Hotel, where he and the other members of the intelligence unit were billeted, was blown up by a Vietcong satchel charge, and he fell from the second floor into the lobby as the building crumbled. Miraculously, his only injury was a two-inch cut on his back.
Seeing men he knew killed, he volunteered for the field rather than remain in Saigon, where he knew he could stay for the rest of his combat tour.
At a base camp outside of Duc Loc, he had interrogated prisoners and prepared reports like the ones he'd been analyzing in Saigon. There, he'd been as brutal as the other interrogators in getting information out of the Vietcong prisoners because it was the only way to get back at the enemy. Also, as foolish as it sounded to him now, he believed in the mission. At the time he believed the President and the Congress wouldn't have sent him all the way across the world if the cause wasn't just. Though a loyal, hardworking spook, he also recognized even then that few of the intelligence reports he was sending forward could be relied upon because neither he, nor, as far as he was concerned, any other American in Vietnam, could figure out what the hell was going on at any given time.
His three-year tour of duty completed, he'd been discharged just before the fall of Saigon.
Suddenly there was the sound of radio static.
"What's up out there?" Harger said after giving Stepanovich's call sign.
Stepanovich picked up the microphone. "No activity. They're drinking beer inside."
"Keep me advised. I want you to stay on it. If nothing happens, I'll get some Metro officers to relieve you tomorrow afternoon."
"That's a roger."
Stepanovich climbed out of the car and walked around awhile to stay awake. Around two Fordyce reported that the lights had been turned off in Greenie's apartment. Stepanovich used his night binoculars to check the television watchers. The man was still sitting in his easy chair staring at the tube.
For the rest of the night Stepanovich alternated between taking catnaps in the car and walking about on the hillside road. As the sun came up the next morning, he gained something like a second wind.
It was four the next afternoon by the time he and the others were relieved by officers from Metropolitan Division.
Back at his apartment, the exhausted Stepanovich stripped and climbed into a hot shower. He soaped up his entire body, scrubbed, and rinsed thoroughly. He stepped out of the shower, dried off on the only clean towel he could find in the apartment, then dropped into bed. Lying there, he thought about Gloria until his eyes closed.
****
NINE
At 5:00 A.M., on his way back to the surveillance, Gloria was still on his mind. He stopped at an all night convenience market on Brooklyn Avenue and purchased a package of salami, three French rolls, a jar of pickles, a handful of Snickers bars, and a six pack of Coke provisions he figured would last him for the day. Because of the light traffic, it took him less than fifteen minutes to arrive at the hillside road above Eighteenth Street. He parked his sedan in exactly the same place as the day before.
During the next hour he exchanged bits of radio conversation with the other members of the task force. After a few transmissions he was confident the surveillance was again in place. Nothing more was said. Everyone had accepted another day of police ennui: sitting in a car in one place waiting for crime to happen as the bad guys drank beer, played pool, slept, or knocked off a piece of ass. For Stepanovich it certainly wasn't the first time. He remembered hiding in the woods above Elysian Park for a three day holiday weekend waiting for a rumored gang assassination. As families picnicked, lovers necked, teenagers drank beer and played softball in the crowded park, he had watched and waited, feeling somehow detached and excluded, as if holidays were only for others.
He and the other members of that surveillance team had made up for the isolated weekend at the
Seeing men he knew killed, he volunteered for the field rather than remain in Saigon, where he knew he could stay for the rest of his combat tour.
At a base camp outside of Duc Loc, he had interrogated prisoners and prepared reports like the ones he'd been analyzing in Saigon. There, he'd been as brutal as the other interrogators in getting information out of the Vietcong prisoners because it was the only way to get back at the enemy. Also, as foolish as it sounded to him now, he believed in the mission. At the time he believed the President and the Congress wouldn't have sent him all the way across the world if the cause wasn't just. Though a loyal, hardworking spook, he also recognized even then that few of the intelligence reports he was sending forward could be relied upon because neither he, nor, as far as he was concerned, any other American in Vietnam, could figure out what the hell was going on at any given time.
His three-year tour of duty completed, he'd been discharged just before the fall of Saigon.
Suddenly there was the sound of radio static.
"What's up out there?" Harger said after giving Stepanovich's call sign.
Stepanovich picked up the microphone. "No activity. They're drinking beer inside."
"Keep me advised. I want you to stay on it. If nothing happens, I'll get some Metro officers to relieve you tomorrow afternoon."
"That's a roger."
Stepanovich climbed out of the car and walked around awhile to stay awake. Around two Fordyce reported that the lights had been turned off in Greenie's apartment. Stepanovich used his night binoculars to check the television watchers. The man was still sitting in his easy chair staring at the tube.
For the rest of the night Stepanovich alternated between taking catnaps in the car and walking about on the hillside road. As the sun came up the next morning, he gained something like a second wind.
It was four the next afternoon by the time he and the others were relieved by officers from Metropolitan Division.
Back at his apartment, the exhausted Stepanovich stripped and climbed into a hot shower. He soaped up his entire body, scrubbed, and rinsed thoroughly. He stepped out of the shower, dried off on the only clean towel he could find in the apartment, then dropped into bed. Lying there, he thought about Gloria until his eyes closed.
****
NINE
At 5:00 A.M., on his way back to the surveillance, Gloria was still on his mind. He stopped at an all night convenience market on Brooklyn Avenue and purchased a package of salami, three French rolls, a jar of pickles, a handful of Snickers bars, and a six pack of Coke provisions he figured would last him for the day. Because of the light traffic, it took him less than fifteen minutes to arrive at the hillside road above Eighteenth Street. He parked his sedan in exactly the same place as the day before.
During the next hour he exchanged bits of radio conversation with the other members of the task force. After a few transmissions he was confident the surveillance was again in place. Nothing more was said. Everyone had accepted another day of police ennui: sitting in a car in one place waiting for crime to happen as the bad guys drank beer, played pool, slept, or knocked off a piece of ass. For Stepanovich it certainly wasn't the first time. He remembered hiding in the woods above Elysian Park for a three day holiday weekend waiting for a rumored gang assassination. As families picnicked, lovers necked, teenagers drank beer and played softball in the crowded park, he had watched and waited, feeling somehow detached and excluded, as if holidays were only for others.
He and the other members of that surveillance team had made up for the isolated weekend at the
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