti-terrorist squad. They won't be intimidated those whom they consider inferior.
And especially not by the gawkish schoolboy stepping out from the crowd.
He's skinny, like how the rest of these people were skinny. Wearing nothing but a pair of khakis and a pristine white button down. There's a bookish look to him, like he'd be the smartest rickshaw runner on the road. Yet past his unassuming ensemble, his eyes are alight. Because deep down something eats at him, like it did the rest of his countrymen. From the farmers in the fields, to the burning monks in the roadways; from the college students struggling to find work because they didn't have enough money to bribe; or the poets, singers, and however many artists who thought starvation was a sign of integrity.
This is the army outside of Gia Long Palace. Protesting with signs, Buddhist flags, pictures of loved ones massacred under the regime. It's not a lot, but enough for the young French officer before them to be at a loss. He wasn't in any way qualified - or instructed - to deal with this. He simply wasn't. He yells to his men, "Stand firm, hold the line - ils ne passeront pas!"
But the orders are drowned when the bullhorn begins to preach.
"The Most Enlightened One would weep seeing what you've become, brothers!" The boy screams at his countrymen. Never did he believe the hours spent studying the many treatises of Gandhi, Marx, Mounier, and John Locke would garner him the cheers he receives. It gives him courage he's never felt before, and is now intoxicated by it.
"Look at who you stand against?! Our people - your people. We are the same! Yet you side with him?!" He accuses the Frenchman and his white kepi bobbing up and down the line. "Our brothers and sisters in the North suffer and struggle and die to make us whole. While you protect a self-righteous puppet seeking to keep us under the imperialist yoke!" The crowd cries their ascent, edging themselves closer, closer; shortening the gap between them and the police itching to crack skulls. A German Shepherd barks its warning, eager to sink teeth into the first person to cross its path. "Do you not hear them - do you not see these patriots? Don't you wish to join them, be free with them, bring down the dictator who hides from his own people! Help us! Help us depose the demon and his family! Tomorrow together, brothers! Tomorrow together!"
"Tomorrow together..."
"Ha!", he scoffs.
The French said the same once, too.
"Demain, ensemble."
Meant to be a rallying cry convincing people - here and back home - that this backwater of bloated rivers and unchecked jungles was worth fighting for. Didn't work, obviously, but they tried. Street lights and telephone wires, railways and steam engines; hand-radios, Coca-Cola, jazz music, and grinding bodies. To them 'tomorrow' was this polished redwood dance-floor which sits silent, the green felt of empty poker tables unblemished from their usual clientele, and the sweet kiss of this imported Sangiovese. But to the Vietnamese "tomorrow" meant more of the same. Oppression, indignation, and defeatism. No one likes being second-class citizens in your own country; you'd think after three revolutions a Frenchman would be able understand this sentiment.
Another long drag, another silent curse, and the stool underneath creaks as he leans back.
His gaze falls upon a plump pair of tits which had been hovering over him for the last two hours. Grinding down the cigar in his mouth, he admits the amazon is beautiful in her own way. Full-bodied, dress in tatters, storming trenches with a loaded musket in one hand, and a streaming tricolor in the other. Loyal companions trail behind. Eager for vengeance or victory, who could say? One in the same in a revolutionary's eyes, really. And all the while trampling over the bodies of the dead at their feet. Fitting, as most are too blind by the pursuit of Liberty to notice the sacrifice required of those following her. Delacroix, who'd never fired a shot in the July Revolution, made this painting without truly understanding victory is pulled by the strings of blood, tears, and toil.
Because without sacrifice, there's no meaning
Three pops are heard outside, quieting the crowd for just a moment; the jittery officer holds his smoking Mle pistol in one hand, and barks at his men to keep formation. Reinforcements are bound to arrive any moment, he yells. Everyone knows they aren't coming; the city is pressed tight tonight. The police have their hands tied at perimeter points, and the garrison of Nouvelles Casernes d'Artillerie Coloniale is a fraction of what it was since Dien Bien Phu. France won back her pride that day, but at the cost two divisions of Legionaries, an army battalion, and countless artillery pieces. All which was left were seven hundred colonial troops, Montagnards and a mercenary company to protect Saigon.
It was a no-win situation by any stretch of the means, and unfortunate it had to play out thus.
However, this was a story of many characters, and everyone had a part to play - heroes, villains, lovers, jesters, conmen, and patriots. Was the same shtick from Nicaragua to the Congo, Berlin to Benin. Vietnam was nothing special - took him only eight months of wet-work to figure out who to bribe, blackmail or strong-arm. Generals were easy, police chiefs in the surrounding counties more prickly, but the guards in the palace was a mixed bag. Even so, all had a price, and he had the cash to afford them.
And this wasn't unknown to the SDECE, either!
Le Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-espionnage - fucking mouthful - had a dossier on every pimp, prostitute and politico in this place, but hell, might as well be amateur hour over there. They could care less, so long as their ten billion dollar sledgehammer kept smashing every anti-colonialist, fascist, liberal commentator, and/or librarian who happened to peddle Mao's little red book in print. For them the riots which had been ramping up for weeks were individual incidents done haphazardly by rogue agents: the cafe bombing a week ago, kidnapping of a starlet on her honeymoon this last October, weapons caches found all along the river-ways leading to the city.
The Viet-Minh never had a plan before, nor was it assumed they had the gumption to do so now.
Suddenly, nervous chatter breaks off over the comms - the team's on edge it seems. Radio talk says they've marked an unknown with him in the bar. Maneuvering hectically from a delta formation to epsilon, already they spoke openly of making moves to isolate the bar and flank it. Fuck's sake, he thinks draining his glass. Quickly, he tells them to relax, shut up, and stay where they are. It wasn't a mystery he'd been tailed, knew about it since leaving his shit-kicker motel off Thong Nhat three blocks ago.
He gets off his chair with an annoyed huff, and saunters behind the bar. His hand drags the sleek surface of the counter-top before pulling another glass from the rack above. The remaining contents of the wine are poured for his little friend; he'd done stakeouts before. Never in rafters, but still, figured the kid would be thirsty all the same "If you're gonna sit and stare all night, least you can do is come down and have a drink with me." The glass scrapes along as he presents it to the hunched shadow above. "Come on, have a seat. It's on me."
The figure leans close, but doesn't say a word. It just sits, and waits, and stares. Lord knows it doesn't respect him enough to take an order, let alone a drink. Despite cultivating a "cordial" relationship in the time they've spent together, there was little love between their respective organizations.
"You have a drinking problem, you know that?" It says tersely from its perch.
He snorts in disgust. "I-I have a drinking problem...? A DRINKING problem?!"
