Red Flags

Red Flags

by Juris Jurjevics


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Viet Nam, 1966: A dead body in a combat zone barely merits a second glance. The perfect place to commit a murder.

Army cop Erik Rider is content to fight his war in the sophisticated streets of Saigon, so he’s less than thrilled at being sent to a tiny American outpost in the remote wilderness of the Central Highlands. Sitting perilously close to a North Vietnamese infiltration route, Cheo Reo is rife with intrigue and betrayal: American supplies are being siphoned off by South Vietnamese corruption, the Montagnards are ready to start a bloody rebellion to regain their ancestral homeland, and Communists are harvesting opium to finance their war effort. Rider’s been sent to take down the opium operation, but soon finds himself entangled with a local CIA man and an alluring doctor serving the indigenous tribes. As he closes in on the opium fields, he learns that not all enemies are beyond the perimeter. Someone in Cheo Reo wants him dead.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781641292320
Publisher: Soho Press, Incorporated
Publication date: 02/16/2021
Pages: 416
Sales rank: 452,043
Product dimensions: 4.90(w) x 7.40(h) x 1.20(d)

About the Author

Juris Jurjevics (1943-2018) was born in Latvia and grew up in Displaced Persons camps in Germany before emigrating to the United States. He served in Vietnam for fourteen months, nine days, and two hours, his original departure date delayed by the Tet Offensive. He wrote two other novels, Play the Red Queen and The Trudeau Vector, which was published in ten other countries. Publisher and co-founder of the Soho Press, Jurjevics worked for decades in the book industry.

