Transmission #8-1-5-8

Date:?

Time: ?

Oniwabanshu Operative: XXXXXX-XXXXXX

Coordinates: 10.8231° N, 106.6297° E

Note #56: Third day on the trail, and the group continues making their way along the western border into the hinterland." He says this quietly into his mic. Dawn comes early in this place, and he doesn't wish to disturb it.

Red-whiskered Bulbuls and little brown Chinese hwamei's begin their singing soon as the far-off green mountains earn their orange halos. Rice farmers coax along braying water buffalo who already chafe at the plow. Along the way, he receives a few friendly beeps from smiling grocers hauling their goods in three-wheeled tuktuks. Sukea returns the smiles back with a pleasant wave, an innocent smile, a gives a very unassuming, "Chào buổi sáng"; traveling the dirt roads by himself obviously made him stand-out, and dressed as he was - green button down matted with sweat and dirt; tan vest bulging at the seams with maps, cigarettes, candies, and peanuts; heavy Nikon camera draped around his neck, to go along with his very white and very noticeable "press" badge; and ramshackle knapsack about his shoulders carrying enough film he could photograph every songbird in Vietnam and make a book about it - definitely put him out as an outsider.

A harmless outsider, but a strange one nonetheless.

Which ever put him on edge when all these people gave him smiles, waves, and nice "hello, how are you's". At first, they seemed harmless as they came up to talk with him; Sukea ever obliged them with pictures, traded some goods for gossip, always made the conversations as benign as possible. Politics was a definite "no-go" - he never brought up the junta or the upcoming elections, never talked about the French, and absolutely NEVER asked how the war affected the people in any way. Because you can never know which side anybody was on.

And knowing he wasn't the only operative working this country, he needed to be careful. Leaving a trail behind him would easily compromise his whereabouts, and so for he'd been smart staying away from the major roads and highways. But, working these farm paths and mountain trails was equally a risk: here the Viet Cong operated with impunity. And they weren't keen on the foreign press. Unlike their northern counterparts, who ever wanted to talk to the cameras and show their plight in a positive, almost comically heroic light; the VC made no qualms about their distaste for reporters. They learned before how Diem would imbed members of his security forces in the news networks. They'd dress up as reporters, and go off conducting "interviews" with local VC chiefs.

Later, that information would be used to pre-sight positions for mortar strikes.

After leaving the temple complex near 10.842354, 105.184349, the group's splintered off from one another in three directions. One is making its way south - most like to link up with the major cell operating in the Mekong Delta. Another has gone west across the Cambodian border. The one I've been following is heading along National Route 30 east. They've stopped to hit up multiple armed hamlet villages of Tan Hong, Vinh Hung, and Duc Hue. All under the noses of ARVN and CEFEO companies stationed there. Would take a lot for an armed band to just waltz in unnoticed. But one thing been made evidently clear to me -Chào!" He pauses to wave "hello" at another group of people passing by; they are coming from the imposing, heavily bulwarked town no more than five hundred yards away. Roughshod watchtowers abound, with armed guards smoking and keeping watch on the road leading up to it. Some wear the white kepi's of French officers, whereas others don the white helmets of Saigon's riot police; and unofficially the muscle of the former Cần Lao Party of the Diem clan.

The closer I get, there's absolutely a feeling of hostility. Folk don't show it - not outright; every face seems programmed to light up with a smile when you pass it by. But those manners go only skin-deep. Underneath is a very specific sort of resentment. An 'us against them' type of hate. It's the same feeling I got working my way up the Delta, to the highlands, and all the way back here. Soldiers, too. They don't seem at all interested in protecting anything. There's just too much hate, too much distrust between the two sides. The General Minh thinks by pulling and consolidating around Saigon it'll make him safer. In reality, all he's doing is making it easier for bad actors to find their way through the cracks and into the city. For they'll have no shortage of help here...

A sentiment shared by one skinny Private Phạm Le Sang, whom Sukea meets on the checkpoint entering Saigon's western entrance.

"They don't like us, don't like me; they don't think we're the same. My own parents didn't even recognize me when they saw me put on this uniform." The young boy tells him, while the crowded thoroughfare of cars, produce trucks, bicycles and rickshaws run aimlessly past.