The little bird nary makes a sound when it drops to the floor. At a glance it's nothing but a black blob melding into the shadows. The dancing flames outside create a tableaux of dark shapes against the far wall its loose, black pajama's seem perfectly suited for. A sniper's cloak hangs about one shoulder, while the other is left bar; a pale, muscled arm hangs out to rest lazily on a katana. A hood covers its head, but a garish opera mask beneath cuts a bright contrast in the low lighting of the room.
"Don't be so annoying," it tells him. "Not like you've ever really hidden it before, anyway."
"First of all," he upends the glass for the wine to spill across the counter. "Next to you a fucking Mormon would have a drinking problem. Secondly, it's not a problem, it's an occupational hazard. One I've done quite well handling over the years. Thank you, very much." He proceeds to grab another bottle of liquor - this time from the bottom shelf, the cheaper the better. He rips off the cap, takes a quick swig, and as he had with the wine pours the contents of the bottle out. He repeats this process down the line. "And lastly, this is actually part of the plan."
"Really?"
"Believe it or not, I actually don't tell you everything." He says, throwing the last bottle of vodka against the bar. Everything reeks in the stench of alcohol. It's so bad his eyes nearly tear up behind the thick-tinted Aviators he's wearing.
"Fair enough." The shadow says uncaring, hand never leaving its sword which dangles at its hip like a six-shooter. "The less you speak, the happier I am. Even so, mind telling your overwatch to get their eyes pointed anywhere else but me. I'm flattered, but If they keep fingering their rifle, I might start getting ideas."
"Take it easy, shot's not meant for you." He sighs, the nub of the Cuban burning bright.
The tense veins popping out of its arm evidenced it didn't believe him. As well it shouldn't; sweat on his brow and staining the pits of his blue Hawaiian shirt wasn't only because the night was hot, the drink heavy, or the caffeine pills he took too strong. Those eyes..Those smoldering red rubies staring past the confines of its porcelain mask. You don't into a shark cage with the damn monster circling outside without some guarantees. Hell, it's why thanked God for remembering be brought the sunglasses.
Once done smashing every bottle of liqour, he walks over to the window and opens the blinds with a swish. Outside streetlights flicker in-and-out as order continues to rbeak down and hell threatens to erupt. Saigon's grid struggles for power, but the CEE powerplant was one of their first targes. Doubtless its engineers worked tirelessly to maintain the plant, but three boxes of TNT turned one of the dynamos into burnt LEGOs.
"Blackout didn't last as long. Might make it harder for me getting inside." The shadow keeps a healthy distance as it come sup beside him, but close enough to be able to look onto the street beyond. "He one o' yours?" It motions its head toward the prophet with the burning torch - the kid really hasn't stopped making his speech since making himself known. Still going on about "injustice this" and "unification that".
"Who? Him? Meh." He shrugs before tossing the used up cigar on the floor. He pulls out another from his pocket. "Twenty years old, grew up in a rural town close to the DMZ. Fit the bill for our ideal candidate: dead father, poor mother; brother was killed fighting in the North. While he got accepted into the local community college here down South. Names Tuan Van Chi. Gobbled up propaganda for months. Got him in contact with a few well-known cells, threw a bit of heroin his way, and 'voila': bona fide hero of the people. And your ticket in."
Shadow moves in close. He sizes up up the young man and sees bloodshot eyes, sallow skin, swollen lymph nodes on the side of his neck. Fella had all the trappings of a sick man not knowing when or how to stop. Whether or not he believed in the cause didn't matter any longer, he was too ensnared in the net now to leave.
Probably, the truth for all them at this point.
"You've got to be joking?" It says, shaking its head disapprovingly. "The fool's practically preaching world war three out there, and you expect me to just waltz through that? Too many eyes, too many unknowns that could go wrong. I'm not basing all this off of your 'judgement'. Did in the past and look where it got us."
"It got us to this moment, right here. WHICH! I might add, was exactly what we intended, remember?" He says before biting the end of the cigar, and spitting it off to the side. "Think of what we're doing here is like a magic trick..."
An audible sigh of disgust is heard. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
"Please, everyone likes magic..." Fishing for his lighter, he angles himself closer to the window to ensure a clear line of sight is seen from where he stands. *Tsic*, *tsic*, *tsic* of the zippo flashes rhythmically before the gas ignites. He presses the butt-end of cigar to the small flame, puffs four or five times as the end brightens to a fiery orange. "The premise of a trick, if you know, is based off of three important steps. If these steps are met, then the trick is successful."
It leans on its back foot, cocks its head mockingly; it's doubting his aptitude due to lack of sleep, skill, or "dRiNkInG pRoBlEm".
He'd be offended If he had a pricklier skin, but he gets it. The kid is a warrior, this world nothing more than a battlefield. It was how the Village trained them up. Yet, the field has changed. Battles were fought hiding in plain sight now, moving from one end of the globe to the next with minimal rest, never knowing if it was your shadow haunting your steps or if a tail had made you. Sleepless nights no longer bothered you, made you sloppy. In fact, they made you sharper, calmed your heartbeat, slowed the world down so the unseen can be seen. It allows him to notice the slight twitch in the Frenchman's hand, the hitch in the college boy's voice as he preaches atop the car he crawled on...
Or the glint of a rifle peeking from the second story building across the way.
"Step one: the pledge." The sharp smell of tobacco fills the air again. Unsown soil, moist earth, insects and bird droppings; the thousand tiny things never considered when laying in a grassy field. This is what makes a Cuban partagas superior to anything a Virginia tobacco-man could conceive. It reminds him of a childhood not his own, of a time more dream than reality. "A pledge is when the magician shows something familiar to the audience. It doesn't seem important, because it's not. It's the expectation of what will be which sets them on edge, what gets them so focused on this 'one thing' they don't notice anything else."
Protesters begin throwing rocks into the police, breaking lines and rushing forward only to retreat soon as the Frenchman's pistol waves in their direction. Betrand de Guilliame was told to explicitly limit casualties if possible tonight, to ensure no martyr's were to be made because he lost nerve. Easier said than done. The riot squad was itching to for a fight - he can feel their nerves grind tight into a steel ball. Especially, when they see orange clad monks throw what looked to be horse turd their way. His second, Corporal Michel Barbier, runs to him with scared eyes asking if they should pull behind the armored cars for cover.
He doesn't know if he can; the men were too antsy and the people too close. Any movement could be seen as aggression.
Tuan shouts now, urging his comrades forward. Perhaps it was the hit he took before this finally kicking in. Or maybe it was his brother's spirit was with him. Or maybe because this moment will be in textbooks and he wanted desperately to be a part of its story. His mother sent him off to college in the hopes he will become something, bring honor to them all, build a better life than she or his father could ever hope to provide. Well, what greater honor was there than to free his country of foreigners. What better achievement than ridding Vietnam of Ngo Dinh Diem and the rest of his wretched family? What better life could he hope for in a land like this?
