Moving Target

By M.M. Rumberg

Classified documents, Top Secret communication systems, murder, spies, treachery.
Tom Armstrong is a communications engineer under contract, installing new equipment in Communist Vietnam. He soon becomes enmeshed with Mariko, a young girl, whose diplomat parents were murdered, and finds himself in the center of a conspiracy of international intrigue where everyone is after the girl. A desperate hunt for the truth is underway but what is the truth?

The vise slowly closes and death is imminent in a spy vs. spy corrupt world. A policeman pursuing Tom and Mariko becomes his ally and his friends become his enemies - or do they? Can anyone be trusted? The question Tom needs to answer: who will survive?

Keeping himself alive and Mariko hidden from the killers pursuing her becomes Tom’s mission. Getting both of them out of Vietnam, alive, is an unforgettable adventure in this high stakes, action-driven story of deception.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664133938

M.M. Rumberg

Mort is a retired U.S. Air Force Officer who served as a Rescue and Survival technician teaching escape and evasion and survival techniques to aircrew members. He survived a tour of duty in Vietnam and barely survived two tours in the Pentagon as a computer systems action officer. He was also an information technology consultant and a manager with a large international health care insurance company. He earned a Doctorate in Education and has been an adjunct professor of computer sciences for several universities and community colleges in the Washington, DC, area. Mort was a volunteer with the Alexandria, Virginia, Police Department and the Animal Welfare League of Alexandria. His novel, CodeName: Snake, The Evil We Kill, won a national award and several of his short stories have won national recognition. Now residing in California, he is busy working on several new novels and many short stories. Visit the author’s website: mmrumberg.com

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Copyright © 2020 by M.M. Rumberg.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/21/2020

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Contents

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About The Author

Acknowledgements

With grateful appreciation to a dedicated group of fellow writers who made important contributions to this book, Moving Target: MaryLou Anderson, Westley Turner, Eva Wise, and Ronald Smith.

Special appreciation to my wife, Susan, for her extraordinary help, and a big Thank You to the Sacramento Suburban Writers Club for their support and encouragement throughout the years.

October 2020

1

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

1985

Tom stood by the window of his ground-floor apartment, watching the huge downpour pound into the ground, soaking everything. He didn’t notice her at first, the rain was that dense. A little girl sat huddled under the archway of the driveway’s entrance. The security gate was open as usual. He wondered why there even was a gate since he couldn’t ever recall seeing it used.

The girl sat curled up against one of the pillars, obviously to gain a small token of relief from the wind-driven rain, coveting the non-existent shelter the archway provided. She looked like she was shivering. He guessed the girl was waiting for her parents so he turned back to his room. Several minutes later he looked out again, expecting her to be gone, and frowned. She was still sitting and shivering in the downpour.

The combination of water and wind could easily cause a ten-degree drop in temperature from the normally 90-100 degrees. It would be cold to some, although to Tom it was only a lesser degree of hot.

Typically, locals thought the rain was more than welcome in this country of ungodly high temperatures and 100 percent humidity. Any relief from the unrelenting heat was hugely appreciated. The sudden appearance of a cool breeze brought smiles to everyone’s face, especially a tourist’s, but the relief was short-lived. In minutes after a rain, the big, puffy, clouds would turn from milky white to angry gray, then to black. There wouldn’t be much thunder, but the rain would soon begin again with a downpour most Westerners only see in the movies, and then worsen—like being in a waterfall. The wind was so severe it often drove the rain horizontally.

I should have known, he thought. Damn monsoon season. The monsoon wind signaled the onslaught of rain, the horrendous downpours causing constant flooding. The natives lived with it, but it was new to him. He’d read about it, but experiencing it was something else.

Water covering the ground would easily be six inches deep. Gravel or blacktopped roadways shed the water into ditches running along each side of the road. Sewage drainage systems tried to carry the excess water away, but it was often in vain.

