Dan Simmons - E-Ticket to 'Namland

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file:///G|/rah/Dan%20Simmons%20-%20E-Ticket%20to%20'Namland.txt

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E-TICKET TO 'NAMLAND

Dan Simmons

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INTRODUCTION

I was born in 1948. By the time Kennedy was elected in 1960, World War II seemed like ancient

history. Not just to me ... everything is ancient history to a twelve-year-old .... but, I

believe, to most people in America then. The countless veterans had come home, and while many

individuals had to deal with the traumas of war, the vast majority of them put the war behind them

in various ways: went on to school on the GI Bill or got on with starting families, bought homes,

and renewed their lives. Many of the men and women in my parents' generation had changed during

the war, but most for the better. Travel and combat had brought some half-sensed maturity to the

men; work and participation in the war effort had brought some inexpressable confidence and

widening of horizons to the women. America had changed forever-gone forever was the isolationist,

essentially rural nation recovering from the trauma of the Depression. I was born into the world's

greatest superpower. We had the Bomb, economic prosperity, an unlimited future, and a young

president who promised a New Frontier.

World War II was ancient history. Fifteen years had passed since our victory over the

dictatorships, and even the brutal dress rehearsal of Korea hadn't changed our optimism. The real

war was long ago and far away.

As I write this, fifteen years have passed since the last Americans fled Vietnam. Seventeen years

have gone by since we withdrew our fighting forces. Two decades-a fifth of our century-have

elapsed since the height of our involvement there. Yet, I feel, we're just beginning to find some

collective peace of mind about Vietnam.

I suppose someone has suggested the parallel (it may be a cliche by now, for all I know), but it

occurs to me that the stages of our national response to the trauma of Vietnam closely reflect the

classic stages of response to the death of a loved one or the reaction to learning one has a

terminal illness. just look at.our movies about Vietnam over the past twenty years.

First, denial: No major films. Nada.

Then anger: The cathartic "Coming Home" mental rewrites where the veterans were either anti-war

martyrs or nutcases, followed by the revisionist fantasies of Rambo and his clones.

Then depression: The one brilliant depiction of the war was "Apocalypse Now,' but Coppola jumped a

stage in our recovery cycle so his effort was shunned. If he had waited until after we'd sickened

of our Rambo fantasies, the film would have been received quite differently.

Finally, acceptance: 'Platoon" and "Full Metal Jacker and "Casualties of War" and the other post-

trauma films have--despite the ballyhoo to the contrary little content, less philosophy. What they

do have is a shockingly correct texture--something quite close to the real smell of sweat and

crotch rot, something surprisingly near to the actual language and true fatigue and terrible

claustrophobia of a patrol in the boonies, something almost right about the fear that rises from

the actors on the screen and spreads to the audience like the stench from a day-old corpse.

And so, after two decades and with an entire new generation which has grown up bored with the

whole topic, after more changes in the texture of daily life than we can imagine or accept, I

think we're finally beginning to fee~-if not really understand-the true dimensions of the terrible

national traffic accident that was Vietnam.

But for some people, that's just the beginning of the process.

****

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E-TICKET TO 'NAMLAND

The twenty-eight Huey gunships moved out in single file, each hovering a precise three meters

above the tarmac, the sound of their rotors filling the world with a roar that could be felt in

teeth and bones and testicles. Owe above the treeline and gaining; altitude, the helicopters

separated into four staggered V-formations and the noise diminished to the point where shouts

could be heard.

"First time out?" cried the guide.

"What?" Justin Jeffries turned away from the open door where he had been watching the shadow of

their helicopter slide across the surface of the mirrored rice paddies below. He leaned toward the

guide until their combat helmets were almost touching.

"First time out?" repeated the guide. The man was small even for a Vietnamese. He wore a wide grin

and the uniform and shoulder patch of the old First Air Cav Division.

Jeffries was big even for an American. He was dressed in green shorts, a flowered Hawaiian shirt,

Nike running sandals, an expensive Rolex comlog, and a U.S. Army helmet that had become obsolete

the year he was born. Jeffries was draped about with cameras-, a compact Yashica SLR, a Polaroid

Holistic-360, and a new Nikon imager. He returned the guide's grin. "First time for us. We're here

with my wife's father."