Read an Excerpt


Miser got us rooms at the Five Oceans in Cholon and we went out to get reacquainted with the city. Saigon was still sordid and fabulous. Neither of us had eaten actual food since departing San Francisco so we indulged ourselves, feasting on lobster and salted crab at classy La Miral and then savoring small dishes of unimaginable flavors cooked in modest family restaurants with just a few tables in the yard, sampling morsels of eel grilled on stove carts in the street and unidentifiable meat smoldering on braziers yoked across the cooks’ shoulders on chogie poles and lowered to the curb. We strolled on, flirting with all the other food on offer: shrimp from the Saigon River, sparrows roasted in oil and butter, frogs’ legs, skewered snake, buffalo-penis soup, steamed mudfish, baked butterfish, shark. We finished at the open-air place near the Old Market that had cobra on the menu and bananas flambé for dessert. Both of us settled for espresso.
  We walked again under the brilliant crimson blossoms of the flamboyante trees, moved through the flower market and avoided clusters of Vietnamese draft dodgers who idled on shady street corners hustling hot watches. At the PX, GIs and the odd American deserter scored reel-to-reel tape recorders and electric fans for locals to resell at inflated prices. Chinese drug dealers scooped coke off sidewalk tables with elongated pinkie nails, and Macanese hoodlums carted bricks of cash to their moneychangers. Outside the British embassy, turbaned Gurkhas guarded the gates while, close by, street urchins hawked one-liter bottles of gasoline. Whatever lit your fire, Saigon had it all.
  Astrologers trading in futures, mama-sans extolling taxidermied civet cats and live bear cubs. Stick-thin men selling U.S. Army–issue rations and assault rifles, flak vests, toilet paper, jackets made from GI ponchos lined with speckled parachute silk. Whether it inflicted pleasure or pain, whatever you desired was yours. Hell, armored personnel carriers and helicopters if you had the cash, a howitzer for four hundred bucks, an M-16 rifle for forty, a woman for ten. Or a tooth yanked out curbside for a dime.
  We ambled past clubs with live bands imitating famous rock groups, and Cholon gangsters taking their leisure in open-sided billiard halls. Near the Central Market, refugees squatted in giant sections of stockpiled sewer pipe. We stepped around night soil and lean-tos on the pavement. Lights burned in MACV SOG and in General Westmoreland’s old office on 137, rue Pasteur. The brass was working overtime.
  In the morning we put on our work clothes—civvies—and reported to the Headquarters Support Activity, Saigon (HSAS), office. A dozen of us worked out of the rickety place, not much more than a bunch of desks. We were special agents loaned out to HSAS by our various investigative and counterintelligence agencies—ONI, OSI, CIC, CID. U.S. Navy, U.S. Air Force, and us—U.S. Army, “El Cid.” GI slang for Criminal Investigation Division; “Sidney” behind our backs. The work didn’t make us popular with our fellows, who considered us barely better than snitches.
  No investigators were commissioned officers, although we frequently went undercover with officers’ ranks. Our mandate was mainly to investigate crimes against U.S. personnel and property. Miser and I had been teamed up for a couple of tours, him an E-7 noncom, me a warrant officer, a rank halfway between the lowliest lieutenant and the highest-ranking sergeant. Early on we investigated the occasional homicide, but mostly we looked into the pilfering of supplies, scams like selling the U.S. military thousands of inedible eggs for thousands of American breakfasts, and the unexplained deaths of dozens of sentry dogs. As terrorist acts began to target U.S. personnel and dependents, the American head count rose steadily, along with our caseloads. We didn’t get much support. Our little outfit had to improvise even as we found ourselves investigating suicides, rapes, security violations, even espionage and treason.
  Our boss, Major Jessup, gave us a perfunctory welcome-back and instructed us to trade our civvies for jungle fatigues and fly up to Pleiku to investigate a threat against a company commander who had called in artillery on his own position, earning him a medal for valor and a bounty on his head of eight hundred and seventy dollars. Not from the VC; from his own men, for shelling some of their buddies into hamburger. The brass hats loved their heroic young West Point star. Eighty-seven recent high-school graduates had pledged ten bucks apiece to see him dead.
  “Local talent in Saigon would’ve done it for fifty,” Miser growled. “The kids could’ve saved their fucking pennies.”
  “Never mind that, Sergeant,” Jessup snapped.
  The U.S. Army wasn’t about to charge nineteen-year-old survivors of horrific combat with mutiny and solicitation of murder. The solution was obvious; Major Jessup strongly suggested we put it into effect the moment we got to Pleiku: “Get his ass out of there!”
  “Yes, sir,” we answered.
  The second case Jessup assigned us was out in the boonies and wasn’t going to be anywhere near as simple or quick.
  A chunk of our work involved GIs’ attempts to smuggle dope home: cannabis and heroin, both extremely high grade and insanely cheap. The purest scag went for a dollar or two a dose, commonly sold roadside by kids. A buck would buy you the quintessential experience of the exotic East: a dozen pipes in an opium den. Fifty dollars got you six pounds of marijuana, though most everyone bought rolled joints, ten for fifty cents, or special cartons of Salems—ten bucks instead of the two you’d pay at the PX. The Salems were perfectly repacked by hand with opiated grass, and the carton artfully resealed so you couldn’t tell it had ever been opened.