Sukea nods his head, the half-eaten pencil scribbling dutifully on the notepad. "They didn't like you joining the army?" He asks - here he needn't worry for testy black pajama'd guards taking offense.

"Not for the reasons you think." Private Pham shrugs carelessly. "They're not political people - they don't care. Vietnam is Vietnam; it won't change no matter who's in charge. Which is why they think being a soldier is a pointlessly dangerous job. In the bar in our town there's a radio, and we hear a lot about the attacks."

"They worry about you?"

"I worry about me, but the army's my only option for decent enough pay." Pham goes, waving on another group of cars. "I'd have to bribe someone anyways to give me my degree, and I didn't have enough money to begin with. The roads are already full enough with homeless people who have degrees, and I didn't want to join them. Hey! Stop!" Suddenly, the private slams the butt of his rifle hard against the hood of a car. It dents, and causes its driver to start cussing Pham out. Pham starts to jaw back, points the rifle at the driver, and gets the man to shut up.

Along with him scrambling for his wallet.

Sukea watches the interaction off to the side, scribbling it down in his notes, until Private Pham comes back with a fistful of red printed piastre. The driver is still cursing at him, even after Pham lets him go on by, causing the boy to smirk triumphantly. He doesn't care, Sukea notes. And frankly, he doesn't particularly blame him for it, because as Pham points out he has to kick back some of this to his commanding officer anyway. And if he doesn't, Pham's entire unit will be punished. "It was that guy's fault anyway," Pham says chuckling. "If he'd driven a shittier car, then maybe I wouldn't have stopped him."

As he enters into the city, Sukea sees it has not changed since leaving the night after Diem's assassination. It is still a frothing, boiling pot, threatening to overflow with the influx of new refugees. Under the Coca-Cola billboards and Foremost Dairy signs daywalkers, ice cream vendors, and civilians roam streets. Smell of gasoline, rancid meat, and hot asphalt are a damning contrast to the sweat peas, apircots and peach blossoms he'd encountered in the countryside. Now, these hot, humid December days do little to ease the tension in Saigon. Which feels more and more like holding onto a grenade with the pin pulled out.

The usual haunt of his, Little Miss Minh Chau's Inn, looks to he made of sterner stuff, though.

No matter what the city could throw at it, the quaint, bright pink, little two story inn situated in a quiet corner not far from the French Quarter and the hospital could take it. Relatively smaller than most "auberges" located here. More or less comfy, with only a few nooks and crannies out of place; the floorboards can creak and were uneven, doors at times never locked, and rats were a constant patron here. Yet the beds were comfortable, food was passable, and the innkeep - the ever gregarious Madame Gon - never scrimped on the helpings. And more importantly, she'd been a constant contact and source of information for the Oniwabanshu ever since the Japanese occupation of Indochina

Plus, she was cheap; Sukea's allowance only went so far, and he was always reminded to be careful with his spending.

"I couldn't tell you who's a new face here, or who's just been pushed out from the bottom, Sukea." She tells him the morning after Sukea settles in treats him to a breakfast of Bánh canh and extra sticky rice to the side. "Minh thinks he's being generous; people who leave the hamlets come to Saigon looking for...whatever it is they lack. A job, peace, peace of mind. Hmph! But it's all turned into one giant racket - you were at the checkpoint! You saw."

"Soldier I talked to said it was the only way for a boy like him to make ends meet." Sukea notes, and Madame Gon agrees.

"Of course it is; better to be the extortionist than being extorted yourself. Refugees come in with all their life's possessions, and the army profits off it. We call it tiền máu. 'Blood tax'. If you can't pay, you don't get in. Soldiers are told explicitly to search each and every person coming in without working papers."

"Each and every person?"

Sukea mentions the group he'd been tracking for the better part of a month. Madame Gon looks over the photo's and sees if she recognizes any of the characters in question. She notes their faces would be easy enough to point out - most all of are foreign. "Mi chang" - but with the look of someone who'd thrown coffee over their skin. The one with the sunburnt face and the pretty blonde hair is noteworthy, Gon says. "She is very pretty. Not as pretty as me, of course. But if she's in Saigon, she'll very easily recognizable. She'd be noticed quickly, and remembered."

"Figured if she's here, someone like her'd be sticking around the French section of the city. Don't see many ARVN patrols around here. They don't come around as much?"