"Next, the turn. Some people think this is actually the trick - making a dove disappear, or sawing the lady in half. It's not. The turn is simply the magician fulfilling the promise of the audience's expectation. However, what follows is where true magic resides."
Betrand moves ahead of the line as one of his men takes a swipe at a protester. Threatening the cohesion of the unit, he moves, ordering in both French and Vietnamese to stay back. The man heeds the order and gets back in formation; Bertrand's second calls for him to come back, get behind the protection of the police. He's vulnerable as he's alone, presenting his back to the protesters, facing away from the street and the red brick facade of the post office. It sat cross from Le Cœur du Chasseur cafe, a fun spot he met a fine young woman not four days ago. Bertrand couldn't remember her name, and he was sure she didn't remember his, either.
They were merely flashes in each other's memory now. Brief and shocking, but no less memorable.
Much like the crack of the rifle which resonated throughout the street.
The chanting stops. The body drops onto the concrete with a hard thud. None knows how to react, but stare dumbfounded and expectant. A walnut-sized hole gushes forth blood as the terrified face is torn between pleading for help or crying out in pain. It does neither, instead vainly trying to mouth out its final words. No one will ever know what Tuan Van Chi was trying to say at his end, but that didn't matter; he was worth a helluva lot more dying in the street, than on a soapbox.
Bertrand looks to see where the shot came. Left and right his head turns. The cafe, the post office, back to the crowd who all look to him and the pistol in his hand. A cold sweat freezes him, the order choked in his throat. As foolish as it sounds, for a split second he thinks to go to the young man and help. Yet, he's unable as the first blow strikes him across the face. Bits of glass cut his cheek as he tumbles him down onto the pavement. Suddenly, a surge envelopes him. The second, third, and fourth blows he cannot register; dozens of feet pummel his face into ground meat, and he barely believes he'll make it out of here alive.
Corporal Barbier orders the line forward. Violence breaks the world open as one rioter launches himself at an officer who subsequently cracks his head with a baton. Another protester throws a punch, but is brought down by three police; they do not stop beating the monk till his orange robes are covered red. The dogs are released. One falls upon a man, knocking him over before he was able to lift his arms to shield himself from ripping teeth. Barbier shouts more, whistles were blown, the APC's begin blasting their hoses pressing the rioters back.
"The prestige. Here is where the magician dispels the illusion, and brings the audience back. You see, fear the trick is real makes people question what they see. Believe the unimportant thing first witnessed, now has some otherworldly quality. Everything they knew, isn't really all they could know. And being confronted with that 'reality' can be... scary. You see, our world has rules: the bird has to reappear, the woman needs to be put back together. A magician doesn't want his audience afraid, but what happens if he doesn't do any of the above." He pushes the sunglasses higher up the bridge of his nose. He can feel the resentment burning through the porcelain mask of his compatriot, those red eyes spinning with agitation. "You and I, my friend, operate in an existence where rules don't apply. Everything in this plain of existence is malleable. Our prestige isn't about dispelling tricks, it's maintaining them. Getting people to believe it's no longer fake, but a new truth where they won't see anything else. Especially, you."
Through this sea of uncertainty and chaos a path forms. It's not large, just big enough for the little bird to fly through. But it's there. Right there. And he knows it sees, too. Violence wasn't a hard thing for the kid to navigate, it being a part of him since before his first breath. Was been the same for Hannibal as he studied the field of Cannae, or William the Bastard at Hastings. Through years of hard training, slavish dedication, and selective breeding the Hidden Village fashioned killers in teh same vein as the hashashin had done eight hundred years prior.
They were efficient, single-minded, perfect in their ability to fashion death to an almost art form. Where weakness was culled, cropped, and bred out so future generations spawned from their lines would only be better. Which, oddly enough, made it all the more interesting to him that he hears uneven breathing come from underneath the mask.
Asthma..? He thinks.
Or, perhaps, something else?
Interesting...
"You bought twelve minutes." The black shape spins on its feet.
Determined footsteps make a beeline towards the ornate French doors. More bottles, more springs of fire from Molotovs, and more shots sound off. Arching gray streams race over the front ranks to land in the middle of the protesters. Tear gas isn't enough to get them to disperse, but one canister does knock a man in his jaw. Teeth splatter out from his face and onto the pavement.
"What are the chances the ARVN makes a show tonight? I'm not equipped to take on a whole regiment if it comes to a fight."
"ARVN?" He laughs for the first time in a long time he feels. Genuine, benign, and wholly unexpected. "Don't worry about them - they won't be involved. Only trouble you'll see be from the French garrison, and they won't risk much considering the rhetoric hounding them these last two weeks."
Recently, a leaked a story concerning a Legion battalion surveying the Mekong had been making its rounds. A teenager and her family had been harassed by an up-jumped officer leading a patrol of skittish colonials. When the family came out to defend the girl, what resulted was a bloody mess: the father was shot dead, the village chief beaten, and the entire hovel burned. The girl in question was taken away, but never seen again.
All for a routine patrol in a sector presumedly "cleared" of guerrillas.
A powerful kick bursts the doors open. Admittedly, the little bird strikes an imposing figure against the chaotic backdrop: fire, flickering lights, the light blue uniforms of police mixed with the roughshod nature of the crowd. Little whisks of gas trail in to gather at its feet. With the demonic, toothy grin of its mask, yellow teeth bared in a smile dripping with malice, it reminds him of the stories he heard back in the day. Skeptics wrote of such creatures, hunters unmatched who lurked within the deep, dark forests of early man's fears. Science called them nothing more than barbarian fancies, yet these eyes proved to actually be a product of highly concentrated eugenics and supernatural experimentation.
"Oh, and one more thing before you go..." Mid-step the kid stops. For a moment there is nothing but twelve feet and yet a mile of contempt between the two. A hand rests conspicuously on the hilt of a sword, while he himself minds the Tokarev holstered neath his left arm. Outside loud "Pop! Pop! Pop!"s sound off as more tear gas is lobbed into the crowd. "The Boss got their eyes on this. They'll be watching. So, be sure to make it look convincing."
"Watch closely yourself. It'll get done, 'comrade'. Rest assured the results will speak for itself." The assassin slowly turns his head menacingly. A slight chill runs up his spine for a brief moment of moments, but he dare not show it. Doing that would be like letting a shark get a whiff of blood.
"Of that, I have no doubt." The zippo alights with a small flicker of fire.
Air pressed down on both of them like a nightmare clinging to their backs, pervading a sense of violence mirroring what was going on in the street. Just now Corporal Barbiere fought his way over towards de Guillame, a bloody mess as he was. Pulling his friend to his feet, more shots ring out from the Corproral's sidearm. It wasn't outrightly seen if the shots hit true - the bodies wouldn't be found till afterwards, yet Barbiere wasn't thinking of assuaging the situation. Medals of commendation, honor, the thrill of facing down a savage horde. All the images of a young man wanting to prove himself in the face of military adversity.