Heather leaned over to join the conversation. "Daddy was here during ... you know ... the war.

They thought it might be good for him to take the Vet Tour." She nodded in the direction of a

short, solid, gray haired man leaning against the M-60 machine-gun mount near the door's safety

webbing. He was the only person in the cabin not wearing a.helmet. The back of his blue shirt was

soaked with sweat.

"Yes, Yes," smiled the guide and stepped back to plug his microphone jack into a bulkhead socket.

His voice echoed tinnily in every helmet and from hidden speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, please

notice the treeline to your right."

There was a lurch as the passengers shifted their positions and craned for a view. Ten-year-old

Sammee Jeffries and his eight-year-old sister - Elizabeth shoved their way through, the crowded

space to stand next to where their grandfather sat by the open door. The barrel of Elizabeth's

plastic M-16 accidentally struck the older man on his sunburned neck but he did not turn or speak.

Suddenly a series of flashes erupted from the treeline along one rice paddy. The passengers gasped

audibly as a line of magnesium-bright tracer bullets rose up and lashed toward their ship, missing

the rotors by only a few meters. Immediately one of the gunships at the rear of their formation

dove, curved back the way they had come in a centrifugally perfect arc, and raked the treeline

with rocket and minigun fire. Meanwhile, at the guide's urging, Sammee stood on a low box, grasped

the two-handed grip of the heavy M-60, swung it awkwardly to bear in the general direction of the

now-distant treeline, and depressed the firing studs. The passengers instinctively clutched at

their helmets to block their ears. Heavy cartridges, warm but not hot enough to bum anyone,

clattered onto the metal deck.

An explosion split the treeline, sending phosphorous streamers fifty meters into the air and

setting several tall palms ablaze. Bits of flaming debris splashed into the quiet rice paddy The

passengers laughed and applauded. Sammee grinned back at them and flexed his muscles.

Elizabeth leaned against her grandfather and spoke loudly into his ear. "Isn't this fun, Grandpa?"

He turned to say something but at that second the guide announced that their destination would be

coming up on the left side of the ship and Elizabeth was away, shoving her brother aside to get a

better view, eager to see the village appear below out of the heat-haze and smoke.

Later that evening five men sat around a table on the fifth-floor terrace of the Saigon Oberoi

Sheraton. The air was warm and humid. Occasional gusts of laughter and splashing sounds came up

from the pool on the fourth floor terrace. It was well past nine, but the tropical twilight

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lingered.

"You were on the village mission-tour this morning, weren't you?' asked Justin Jeffries of the

young Oriental next to him.

"Yes, I was. Most interesting." The man sat in a relaxed manner, but something about his bearing,

the precisely creased safari suit, the intensity of his gaze, suggested a military background.

"You're Nipponese, aren't you?" asked Justin. At the man's smile and nod, Justin went on. "Thought

so. Here with the military mission?"

"No, merely on leave. 'R and R' I believe your people used to call it."

"Christ", said the overweight American who sat next to Justin's father-in law. "You've been up

north in the PRC fighting Chen's warlords, haven't youT'

"Just so," said the Nipponese and extended his hand to Justin. "Lieutenant Keigo Naguchi."

"Justin Jeffries, Kansas City." Justin's huge hand enclosed the lieutenant's and pumped twice.

"This here is my father-in-law, Ralph Disantis."

"A pleasure," said the lieutenant with a quick nod.

"Pleased to meet you," said Disantis.

"I believe I saw you with your grandchildren at the village today," said Naguchi. "A boy and a

girI?"

Disantis nodded and sipped his beer. Justin gestured to the heavy-set man next to his father-in-

law. "And this is Mr. . . . ah ... Sears, right?"

"Sayers," said the man. "Roger Sayers. Nice to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. So how's is

going up there? Your guys finally getting those little bastards out of the hillcaves?"