"Bah! Here? Absolutely not." Gon says, sipping at her dark Arabian roast. Sukea remembers the way she likes it: little cream, no sugar, with a light topping of cinammon. Good for the heart, she always tells him. "This place, Minh doesn't send his boys, and for that I'm grateful. He wants to keep the whiteys happy, see. Here and abroad. And he knows it won't look good if some news reporter from Paris shows a Vietnamese soldier hustling a French colon and his blushing debutante wife."

"Heh," Sukea smirks into his cup of milked down tea. "So, Minh prioritizes keeping the French happy, instead of his own people."

"Sure, he would. Don't look so surprised. And so do I. Look around my dining area. I don't put up fake prints of Madeleine Boullogne and Jean-Antoine Watteau on my walls, so some country hick from the paddies can come in here and say, 'oh, how pretty they look'. No, the average Vietnamese citizen doesn't offer much anymore. But a Western man in a good suit and tie, who talks pretty and says all the right things, he can offer a lot."

"Like what?" Sukea asks, and Madame Gon merely laughs.

The game being played around a place like Saigon was easy enough to enter, but harder to win for some. Sukea, once he'd embedded himself here, made sure that to cover his tracks, alls he really needed to do was walk along the money. People here don't look that close if a fat enough stack of bills gets passed off to them. A common enough saying for the rats and dregs working tirelessly here is," Im lặng là vàng". "Silence is gold." And the less people speak, but do, the greater the benefits they reap. Especially, the mercenaries and French Foreign legionnaires operating district security in this neck of Saigon.

Madame Gon pointed him in the direction of the CEFEO pay facility for its personnel. Here, much of the financial aid from France is divvied up to pay the colonial troops, the mercs, and support any foreign international who would crazily throw themselves here to administer aid. More often than not, they were women; nurses or combat medics fresh from the battlegrounds in Algeria and Morocco, who wanted out of the desert heat, yet for some reason traded it for jungle humidity.

"It's not the hard to figure," says swashbuckling and uncanny mercenary known to all as the Captain. "We all follow the money. Africa was no longer favorable, yes. Too much desert, too much blood, bit enough care from the powers that be who actually write the checks. Simple as that, and don't let any of'em fool you: the only reason any of us are here is because of cash. You can put that on the record."

The café, perhaps once elegant but now marred by the unrelenting grip this war has taken on this country—buzzes with quiet conversations, clinking glassware, and the subtle hum of nearby traffic being directed by a sweating guard with a whistle. Bernadotte seems unbothered by the heat, though. Despite being in full battle dress.

"You make it sound so cut-and-dry." Sukea notes, his pencil - now chewed to a nub - dutifully following everything Pip says. "You're not like most Frenchman I've encountered here."

"This is good thing, no?" The Captain unleashes a boisterous laugh that could make a thunder god envious.

His real name is Pip Bernadotte. He is the leader of "les oies sauvages", or the Wild Geese. The man is infectious, much like his obnoxious laughter. He slaps the table they both sit at, stamps his feet like an excited child, throws the long auburn ponytail about his neck like it's the tail of some luxurious cat. Everything about this boisterous man - for despite his youthful energy, Pip was closer to thirty than twenty - screamed an unpretentious, unrelenting warrior. A man enamored with the romance of fighting for a lost cause. Which says much, then, that he's found here in South Vietnam.

He'd be more at home running full tilt on a horse at the battle of Agincourt, or charging Caesar's barricades at Alesia, Sukea thinks, listening to Pip drone on about the effete hypocrisy of how his countrymen treat this war in Indochina.

The Captain is not the worst, nor by far the loudest of the mercs presently cutting their teeth in this place. Sukea had seen fighters on both sides carry war upon them like it was a badge of honor, a souvenir carried through the valley of the shadow of death all men fear. Pip Bernadotte was not one of them. Clearly; he looked too at ease amongst his men, had all the swagger of a punch drunk fighter chomping at the bit for the bell to signal the next round. War is his passion, and battle the unconquerable obstacle he'll ever vie against. Some might call Pip a warmonger, a connoisseur of violence who'd much rather keep fighting than sit at home in peace.

But Sukea admits in these times a man like him can be very useful.

"I am different, no? Because I do not lie when I speak. And in a place where nobody says not a word of true value, my honesty makes me a highly prized commodity."