The bar erupts into a wall of fire akin to what Pharaoh saw at the Red Sea. A smell of burning alcohol and finished wood permeates through the air like a feverish miasma. Cries of pain mesh with the sound of his comm while the team reorganizes itself; overwatch moves to another perch, flankers to the left, vanguard taking itself off point over towards the rear. Exfill was going to be quick and painless for them, and with the crookedness of so many in Saigon, no one was going to bat an eye at an Aérospatiale SA 321 Super Frelon landing in Tao Dan Park.
It doesn't register when the little bird flies off, and he's left alone in the burning corpse of the establishment. Disappearing into the thick of the melee, the kid was quick as a thought, and subtle like a phantom's breath. Pushing the Aviators once more up the bridge of his nose, he knew there were no better operative when it came to clandestine murder. But as far as running the rubble when it was all over and done with, well...Skill determined morality, and assassin's too good at their jobs were not great leaders. Death came too easy for them. For the kid, especially, tunnel-vision made his worldview even narrower.
Poor bastard...
He walks over to a small door in the back of the bar - his tracks covered by the encompassing fire, no one can make him out heading to the back door leading to the kitchen. It was his avenue of escape. Unseen and unnoticed. As doubtless the streets would be dangerous for someone looking like him now. Feathered blonde curls, pale skin flushed with heat, tell-tale signs of five-o-clock shadow outlining and aquiline jaw. Didn't matter if he was French, My, or Ruskie - he looked like public enemy numbah one.
Puffing on his cigar, the stainless steel of the pressure washers and industrial sinks reflect his figure walking past. His gait's confident, assured, albeit with a slight limp from a time he'd like to forget. Memories go back to a sterile room, propaganda of steely-eyed youth hanging on the walls. A distant voice tells him one must always be one to shoulder the burden. One who must be firm, yet wise. Irascible, yet endearing. The embodiment of the people's will, yet also their conscience. You are that one. The shepherd guiding man to be the best of themselves. So through their toil a utopia may arise. For their children, their children's children, the future of all mankind. However great the sacrifice, you must endure...
Old timers ever had a knack making use of young men, and they didn't come any younger than his accomplice tonight. The faint green light of the exit sign above the door hums, as he leans his weight against it. The bars clangs open, while his limp causes him to stagger into the alley. Shit, he curses. Didn't know if the pills were wearing off, or if he just needed a proper bed to sleep in. Hopefully, leaving this place soon would give him such a reprieve.
The air sticks to him as he trudges into the night, requiring a cold shower and a better perspective to forget its feel on his skin. Anything to wash away tonight, the night before this, all the way till the thoughts of a former life tucked away came back. Of snow-capped mountains cooled by a light spring breeze, dancing between endless valleys of snowbells, primroses and blue gentians, reminding him of a warm, cooing voice telling him it was going to be all right. It's almost over. You must endure...
"Oh, god dammit," he nearly bites the cigar in half. The pills are wearing off. God, what kinda piss-poor stuff they peddling here?
The limp makes the steps echo along the alley. Damp brick and concrete give off a dank smell mixing with the stink of drainage, trash and urine. He walks out onto the street before turning south, but sighs knowing he needs another block till he makes extraction. Radio chatter comes in as overwatch asks if he needs an escort; he rips the earbud out and stamps it to the pavement. People need to be lead by examples, not these half memories circling like buzzards above his carcass. Civilians need to see it Liberty leading her people unto death. That is how these wars are won. By patriots like dominoes falling one after the other.
Tuan Van Chi was the first.
Ngo Dinh Diem the second.
And more will follow.
A terrible waste of mothers sons, but necessary. For he will endure, and he will win. Not for any whimsical notions of loyalty, or patriotism, or to vanquish his enemies. Not because he was callous for the sake of it, or that he enjoyed. No, it's because he was right all along. And it was finally time he got his in the end.
He removes the sunglasses, and looks down the street. A lone beam of light shines from a lamppost where underneath awaits a young woman. Tall like him; blonde hair like his own, if not a bit sandier. She had it done up in four ponytails spiked in every which angle. The black dress she wears is plain and ends just below her knees. The only thing standing out being the red sash about her waist. The getup is almost too unassuming for her Greyhound-esque figure: taught, lean, muscular, and wound up like a piston. Anyone could see she wasn't "average", but then again he didn't train her up to be average in the first place.
Overwatch gives a nod and hits him with a quick "yo" as he limps over. Her face has a shit-eating smirk when she offers her arm to him. It's promptly denied. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he shambles past without giving her a second glance.
Transmission #8-0-1-0. Designate: Aleut
Gia Long Palace, Saigon
Asset breaches perimeter; President Diem on the run
21:15; November 1, 1963
Run...
Keep running...
Don't stop breathing, ease yourself into it, steady now...
You're close, so very close. I can smell him - I can feel him. Closer, CLOSER!
The voice in his head wouldn't stop - couldn't stop - once the bloody business commenced the hallways were nothing more than glorified hunting grounds. Screams followed wherever he went as he cut through the dimly lit halls. Lower-level generators struggled hard to keep some zones lit, but this still posed a problem; his vision was perfect when the lights were on, more-so off. But in the failing light the Sharingan was less effective.
Goddamnit, this is what I get for relying on him - power source to the palace should've been top priority.
Gia Long's layout benefited from an independent line of power which worked off a water turbine from the river. It ensured even if the grid failed, the palace would still operate as necessary. Corners were cut due to the time crunch - the operation wasn't given the go till earlier this morning. Thankfully he'd studied the blueprints so much even blindfolded now he could navigate the 18,000 sq. ft. with ease. Two floors of countless staircases, double doors, fake paths leading to nowhere. All to divert would-be assailants from the tunnels Diem commissioned in '62.
Those were the real problems.
Two meters tall, one meter thick, reinforced concrete and iron bars; the six West German-made vault doors lead to apartments stocked with battery banks, RCA transceivers, and portable radios. The Presidential Office and Advisor's suite had fully furnished bathrooms, conference areas, a personal armory, three fully stocked kitchens, and even a small Catholic chapel. It was as if Fort Knox and the Führerbunker had a bastard lovechild and swaddled it in silk.
Get him! GET HIM! What are you doing - he's getting away, you idiot! The demon orders.
He turns a corner to the south wing; if he were Diem this would be the route he would take to Tunnel 2 headed for Cholon. He takes in a breath and pumps more energy to his legs. The muscles bulge with strain like a racehorse set out the gate. Swirling patterns of Oriental tapestries, rugs, and vases fly past in colors of yellow, jade, and red; the old trappings of the Nguyen Imperial line. Tch, the Diems were never one for subtlety.
Watch out, fool! Pay attention!