"Most satisfactory," said Lieutenant Naguchi. "The situation should be stabilized before the next

rainy season."

"Japanese brains and Vietnamese blood, huh?" laughed Sayers. He turned to the fifth man at the

table, a silent Vietnamese in a white shirt and dark glasses, and added quickly, "No offense

meant. Everybody knows that your basic Viet peasant makes the best foot soldier in the world.

Showed us that forty years ago, eh, Mr. . . . ah ... ?"

"Minh," said the little man and shook hands around the table. "Nguyen van Minh." Minh's hair was

black, his face unlined, but his eyes and hands revealed that he was at least in his sixties,

closer to Disantis's age than that of the Others.

"I saw you on the plane from Denver," said Justin. -visiting family here?"

"No." said Minh" I have been an American citizen since 1976. This is my first trip back to

Vietnam. I have no family here now." He turned toward Naguchi. "Lieutenant, I am surprised that

you chose to spend your leave on an American's Veterans' Tour."

Naguchi shrugged and sipped at his gin and tonic. "I find it a sharp contrast to modem methods. Up

north I am more technician than warrior. Also, of course, learning more about the first of the

helicopter wars is valuable to anyone who is interested in military history. You were a veteran of

that war, Mr. Disantis?"

Justin's father-in-law nodded and took a long swallow of beer.

"I just missed it," said Sayers with real regret in his voice. "Too young for Vietnam. Too goddamn

old for the Banana Wars."

Justin grunted. "You didn't miss much there."

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"Ah, you were involved in that period?" asked Naguchi.

"Sure," said Justin. "Everybody who came of age in the discount decade got in on the Banana Wars.

The tour today could have been Tegucicalpa or Estanzuelas, just substitute in coffee plantations

for the rice paddies."

"I want to hear about that," said Sayers and waved a waiter over to the table. "Another round for

everyone," he said. From somewhere near the pool a steel drum band started up, unsuccessfully

trying to mix American pop tunes, a Caribbean beat, and local musicians. The sound seemed sluggish

in the wet, thick air. Tropical night had fallen and even the stars appeared dimmed by the

thickness of atmosphere. Naguchi looked up at a band of brighter stars moving toward the zenith

and then glanced down at his comlog.

"Checking azimuth for your spottersat, right?" asked Justin. "It's a hard habit to break. I still

do it."

Disantis rose. "Sorry I can't stay for the next round, gentlemen. Going to sleep off some of this

jet tag." He moved into the air-conditioned brightness of the hotel.

Before going to his own room, Disantis looked in on Heather and the children. His daughter was in

bed already, but Sammee and Elizabeth were busy feeding data from their father's Nikon through the

terminal and onto the wallscreen. Disantis leaned against the door molding and watched.

"This is the LZ," Sammee said excitedly.

"What's an LZ?" asked Elizabeth.

"Landing Zone," snapped Sammee. "Don't you remember anything?"

The wall showed image after image of dust, rotors, the predatory shadows of Hueys coming in above

Justin's. camera position, the thin line of passengers in combat garb, men and women instinctively

bent low despite obvious clearance from the rotors, tourists clutching at their helmets with one

hand and hugging cameras, purses, and plastic M-16s to their chests with the other, groups moving

quickly away from the raised landing platform along rice paddy dikes.

"'There's Grandpa," 'cried Elizabeth. Disantis saw himself, aging, overweight, puffing heavily as

he heaved himself down from the helicopter, disdaining the guide's outstretched hand. Sammee

tapped at the terminal keys. The picture zoomed and enlarged until only Disantis's grainy face

filled the screen. Sammee shifted through colors and widened his grandfather's face until it

became a purple balloon ready to pop.

"Stop it, " whined Elizabeth.

"Crybaby," said Sammee, but some sixth sense made him glance over his shoulder to where Disantis

stood. Sammee made no acknowledgment of his grandfather's presence but advanced the picture

through a montage of new images.

Disantis blinked and watched the jerky newsreel proceed. The abandoned village of rough huts. The

lines of tourist-troops along each side of the narrow road. Closeups of huts being searched.

