The Mangrove Coast by Randy Wayne White

a couple of decades changed nothing.
    I told Amanda Richardson, “Your father didn’t die in Thailand.”
    We’d found a quiet spot off by ourselves at the very end of the dock complex. She’d plopped down on the boardsand sat with her legs dangling over the water like a kid sitting on a bridge.
    Now, as I spoke, she sat back a little and said, “Oh,” listening very closely.
    I pressed ahead. “Bobby … your dad … was killed in the mountains of Cambodia. It wasn’t on a training mission and it wasn’t because he was screwed up, made a mistake and stepped on a mine. He was a high-level intelligence officer—some said brilliant—who knew exactly what he was doing … who knew the risks involved. He died fighting for what he believed was a …” I paused. How to say it honestly? Bobby was a patriot in his way, but he was no toy soldier, he wasn’t naive. He didn’t believe in noble causes or that war was a contest between good and evil. Bobby was a pragmatist; a professional. Finally, I said, “He died fighting for what he believed was reasonable and …
right.
Few men have that honesty of conviction. As his daughter, you should be proud of that; be proud of him and the work he did. Something else is … what I hope is … that you’ll respect the code of silence that his work required. And still requires.” Looking at her across the table, I added, “Do you understand what I’m saying, Amanda? What I’m asking?”
    She didn’t respond for several seconds. Finally: “His death was no accident?” Shocked, but very calm about it.
    “No. Not more than any other death in war is accidental … random.”
    “Then how?”
    “He was working as an advisor … no, that’s not true. Your dad was in command of a group of Phmong guerrillas who were on a mission to blow up—”
    She interrupted: “What guerrillas?”
    “The Phmong. It’s a generic term; not a very nice one, really. But the actual name of a tribe—well, there were two tribes—the Saochs and Brao from the Elephant Mountains and near the Laotian border. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. Your dad was leading a group of Phmong men on a strike against a munitions storage dump. Or somevillage that had stockpiled a lot of weaponry. I’m not sure; he wasn’t specific when he talked about it. But somehow the government forces were tipped off and nailed your dad’s group with a mortar strike. It wasn’t a mine and it wasn’t a training mission. That’s how your dad died.”
    “And this was after the Vietnam war ended.”
    “Yeah. Way later.”
    “But why? Were we ever at war with Cambodia? I’m no historian, but I can’t remember—”
    “We weren’t at war with Cambodia. Not officially. There was this Communist army, the Khmer Rouge, that took over the country right after the U.S. pulled out of Vietnam. It was led by an electronics student, Saloth Sar, but he called himself Pol Pot. The Khmer slaughtered anyone who got in their way. So it was like a war. Maybe worse.”
    “But why?”
    “You want the truth? Sar’s army was made up of many thousands of teenaged boys who were pissed off about having their farms and fields and families bombed during the Vietnam war. They were uneducated and they hated anyone who was educated. They had the weapons and they had permission. So they started killing and kept killing. That’s what your father was trying to stop.”
    “Then what you’re asking me, the thing you just mentioned, that’s why: a code of silence. Confidentiality is what you’re asking for. You don’t want me to repeat what you’ve just said.”
    “That wouldn’t be reasonable to ask, so I won’t ask it. What I’m saying is, be very picky about who you tell. Your mother, she should know. She deserves to hear the truth.”
    “When we find her, I’ll let you tell her.”
    I liked the way she said that. The confidence in her voice.
    I said, “And your children, they should know about their grandfather. Maybe