Ahead a line of those few, brave souls - the ones who couldn't be bought off - took up positions. Well-dressed bodyguards on either side of the hall took cover behind red columns of pearl, muzzles of their MAT-49's poking out and aimed at the ready. It barely causes him to hesitate; never losing pace, he calms his staggered breathing. His wrist flips downward as the sword edge drags along the boreal green of the carpet.
*RATA-RATA* *RATATATATA*
Controlled bursts of 9x9 Pararabellum give way to reckless fire ripping the hall to shreds when they see he's not stopping. He comes one effortlessly, like a water rapid dancing over the rocks in its wake. He takes in another breath, lungs fighting past the wheeze choking him, and suddenly equilibrium changes. His body falls upward when the floor beneath becomes the ceiling, and his legs brace for the strain. Another gulp of air to calm his muscles, pump chakra into them, and controls the demonic lust talking to him.
Focus, he tries to calm his itching nerves. Keep focused.
A trail of submachine gun fire follows him, but the security detail is left baffled; they'd seen nothing like this before. This is unnatural, unreal. These men were equipped to deal with a military action storming the grounds, not a monster chasing. A *chink* is heard as the chain holding the first chandelier is cut. Shouts of "Look out, look out!" in the southern drawl down below can be heard as men leap out of the way. Bits of flying glass cut into cheeks , knuckles, fingers.
KillthemKillthemKillthemKILLTHEM!
Another deep breath and an unseen force pulls him down. A stream of red spouts like a fountain as his sword cuts into the shoulder of one man. The entirety of his right arm flies off - the fire of the MAT-49 still droning on as the hand holding the gun still presses tight the trigger. He moves past, bobbing and weaving away from the careless aim of another man, before deftly running his blade across the underside of his chin. A gurgling curse is all his comrade hears before he too is run through; the long, straight steel breaks through his front teeth and presses forward. A sickening crack is heard, when the sword punctures between vertebrae C1 and C2. The man twitches, spasms, then goes limp at the end of the katana. Grabbing a handful of the suit, he twists to the right, forcing the deadweight in front of him as the guards opposite them opened up. Red mist splatters onto his mask when wet thuds turn the meat-shield into Swiss cheese. He finds cover behind a pillar, bits and flecks breaking off as it's quickly riddled by suppressive fire. Hand signals form in his mind, as he unsheathes his sword with a hard shove.
Horse. Serpent. Ram. Monkey. Boar. Horse. Tiger.
Another deep, deep breath. His lungs strain - he can almost hear the fluid give way. There's a tingling in his chest, a warm sensation budding; holding on a second longer would burn the inner lining of his chest, melt his esophagus to a ruin, but he waits and listens.
Six shooters, six hundred rounds, thirty-five round magazines. Thirty-six hundred rounds at a clip of maybe six seconds
Burn them all! Burn them all! BURN THEM ALL!
The tell-tale slide of magazines falling from receivers gives him his opening.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"
A rush of fire plumes out the mouth of his mask. The air permeats with the smell of carbon, burnt oxygen, and graffite. He hears them yell as flesh is burned by a searing wall engulfing all before it. He can also hear the demon laughing. At him, at them, at all this violence it yearned for these last nine or so days. Controlling its urges as of late had a been a problem. It wasn't content to be sated from the occasional cat or dog - toying with them wasn't nearly as much fun. Animals give in to pain in seconds. They didn't understand, not like people did. Not like that bum who kept asking why as he carved out his stomach, or the woman trying to shield her face from the slashes, or the cop who kept begging to see his family one more time.
"KONOHA SENPU!"
LOOKOUT, YOU STUPID IDIOT JERK!"
A swift burst of air quenches the flame before the roundhouse kick pulverizes the pillar to smithereens. Barely is he able to dodge, the attack coming so fast even the Sharingan was able to pick it up. Backpedaling down the hall, he extends his katana forward in the Gedan-no-kamae; the stance is primarily defensive, driving the demon stark mad by such cowardice. But he's given no choice - or room - to maneuver.
The guard's strikes come like lightning. Every punch, kick, and chop a dazzling display of offense the Sharingan struggled with. A spinning backfist, followed by three successive punches made with inches to spare; quick, probing kicks to his feet keeping him off-balance. This has never happened before when he pulls his scabbard. More red seeps into his vision, anger and lust pooling in exultation. Yes, this is a man worth killing. Skinning his hide would maybe make the voices stop for a week or two, maybe.
Kill this man - KILL THIS MAN! He's making us look like idiots.
Another spinning roundhouse is caught in the cross guard he made. A numb tingling branches up his left shoulder. The force throws him across the hallway, and he slams into the wall with a thud. He tries to keep his breathing even, concentrating more chakra into his bones and ligaments, but he's given no quarter. "Goken!" A fist slams into the wall. His cape flurries in a spin as he tries to get space.
I need to put as much real-estate between me and this fool fast. He curses, as he tries to keep count. Twelve minutes, fifty seconds - entrances 1A5 and 43B are closest to the exterior. Diem's most like made his way to them.
Keeping his feet retreating at a quick pace, his blade raises into the Chadian-no-kamae; hands waist level, sword tip to the eyes. He parries the guards kicks as fast as they come, sparks flying every time the katana makes contact. There is no blood. A slight break-away gives him a small window of an opening. He lunges, he cuts, sound of steel scrapes against metal; the slash runs horizontal-wise across the man's right leg. Metal-plated shin guards.
"Definitely, a man worth killing." He smirks.
Hurried footsteps are heard scurrying behind him - reinforcements from north wing. Good, proves he and Diem are headed in the same direction. The president wasn't one for forward thinking. He would've spaced his protection in the hopes a wide perimeter would buy him time. Drawing them close, however, plays his hand and reveals his location. Steady breathing, calm, and think: sixteen footsteps, eight pairs of feet. He opens his stance wide to allow a wayward punch through. A knee into the sternum pushes bowl-cut back, but he counters with an elbow forcing the strike down. The scabbard blocks an elbow, which is followed by an open-palm throwing his left guard away. His chest is now open, but so is bowl-cut for a downward cut.
THERE IT IS! GET HIM, GET HIM...! OH, C'MON, WHAT THE FUC-!
Seven stainless steel links were the only things that kept this man's entrails inside his body. The bastard knew it, too, if the slight quirk to those bushy eyebrows were anything to read into.
Using the nunchucks to break his stance, with blinding speed bowl-cut twirls the ends in a dizzying display to send his opponent once more into a retreat. More sparks fly as the katana parries, blocks, and counter-strikes. Yet, close quarters were his specialty; none can match his style or quickness. Water took the form of whichever space it was confined to; never limited, always changing. As was he - a beast of many colors, ever undaunted, never flinching. Even when news of the riots first reached their ears, and a presumed attack on the president's life was considered imminent. He did not run, would not hide. Not like the others.