Heather emerging from a low doorway, blinking in the sunlight, awkwardly lifting her toy M-16 and

waving at the camera.

"This is the good part," breathed Sammee.

They had been returning to the LZ when figures along a distant dike had opened fire. At first the

tourists milled around in confusion, but at the guides' urging they finally, laughingly, had taken

cover on the grassy side of the dike. Justin remained standing to take pictures. Disantis watched

as those images built themselves on the wallscreen at a rate just slower than normal video. Data

columns flashed by to the right. He saw himself drop to one knee on the dike and hold Elizabeth's

hand. He remembered noting that the grass was artificial.

The tourists returned fire. Their M-16s flashed and recoiled, but no bullets were expended. The

din was tremendous. On the screen a two-year-old near Justin had begun to cry.

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Eventually the guides helped a young tourist couple use a field radio to call in an airstrike. The

jets were there in less than a minute-three A-4D Skyhawks with antiquated U.S. naval markings

bright and clear on the white wings. They screamed in under five hundred feet high. Justin's

camera shook as the explosions sent long shadows across the dikes and made the tourists cringe and

hug the earth from their vantage point six hundred meters away. Justin had managed to steady the

camera even as the napalm continued to blossom upward.

"Watch," said Sammee. He froze the frame and then zoomed in. The image expanded. Tiny human forms,

black silhouettes, became visible against the orange explosions. Sammee enlarged the image even

further. Disantis could make out the silhouette of an outflung arm, a shirttail gusting, a conical

peasant's hat flying off.

"How'd they do that, Grandpa?" asked Sammee without turning around.

Disantis shrugged. "Holos, maybe."

"Naw, not holos," said Sammee. He did not try to hide his condescension. 'Too bright out there.

Besides, you can see the pieces fly. Betcha they were animates."

Elizabeth rolled over from where she was sprawled. Her pajamas carried a picture of Wonder Duck on

the front. "What'd Mr. Sayers mean on the way back, Grdndpa?"

"When?"

"In the helicopter when he said, 'Well, I guess we really showed Charlie today." " Elizabeth took

a breath. "Who's Charlie, Grandpa?"

"Stupid," said Sammee. "Charlie was the VC. The bad guys."

"How come you called him Charlie, Grandpa?" persisted Elizabeth. The frozen explosion on the

wallscreen cast an orange glow on her features.

"I don't remember," said Disantis. He paused with his hand on the door. "You two had better get to

bed before your father comes up. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day-"

Later, alone in his room, sitting in silence broken only by the hum of the air conditioner,

Disantis realized that he could not remember why the Vietcong had been called Charlie. He wondered

if he had ever known. He turned out the light and opened the sliding doors to the balcony. The

humid air settled on him like a blanket as he stepped out. Three floor~ below, Justin, Sayers, and

the others still sat drinking. Their laughter floated up to Disantis and mixed

with the rumble of thunder from a storm on the distant and darkened horizon.

On their way to a picnic the next day, Mr. Sayers tripped a claymore mine.

The guide had. put them on a simulated patrol down a narrow jungle trail. Sayers was in the lead,

paying little attention to the trail, talking to Reverend Dewitt, an airwaves minister from

Dothan, Alabama. Justin and Heather were walking with the Newtons, a young couple from Hartford.

Disantis was further back in line, walking between Sammee and Elizabeth to keep them from

quarreling

Sayers stepped into a thin tripwire stretched across the trail, a section of dirt erupted a meter

in front of him, and the claymore jumped three meters into the air before exploding in a white

puff.

"Shit," said Sayers. "Excuse me, Reverend." The Vietnamese guide came forward with an apologetic

smile and put a red KIA armband on Sayem The Reverend Dewitt and Tom Newton each received a yellow

WIA armband

"Does this mean I don't get to go to the picnic?" asked Sayers.

The guide smiled and directed the others on how to prepare a medevac LZ in a nearby clearing.

Lieutenant Naguchi and Minh cleared underbrush with machetes while Headier and Sue Newton helped

spread marker panels of iridescent orange plastic. Sammee was allowed to pop the tab on a green

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