"And what is your price for talking with me?" Sukea asked, his pencil poised above the page.

"Lunch!" Pip roars, eliciting chuckles from his men at a nearby table. Sukea frowns; Shiho had already forwarded this month's allowance to him, and reiterated the treasury wouldn't cover for much else. The disguise he wore—the skin mesh repair kits, adhesive tapes, the glue. All didn't come cheap. Which meant eggs and beer would have to suffice.

But the cost of his anonymity was worth it. If his target in question was a Sharingan user, every precaution necessary had to be taken.

"The night the president was killed," Sukea says, breaking the Captain off before he droned on about some battle he'd fought in Laos. "The assassin who carried it out, what new information has there been regarding his whereabouts." The question is coyly dangled out there, as Sukea knows playing this too loose could give him away; Pip was a smarter man than many gave him credit for.

"Eh? No! No no no no, that is not my concern." A debonair smile, a carefree look over towards their pretty waitress; Pip plays it off as a casual dismissal, but Sukea saw the slight twitch in his smirk.

"Not your concern?" Sukea pressed, leaning slightly forward.

"I am paid to not be concerned about that," Pip shot back, his smile sharpening like a knife.

"By Minh?"

Pip's grin widens as the Cheshire Cat's forming out of the humid haze. "Heh, that answer will cost you a steak dinner—and maybe a big pair of tits." He chuckled the click of a lighter goes off. From his pocket Pip pulls out a Newport Kool cigarette - one of the many foreigner brands present here, and popular among troops. Sukea kindly waves away the one Pip offers to him; he wasn't one for cigarettes.

Smoke bothered his eyes too much.

Sukea leans back in his chair, and reaches towards his satchel. The black and whites he pulls were freshly processed today. The first picture is a blurry mess, but it is the best he has of the ong ba bi who'd been a menace to several villages along the 18th parallel. Its garish opera mask seethes out of the frame, the face of a demon threatening to leap from the stillness to tear out their throats. As of late his boogeyman has been quiet - a wound perhaps, a lingering sore. Or from what his own assessment might be, a side-effect finally rearing its ugly head.

If so, it might mean this might be the best moment to strike while he's weakest. If Sukea can locate one of the "lieutenants", interrogate them, press for further unformation, they migjt have a chance to pick off the beast as it recovers in its lair..

"Phoooooo - Oh, tu as de beaux yeux, ma chérie," Pip's cocky grin falters ever so slightly. One image—a blonde woman in khaki green attire, her eyes fierce—draws a low whistle from him. "Impressive - she your girlfriend?"

"Ten points of entry into Saigon, Captain. Seven covered by ARVN units, two by CEFEO, and one by you." Sukea goes, laying out his findings like puzzle pieces. "This is the team responsible for the abduction of General Khan down in the Mekong Delta. For the last two weeks, I've been following them closely as they branched off from the 186th people's corps of the main VC element. I believe they've made their way back into the city."

"Now that sort of information is definitely worth something, and yet you tell this to me for free?" The captain goes, tugging at his ponytail. Like a hawk, his hard set eye glazing over each photo; Pip is humble enough to say the eyepatch was for when he'd lost the eye as a child due to pneumonia. It makes him all the more intimidating as his smirk becomes more serious, more set in stone, when a faint sense of realization goes over him. "Your girlfriend is a member of Alrimal Alhamra' - Merde! Look at the pin on the left shoulder." Pip points to medal in the shape of a coiled cobra wrapped about a crossed scimitar and sword. It draws the attention of his men as they turn for a look. A spark of excitement takes over as they all start to jaw, their French is too fast for Sukes to get a hold on.

"The communist group based out of Algiers." Sukea nods.

Pip spits out a plume of smoke, pushing the pictures away. "Murderers, psychos, drug-addicts, and rapists. Terrorists, if you want to be politcally correct. But of course, all depends on your politics."

"I'm from South Japan, Captain."

"Terrorists, then."

The Captain regales Sukea of his gallant tales fighting against the dreaded Alrimal Alhamra; when his grandfather was running the outfit, the Wild Geese were situated on the western tip of Morocco to fend off Syndie forces there. The Casablanca campaign was a deadly affair, one which nearly cost Pip his life; a stray sniper bullet broke off in the wall next to him during one firefight. A fragment of the shot nearly sliced his carotid when it passed through the brick wall he took cover behind. For a spell, he was held up in the local hospital. There, he thought he'd get a bit of reprieve from the fighting.