For Guy Sensei would've disapproved most harshly.
Orders are shouted as a line of guards hurries around the corner. From the corners of his mask, the assassin sees them form a line at the other end of the hall. Pistols and other sidearms primed - four in front, four in back. Anything and everything down range was going to be fair game. "Xuống đi, Lee!". Bushy eye brows rise up in surprised haste; bowl cut breaks away to duck behind a pillar before the bullets fly.
Taking in another breath, his legs jump to the left of the hall, feet sticking to the sides as friction keeps him from falling. Blood rushes through his veins, the high getting to him and causing his muscles to flex. He vaults from the wall, to the ceiling, back down to the floor again. The Sharingan picks up the trajectory of each shot, though he's not invincible. One pings across his mask, another is batted away by the katana, an unlucky round bites into his left trap. It brings a sharp flash of pain, but nothing worse than the training endured with father.
Dodging bullets was one of the few fond pastimes they had with one another
No, no, no, no, NO! We can't leave that asshole without skinning him first and hanging his stupid bowl-cut on our wall! He was mopping the floor with you, dickcheese, you thi-
Behind the firing squad there's movement: two individuals in gray bespoke suits, neatly tailored, and made with Afghan silk. Diem and his brother Nhu cut a fearful contrast against those willing die for them. And it disgusted him. These were not men, they were freaks. Compartmentalized and remade by foreign investment, sweet-talkers, and private tudors; molded into a mongoloid ensemble of what a Western man thought "proper", yet wrapped in a Viet skin. These fools did not feel for the grieving in Hue, did not care how many died in the Xá Lợi raids on their orders. In their blind arrogance they believed tearing the fabric of their country made them like their benefactors, when in reality they had more in common with "him" than anyone else.
In a whirling spin the shuriken fly from hidden spots within his cape. Black iron falls to penetrate jugulars and wrists. Leaping in the midst of guardsmen, he tumbles forward and cuts with the katana - two scream as Achilles's are diced. Gunfire resumes, yet it is staggered and uncontrolled. Cohesion is broken, and what remains are nothing but stepping stones as Diem and his brother get away. Then, above, crystal chandeliers quiver.
An explosion.
Large enough that the palace's foundation is rocked. Pops like fireworks are heard outside, along with the noise of frenzied screams. A window he passes shows the now burning bar he once was in showering flame onto the street. The mob swarms over what remains of the barricades, police quartered off and broken by the sheer weight of the crowd. Gotterdamerung has begun, and he was the instrument of its final act.
More and more does he feel the mosnter inside him take control, its incessant gnawing at his brain forcing its will over his body. Slowly, yet controlled, he allows it; his father made him an instrument as thus, taught him everything the Village expected, turning him into the perfect weapon. Stragglers get in his way, but they are swept aside. He hears a laughter knocking about, but whether it comes from him or something else he couldn't say.
"DIEEEEEEEM!" He screams with manic joy.
The man in question turns, though being dragged along by his brother; Nhu was always a coward, though he postulated like a tiger in front of photographers. But it was another man present which gave him pause. Tall, lean, stern; pale though flushed with exertion, with thin-rimmed glasses adorning an oval face. This was a face he swore he'd seen, but also probably would never have registered either. Wholly unforgettable, completely indistinguishable, another spook in the land of the living.
A pudgy, round, metal ball falls at their feet. The illumination grenade surprises him; this was NOT standard ARVN fair. But before his mind can work the pieces brightness bleaches the Baroque interior. A bang follows and his better half is taken aback: Jesus HMS Christ I can't see a fucking thing! It shouts, and it's right: his eyes are rendered useless. Teeth dig hard into his bottom lip; bastard either knew, he thinks, or was incredibly lucky. Bought them time he was sorely running out of. For if they made to 43B that door had seven latches and a pressure timer that could keep a tank out if needed.
Tiger, boar, ox, dog...
The fingers of his free hand bend to form the signs; he doesn't need to see in order to know he's got the order right. Fourteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds. Damn, he's cutting it close. Too close. The president's footsteps escaping are apparent, and from memory the vault's entrance is located down this hall. Behind a portrait of some fat woman doing Contralto. By his mark they had fifty yards to go. Meaning any more fuck-ups only burned precious seconds he couldn't afford to lose.
"Primary Lotus!"
His teeth crunch and his world is sent reeling after receiving the swift blow. Sent flying upwards, the kick under his chin clears away any dizziness, but leaves him wide open. Bowl-cut follows his trajectory up, and his breathing becomes uneven. Blood rushes to his face - he barely has enough time to put up his guard before what feels like bandages cocoon his body. He can't move, can't even brace himself as he's slowly guided down like a bird shot out of the sky.
The drop won't kill. Hurt a little, yes, but death...?
No.
His opponent was too merciful for that. Yes, considering the loosened grip and hesitation before gravity took over. He's not trying to kill me, the dastardly snarl curves into a smirk. Because this was a good man, not a warrior. Warriors never shirk from the coup de grace. Least, that's what father taught, and he had much to say of such things. Results, he remembered, were what mattered. And a weapon needed to shirk all signs of weakness to be useful. As steel is done away with all impurities, he too was stripped of all petty qualities that hold people back. Qualities which kept this oaf reaching his full potential.
He'll show him his weakness, and what a real professional looks like.
Debris shoots in all directions, black and white Attic tile shattering. The overly ornate Persian carpet, costing and arm and a leg when it was first installed, is torn to shit as the walls shake. Iron rebar and concrete were settled into the foundation of the second floor to reinforce in case of an explosion. But the resulting slam is so powerful a six by six crater in the center of the floor is made. Vision blurs by an ensuing pop and cloud of white dust. It's thick, blotchy, and carries a taste of "rotten egg" when breathed in. It's brushed aside by a powerful backhand, revealing a crumpled figure laying there in a bullet-riddled cloak. With authority a strong hand shirks off the tattered garment, yet what Rock Lee finds underneath leaves him stuttering...
Past the smoke there's nothing but for a log, smooth and clean, with a small, carved symbol resting in the top corner.
Transmission #8-0-1-3. Designate: Charlie
South Wing, Gia Long, Hall H
Exit Plan 02
21:24 hrs; November 1, 1963
The painting is torn down in a rush. Nervous hands fumble with the combination as smooth steel shines with fresh grease. Diem is out of breath, hands grasping his knees; he's trying hard not to vomit, because that would be too unbecoming for a man of his station. Yet, it happens anyway. I am the president of Vietnam, I have friends - They can't allow it to end like this?! Sweat pools around his collar. Its tightness makes him nervous, makes him feel like a noose is on him; he loosens his tie, and tears open the top of his shirt. The button audibly pops off and falls away
His brother looks at him with a contemptuous look. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm hot, brother," he whimpers. His hand is still fumbling around his neck, when Nhu takes his hand away.