  All you had to do was step up to the perimeter wire anywhere holding a sprig of anything, and you’d be set upon by vendors of marijuana and heroin. Business indicators were all good. Mainlining GIs were on track to outnumber stateside addicts. Normally the South Vietnamese drug trade was off-limits, untouchable, none of our concern. Saigon was a smuggler’s wet dream, as Miser often pointed out. We couldn’t even arrest Vietnamese nationals who were stealing from American supply ships and American supply depots, much less the ones smuggling narcotics in and out of their own country. Besides, transporting and refining them was practically a South Vietnamese government enterprise. Which is why the second assignment came as a surprise.
  The major said, “We need you to bust up a drug operation in one of the Highland provinces.” Miser and I exchanged glances, wondering if the major was serious. “Half the proceeds turn up like clockwork in the Hong Kong bank account of a Viet Cong front organization. Their cut’s way too big to be just a tax or a toll. Which means the VC are in partnership up there—in business with somebody.”
  He paused to see if he’d gotten our attention. He had.
  “Since the forties, the Communists have sold captured Lao opium to traffickers in Hanoi to help finance their arms purchases, and even bought quantities to sell. But actually growing dope . . . that’s new. They denounce the imperialist French for their government-sponsored drug dealing, but evidently the North Vietnamese need an infusion of U.S. dollars to buy supplies, so they’ve parked their ideology while they stock up on arms and ammo. You with me so far?”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “Good. The money the VC are banking is major. Ten times their usual five- or ten-grand rake-off. An informant puts this cash crop of theirs somewhere in Phu Bon Province.”
  “Sir, do we know what kind of dope they’re growing?” I said.
  “No, and I don’t particularly care.” Jessup assumed his best hands-on-hips command posture and looked us each in the eye. “No way we’re going to wipe out their drug trade, that’s for sure. The Vietnamese and their neighbors have been at it for five hundred years. Screw the dope. I don’t care if they’re growing pistachios. The higher highers don’t want our guys getting the bang from those bucks. Slow the cash. They don’t like their having so much capital. The buying power needs to be contained—at least for a while. Sabotage as much of the money as you can for as long as you can. And then bail.”
  “What are our specific orders, Major?” I said.
  “You heard ’em: fuck up their revenue stream.”
  “But how, sir? I doubt the money ever touches down in that province, just shifts from one Hong Kong account to another. So what do we do? Kill their pack mules? Kidnap their women?”
  “Do it any way you can. Just don’t tell me about it. Especially if it’s hinky.” He tapped the unit shield hand-painted on the piece of plywood mounted on the wall behind him bearing the CID motto: DO WHAT HAS TO BE DONE.
  What he meant was, since we didn’t have any jurisdiction over Vietnamese nationals—couldn’t arrest them, couldn’t so much as detain them—he didn’t want to know about us getting over on any South Vietnamese who might be involved. No such strictures applied to Communists who got in the way. Their only right was to sacrifice themselves for their cause. So we had to make a case for any casualties being VC if it came to that, and stick to our story.
  Miser assumed his Oh, great look as we stood at ease in front of Jessup’s desk while the major finished speechifying. He gave us nothing to go on—neither where to start looking for the operation nor what to do once we found it. Zilch. The absence of direct instructions kept him conveniently free of blame for whatever we wound up doing. Never mind that it left us in the dark about how to carry out the assignment. That was our problem.
  As usual, we were to do our work unnoticed: fall back on our early occupational specialties as signalmen, put on field uniforms, and pass as regular soldiers. Or as the major put it, “Do your thing and get out of there as quietly as you came.”
  “Will the commanding officer know what we’re about?” Miser asked.
  “No. Nobody. And keep it that way.”
  A month earlier, an American general had been court-martialed for dealing American arms to God knows who. The shock was still reverberating around Saigon and the Pentagon. If Major Jessup had hung his personal motto on the wall, it would have read TRUST NO ONE. Beginning with him.
  “The less they know, the better,” Jessup said.
  Which was perfectly okay with Miser and me. The rank and file didn’t exactly love us, and this little chore wasn’t going to be quick or easy. Still, law-and-order work for the Army was way more interesting than coaching the South Vietnamese on how to wage war. Miser and I had both done our time as advisers before signing up for the Army’s agent training course; he a former Pittsburgh cop, me the brat of a widowed Wisconsin county sheriff with my own cell to sleep in on the nights he pulled the graveyard shift.
  Jessup tossed me some captain’s bars. “Congratulations. You’re a captain—for the duration.”
  “Yes, sir,” I said.
  “I want ’em back when you’re done.”
  “What about me, sir?” Miser said.
  “You’re perfect the way you are, Sergeant.”
  I said, “Can we talk to the informant who linked the Hong Kong account to this Phu Bon Province?”
  “Try holding a séance.”
  We left. Outside, I said to Miser, “Have you ever heard of the Communists growing dope?”
  “Fucking never. The Viet Cong tax the smuggling and retailing and will traffic the shit to finance their war effort, but they don’t produce it.”
  I turned to Miser. “Sending us is odd, don’t you think? Viets with police power and fluency in the language would make more sense. Unless our masters don’t trust the Vietnamese to get to the bottom of it.”
  “Now, Mr. Rider, why ever the fuck would you say such a thing?”

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