"Clean sheets, hot meals, the pretriest nurses you'd ever seen. With a window overlooking the dark blue Atlantic as she blew me kisses every night. Oh, monsiuer, it's about the best thing men of our station can hope to recieve. Despite my near fatal experience, those weeks felt like the best time of my life. Mais, la bulle a éclaté."

"There was a man we came to know quite well when I was there. His name was Phillipe. A good fellow. From Normandy. He was a - how do you say, a farceur. Jokester. Always with the jokes. Both his legs were taken by an IED at the battle for Fez. Shrapnel smashed all his jaw, too. So he had these dentures he'd always pop in and out of his mouth. Sometimes, to get a laugh from the boys he'd ride around in his wheelchair, pretending he'd lost his teeth. Ha! He'd puff out his cheeks, all bug eyed, saying 'de Gaulle can have his legs, but he can't have his teeth'."

"Then, one day my grandfather comes to pay me a visit. He's a funny man, too, and very quickly he and Phillipe catch on. When a nurse comes in to attend us, she brings Phillipe his chair for him to do his routine. 'Go go,' she says. 'Perform for the generale.' So he does. I never saw the bomb underneath Phillipe's seat, and I never will."

Pip minds the eyepatch covering his left eye socket, a wound he was humble enough not to brag about. Yet, its scar ever reminding him of the memory attached to it. On that day, the Captain vowed, on his grandfather's - and Phillipe's - names, he would honor their sacrifice and never forget. They are owed that much, he goes. However, their revenge was left unfulfilled; Bernadotte never found the nurse afterwards. The hospital had no records of such a woman ever working there prior, too. "It is the new kind of battle we wage in this 'Cold War', no?" the Captain sighs, minding the affront to manly honor.

The traffic keeps spinning by as Pip finishes his story. The memory of it nearly - NEARLY - tempering his joviality. But this is a man born and bred to battle, and does not shirk at the pain of distant memories. Alrimal Alhamra, the terrorist cell which has taken much from many, was simply another enemy now. One that tried to kill him, and failed.

Sukea remained silent, his sharp gaze locked on the mercenary. Pip leans back, gesturing vaguely toward the chaotic street traffic with his cigarette. "Doesn't surprise me they've found their way here. Syndie government from Vichy has been hiring them for years. I hear there's a whole battalion stationed up in Hanoi."

Sukea tilts his head. "Are you paid to be concerned about them, Captain?"

Pip laughs lightly, exhaling another puff of smoke before flicking ash onto the cracked pavement. "I'll be honest—as I always am, and will always be: what I am paid to be concerned about is making sure Minh's ass is covered till the elections. That's all. Oh, and that is off-the-record."

Sukea clocks this with an imperceptible nod; just as he thought. Minh's gathering his own forces, and paying off whoever else to stand down. The play was clear: dominate the process through sheer force. There was little love lost for Diem and his brother, but apparently even less for their own nation. As the Provisional government plans to move ahead with these supposed "elections", the integrity of the vote will be influenced by whomever can control the most guns. And as Minh controls the capital, all eyes of the West will be on him. Regardless of the purpose of expeditionary forces, the general looks to gain the most from his seat in Fortress Saigon.

All while knives are being sharpened.

From both within and without.

Suddenly, the faint but unmistakable sound of an engine revving too hard slices through the air. The whirring grew louder, urgent, a discordant note against the background noise of the street. Pip stiffened, his grin vanishing in an instant as the realization hits. "Down! Everyone down!" Pip bellows, voice cutting through the chaos.

Moving on instinct and years of training, Sukea flips their table over and dives behind it in one fluid motion. The explosion ripped through the air twenty yards away, a fiery blast that sends a shockwaves tearing through the street. The ground trembles beneath, the sheer force rattling Sukea's bones. Shrapnel tore through the air like a hailstorm, embedding itself in walls, pavement, and unlucky bystanders.

Then, a deafening silence, the kind that follows catastrophe, until it is torn by unbridled screams—the panicked cries of those caught in the blast, the groans of the injured, and the crackling of flames consuming what remained of the vehicle which had detonated. Sukea pressed against the overturned table, his ears ringing. Pip was beside him, the usually carefree expression replaced by a sharp intensity. The mercenary gripped his pistol, knuckles white, eye scanning the street for any sign of follow-up attackers.