"Jesus Christ, pull yourself together! Is this how you're going to act? You should be trying to figure who the hell sold us out, and how we're going to make them pay!"
Diem was grateful his brother Nhu was with him; for all the gruff bravado, his younger sibling's unceasing conviction at least gave him heart. Yes, that conviction lamentably got Nhu into more hot-water than was worth the trouble, and Diem always had a handful trying to downplay his antics. Still, when Nhu was offered the opportunity to leave Saigon with full protection, he rejected. "I'm staying with you," he said without an instant's hesitation. Reminding Diem how he could never give up his brother, no matter how brutal his character
He's my brother, Diem told his cabinet ministers and French liaisons one day in the presidential office. It was right after the Buddhist riots in the Mekong. Hundreds had been killed, yet he hadn't given up on Nhu. And he wouldn't now, either. What sort of people can respect a leader who abandons his own family?
"Swear to God, I bet it was that fucking pig Minh. I should've wrung him up right after he and his lapdog had Tung killed. You know I still have no idea where they buried him and his brother!" Nhu shouted.
Pushing wire frame glasses up the narrow bridge of his nose, William Colby stares absently as he checks the action of his 1911.
"You've no proof General Minh is behind this," Colby says perfunctorily, but Nhu scoffs.
"The shit I don't know, William. I do! It's him. And Khan. And fucking Thieu, too - All the fucking generals! They're all are behind this!"
"De Gaulle will come through for us," Diem gasps through fevered panting. "He told me as such when he came here last summer. I also radioed General Ely's office, as well." Straightening fully to his full five and half foot height, Diem tries to hold Colby's look, yet secret agent man was miles away. Much like the help he said he'd provide. "Please, tell me Washington is informed of the situation?"
William Colby hesitates with his answer, because he knows the truth won't help. Diem was a man grasping for anything to stay afloat, so best not poke a hole in the one hope keeping him going. "They know I'm here, yes." Was all he had confidence in saying truthfully.
"I'm going to put them all on crosses when I get out of here." Nhu railed, clenching his fists in white hot heat. "Those pajama wearing priests, the damn traitors in our own military, all those fucking Viet Minh loving students. Just like Crassus did to Spartacus, I'll line the goddamn roads with their bodies and hammer the nails in myfuckingself. All the way to Hanoi if I have to - WOULD YOU FUCKING HURRY UP!"
Nhu shoves the trembling guard aside. Coward, he thinks fiddling with the combination: 24-09-60. How fucking hard was that? It's the date his brother was made archbishop of Hue. Common knowledge for anyone, what kind of wastrels are they allowing into the guard now? Once Nhu is given control of the security detail a strict training regimen will be implemented. This was a position of honor, not a meal ticket.
The vault doors open to reveal a pristine, steel elevator. Ten-gauge thickness melded into a sleek design only deisgned go down, and only down, the four-foot thick granite walls. Cable pulleys lubed on the regular create a seamless, soundless venture into the deep system below Gia Long, fitted into a close lock system which shuts above the elevator every twelve feet it passes. Three such shafts were built on this side. All heading eastwards to hamlets known for their loyalty to the Dinh clan. Diem is swiftly ushered in by Nhu, followed by Colby and the panicked security. The man shook so much he couldn't even lift his arm to press the lone button. Colby reaches over and hits it. The doors close, a rumbling is felt beneath, and then they're off.
All four finally breath a sigh of relief.
"I messaged General Ely," Diem pulls a handkerchief from his suit, and dabs at his face. "Did you both hear? I said I messaged Genera-."
"WE FUCKING HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!"
The guard jumps as Nhu shouts, and cringes in the corner. Colby nearly feels sorry for him: square face, blotchy, looks no older than twenty. Agents back in the office would make fun of guys like him, saying he'd less experience than the standees used for target practice. Gave him credit for staying, though. Lord knows took balls to want to stay in the palace once the blackout happened. Everything nearly went to shit when that occurred. Luckily, Nhu belligerently rallied whomever had a shred of loyalty left to keep them in line. Colby sweatdropped; Ngo Dinh Nhu's tactics may be harsh, but they certainly commanded respect.
"I told you the only thing the French are good for now is to wipe their asses with their own fucking berets. And I told YOU-" Nhu directs over to Colby directly opposite him. "Kennedy has to choose a side. Doesn't he know we're fighting a war? All those dinners at the fucking White House, just so he can parade my brother and I around to all your Yankee-doodle friends. 'Look, look! Look at the poor Vietnamese. Oh, so sad, no? He licks my asshole on one end, but in the next goes to your New York Times, your Boston Heralds, to Mama Joe's Dime Store Shit Rag in nobody fucking cares Nebraska, and tells them he's not interested. THAN WHAT THE HELL IS HE INTERESTED IN HERE?!"
Nhu was a lobster pot ready to spill over judging by the color of his face - which is impressive considering the olive tanned complexion. Diem is rubbing his temples, easing back the migraine melting his brain, looking over at Colby with a pleading look. "He knows you're here at least, right, William? You being here is proof of that, right?"
"Getting the two of you out of here is my top priority, Mr. President. That I can assure you.' Colby's icy response doesn't mix with the buzzing feelings in his head. Thoughts of Barbara, the kids, a life which had seen him from the bluffs of St. Paul, Minnesota to the offices of the OSS; from Operation Jedburgh in Trondheim, to clearing Syndicalist elements in post-war Chicago; from rubbing elbows with Roman Cardinals, to his awkward friendship with the incorrigible Nhu. A man so beyond what he'd imagine a good person to be, but what he figured Southeast Asia needed if a communist takeover was to be avoided.
"I don't want to leave Saigon!" Nhu says, slamming his fist against the steel of the elevator. "I want to fight."
"And you would've died. Along with him." Colby nods over to the sweating Diem, still dabbing his forehead like it did anything. "And me." The measured conviction in Colby's voice stays Nhu, because in this he was dead sure. The tightness in the CIA man's jaw sets like an iceberg flowing slowly into the sea, his finger restless on the pistol trigger. "I did not risk my life, so you can throw yours away. Fight, Nhu? Jesus, you don't even know what you're fighting against. I told you as much when I got here. So, please, do me a favor: just fucking focus on getting out of this damned elevator alive. Okay?"
Bumps rock the box back and forth down this River Styx, with Colby counting down the seconds to the longest ride he'd ever endured. And this was only the start: after this they'll make their way to the motorized railway in the bunker, taking them nearly 4 km to Cholon, where afterward local priest is set to meet them. He'll guide them to the little colonial chapel, where inside Colby had set a radio days prior. There he'd send off a ping the local Montagnard cell - those Vietnamese hill tribes found all through the south - would pick up. They would then take to the eastern coastline, where a Seabee Jetson would pick them up. They could make it to Manilla in maybe three days.