"Capitan, capitan!" His men shout over to him, but Pip tosses them aside; the man is too far invested looking for the next attack. Another will come, he says. Another always follows. It was the same in Algiers and it is the same here. With a stone arm, Pip pulls Sukea back up to his feet, dusting off the "reporter" as he does. Pip asks if he is all right with a flippant smile. Sukea nods, and soon the merc leaves him. Like a maestro in the midst of chaos, Pip is barking out orders to secure the perimeter and quarter off an y wounded for aid.

Note #57: The capital is as bad as it ever has been. Maybe worse...

Sukea moves to help any of the injured - men, women and children caught in the blast. Some smarting small cuts and abrasions, other requiring increased care he cannot give. Not in the light of day. For there are too many witnesses on the scene, and Sukea would run the risk of giving himself up.

Increased security has only has only had an adverse affect on the living conditions in or around Saigon. People here are not blind, not stupid; General Minh is only concerned with his own personal safety. The army meant to instill order has instead turned inward, isolationist, and keenly aware of the one defining principle evident everywhere you turn to: self-interest. ARVN, the CEFEO, the Foreign Legion and the mercenaries; all are set up to act like separate gangs carving out pieces of territory. Makes me wonder what it was the French actually won at the battle of Dien Bien Phu. It is not the preservation of civil rights, liberties, or all the basic tenets for a healthy and stable country...

A little boy reaches up from the rubble, and Sukea grabs at him gently. He's pleading with Sukea to help him find his father, where is his father, I don't where he went. Dust clouds the boy's face and his eyes; he can barely stand - his leg is barely attached at the hip. There's too much blood to administer any sort of help, even though through courts the boy cries for it. Papa, he cries out. Papa...

The first wave of the expedition is arriving, but I fear there's little and less for them to do once they come. This place is like a bloated cow propped up on steroids. All the financial packages gifted by allies has only hyper-charged a nation that only believes in its legitimacy because others say it is so. Say what will about the North or the Viet Cong, who promise nothing but hardship and rice. But at least it's honest, and better than false hope.

Sukea can feel the boy's heart begin to even out, his breathing a little less ragged; the pain is still evident in his face by the tears threatening to come down, but at least in these final moments he's held by someone close. Someone who is warm. Someone who tells him to look into his eyes, and hear his words.

"Everything is going to be all right."

His father is here, he is all right, and when he comes and takes the boy up in his strong arms. The man tells him there's nothing more to fear. "For they are going home now." Bao is the boy's name. And he has two little brothers, Hien and Tai. Bao's older sister is out back helping mother hang the clothes on the line, but soon they will come inside in and prepare dinner. Tonight is Bao's favorite - summer rolls and Bun Cha with the pork. It's been so long since they've had a meal like this, Bao thinks. Ever since father had to quit his job as a teacher, and turned to shoe cobbling on the streets, money had been tough.

Yet, this night there are no arguments about the money, no talks of the attacks, or fears of what may or may not be. Tonight, Bao goes to sleep in peace. A sleep which feels so good, so warm; like the loving hug his mother gives every morning she sends him off before school. He closes his eyes contentedly, knowing somehow everything was going to be all right. The pain is gone, the nightmare is over. All there is for him to do now is to rest. Darkness comes over him, as Sukea breaks the hold; the dream ends, the boy goes limp in his arms, and the world goes back to the mess it was.

Saigon is a lost cause, the South is a lost cause; you don't need a guy with a camera and a chewed up No. 2 pencil to tell you that. I don't know what sort of victory can be achieved here, if at all. But, I do know what defeat will look like... If Target 73's location is not found, this will be only the beginning. Worse things amass beyond what I can see in these jungles. And for the life of me, I still can't put my finger on who is pulling these strings, and why...

I will continue my search for answers. I know the troupe has found a chink in Minh's armor, as they've clearly made the city a base of interest. They have a target, someone they've kept tabs on for some time; I have a hunch on who it might be, but I won't speak their name aloud. Though Gon has promised me seclusion, frankly one can't be too careful here.

Or trusting.

Operative 012110, "Sukea", reporting out.