It wasn't perfect, but it's the best Colby could get on short notice.
Then it hit him. Soft at first, subtle; like the hum of the elevator's motor. It didn't register with Colby at first, for it melded into the white noise plaguing his mind. But soon the ragged laughter bounces off the walls like a hyena on a bad acid trip. The unnamed man by Nhu in the corner is racked between an asthma attack and lunacy, his shoulders convulsing between every mucous-ridden cough.
"I can't - I can't believe this..." The guard's hand goes to his face, wiping black bangs away from his eyes watered down with tears. "An American? You're an American? Ohhhhhh-hohohoho, that sonofabitch?"
Colby switches the safety back off on the 1911, catching the hitch in the man's voice. It came off as a warbled mess. Like one of those Mongolian throat singers he'd seen perform in that opera house near Salem that one time. Sounding inhumanely deep, and chaotically melodic. The ping of another floor goes by making Diem jump and William to usher a quick prayer.
"What was that?!" Nhu balls up his fist. If looks could kill, then he would've sent this man into the seventh circle of hell. Grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt, Nhu forces him to stand straight and look him in the face. In the light Colby notices the skin is mottled, unnaturally loose, and holds on like a cheap Halloween mask. "Have you something to say, you ugly fool?"
"UgLy FoOl...? YoU dOn'T eVeN kNoW tHe HaLf Of It..."
The box is jolted by a sudden stop, and the final ping sounds. Doors open to a finely lit corridor of the presidential unit. It is afforded all the same luxuries as the upstairs floors, if not condensed by a Spartan chic. Perfect, the railway car should be close. He'll take it to Cholon, and from there into the highlands. Where he'll conduct operations till further instruction...
Scare the locals.
Kill the livestock.
Eat the children.
All the usual stuff a monster does.
His form gives way to something more robust, more defined; William Colby raises his weapon prepared to fire. Problem is Nhu is directly in front of him. The agent yells for the other man to get down, but Nhu struggles to contain himself when the grotesque mask peels away. The silicone adhesive had worn away underneath the dermis of the face - it was expected, the man had been dead for a week before, making it easy for the gloved hand to tear off the awkward hanging flesh. Revealing underneath a face at war with itself.
"WhAt'S tHe MaTtEr, YoU wAnTeD tO sTaY aNd FiGhT dIdN't YoU?!" Red eyes burn holes into Ngo Dinh Nhu, as hands wrap tightly around his neck keeping him in place. Nhu screams when the black irises begin to spin, and the feel of a thousand searing needles puncture his mind; it'll feel like years before it's finished, though it'll only be seconds.
Diem is shouting his brother's name, clutching at the rosary beads in his breast pocket. Not since they were schoolchildren had he heard Nhu scream in such pain, and not since such time had he pissed himself, either. On his hands and knees he falls, unable to contain the fear as he attempts to crawl out the door. Shots ring out, sparks fly; Colby buries rounds into Nhu. First one was to put his brother out of his misery (he knew William loved Nhu as much as he, and wouldn't want to see him suffer), and second was to ensure the target was put down.
More loud bangs reverberate around the steel box, followed by another terrified scream. Diem doesn't look behind him; he never in his career had he bothered himself looking back, for men such as he gained nothing - learned nothing - turning their backs on tomorrow, to gaze into the past. Vietnam didn't benefit from that, nor would he.
Another terrified scream curdles out as Williams shouts. A sickening sound of something slick falling to the ground makes Diem vomit again, but he chokes it down. William sacrificed himself to protect Nhu; they both died so I could escape. On all fours is he running away, dignity going out the window when survival expected much less of him. Nobody cares how one escapes the tiger, only that they do is what counts. Then everyone will know how strong Ngo Dinh Diem is.
Like a toddler does he crawl along the ground, palms slapping hard against the manila colored tile. Two desks are on either side of him, and he knows where each holds the Tokarev pistols in their hidden compartments. But he's too close to the rail car to waste time on something foolish. He wasn't a fighter - he was told he needn't be by his powerful friends.
De Gaulle promised me he would not abandon us-
The French president promised much at Hotel Saigon. Rich dinners accompanied with imported brandies, wine, freshly caught lobster , and fresh venison. Along with personal trips up and down the south from the DMZ to the highlands. Henru Navarre rode with them the entire way, along with his military attache. He and de Gaulle talked insistently on French military encampments, the addition of more men, higher loads of ammunition and food to supply another offensive.
I messaged General Ely at the base; he's sending reinforcements!
Diem indeed radioed General Ely's office right after the first protester was shot. However, it had received no response. Later it would turn out General Paul Ely was recovering in the hospital after a car crash received whilst organizing the city's defense. Ely's second - a mild man who preferred riding horses and acting a gentleman than being solider - had his office far on the other side of the French compound. Word reached him of Diem's pleas for help while he was commandeering a seat on an C-130 Hercules bound for Lyons.
Why don't the British care, how many times has MacMillan said to me the world is watching!
The world did watch, much as they had everywhere else these last twenty years. When the Vichy government fell to communist partisans, and the south of France became a separate entity entirely. When Republican socialists stormed Buckingham Palace in '48 and what remained of British royalty fled to Canada. When Soviet forces flooded Manchuria, Hokkaido, and the Kanto plain before being halted by the American bombs. The world watched, and did nothing.
Kennedy called me his friend. He won't leave me - HE WON'T LEAVE ME! He sent William here for me!
William Colby, sub-chief of the CIA's Southeast Asia Division, had indeed been sent to Vietnam for assessment. The heightened political climate in light of certain "events" lead to much doubt over the Ngo regime's efficacy. Colby's position was that Diem and his family were the only ones who could handle the situation - the Hamlet program for the most part was working, land reforms had stabilized the economy, and the Buddhist crisis was more secular, than it was religious. In his eyes evidence suggested Diem wasn't the problem, yet the Kennedy administration had different feelings. Issues in Panama, Cuba, and South America made Diem in Vietnam a lame duck.
Afterward, books would detail nothing of Colby's actions were approved, let alone vetted, by the Agency. As a folded flag was presented to his wife and children in a humble soldier's service held in Arlington, it was a hard pill to swallow her husband didn't die on John Kennedy's orders - that would've been easy to believe. But instead because he believed in what he felt was right to do for a friend.
Diem would never know that.
Instead, he believed the Free World saw him as an erstwhile comrade at their table. To help champion the cause of "tomorrow, together", a slogan promulgated in his sphere since he was an advisor to the former Emperor. He trusted in this belief, predicated everything he did as president on that premise. Why he kept his family so close - because while the rest of the country could hate them, at least they would have each other. Yet, a stark and dismal reality sets in as he's thrown on his back, and looks up at two glowing orbs of red staring down at him...
That he is alone.
No one cares.
And the "tomorrow" he was promised, that he believed in so much, will never come for him.