Where there was no paved road, the ground turned to mud when the water disappeared and the mud’s surface quickly dried and in thirty minutes looked as if it had formed into hard cakes of packed earth. An unsuspecting Westerner would step onto one, break though the thin crust and sink six inches into the mud. He might be able to retrieve his shoe—if he were lucky. The Viets would snicker at the hapless foreigners.

When he looked again five minutes later, she was still sitting there, her knees clenched to her chest. Maybe she wasn’t waiting for someone and something was wrong. He sighed, pulled on his poncho, and stepped outside. She looked so forlorn trying to shelter herself from the storm. Tom walked over and crouched down next to her. Are you all right?

The rain beat a constant tattoo of noise on his poncho blocking out any street sounds. The girl didn’t answer but looked at him with wide eyes. Fear? Was she crying? For a second he thought her face was wet from tears, but with so much rain it was impossible to tell. He didn’t know why but figured she wasn’t waiting for anyone. He motioned for her to come inside where it’s dry, but she didn’t respond.

Well, hell, I can’t leave her outside in this storm. He scooped her up and carried her to his apartment. She struggled just a little, trying to pull away, but once in his arms, she stopped. Her eyes were wide. He didn’t know why, but he had the thought they were wide with fear. She folded her arms tight against her chest.

Tom set her down in his apartment’s entrance. It wasn’t really an apartment, he just called it that. To him it was just a large room. They both stood, creating puddles of water from their dripping clothes, unsure of what to do next.

She was soaking wet. Tom reached over to his dresser for a towel and held it out for her, but she refused to take it, keeping her hands folded to her chest, but at least she wasn’t crying. Probably too scared to cry. She couldn’t be more than eight-years-old. He closed the front door and removed his poncho, carried it to the bathroom and hung it on the shower curtain rod. When he came back into the room, she hadn’t moved, was still shivering and standing in the slowly increasing puddle, her arms hugged to her chest.

Tom took the towel and draped it over her head and gently began to dry her face and hair. She didn’t protest or try to move away. He smiled when the towel came off; her straight, black hair tousled. She was a pretty child, but…what? Was she lost? He only knew he was disturbed by her being stranded in his driveway, sopping wet, possibly crying, and shivering.

He made a decision. First, she needed to get warm and dry, so a warm bath seemed in order, if nothing else to clean her up and get the chill off her. He went back into the bathroom, put a plug in the drain, and began to fill the bathtub. He motioned for her to follow him into the bathroom, but she didn’t move. He sighed, and put a couple of towels on the floor to soak up the puddles she was standing in. He kept a great many towels handy because he sweated a lot in this ungodly jungle heat and needed to shower often, and also felt that he smelled like a goat if he didn’t. In this humidity, it took a towel a full 12 hours to dry, even with the air conditioner on. It was just easier to have a bunch of towels around.

Tom picked her up and carried her to the tub. She wasn’t heavy, probably didn’t weigh more than fifty pounds. He could feel her bones when he carried her. She seemed frail, just a wisp of a child.

He set her down next to the tub. The house didn’t have hot water, but since it was so hot outside all day and night, the water was always warm. There were hot and cold faucets on the sink and tub, but both faucets were supplied by the same pipe from the large cisterns filled by roof runoff from the rain. Water in the cisterns was pumped up to the large tank on the roof. Apparently that provided enough water pressure for the house. It was a practical system as long as you had dependable electricity. Now that he thought about it, there was a ladder by the back of the house and that was probably used to carry water to the roof when the electricity was off.

Tom motioned for her to remove her clothes, but she stood stiffly, shivering, and stared at him. What’s your name?

No response.

He tapped his chest. My name is Tom.

No response.

We need to get you warm and cleaned up, okay? I want you to take a bath and we’ll dry your clothes.

No response.

I don’t speak Vietnamese. Do you speak English?

No response.

He nodded to the bathtub. She didn’t move, except for her shivering. He sighed. Okay, I’ll help you. He reached to remove the small backpack she wore. She backed away pulling the pack behind her. Fear surfaced again in her eyes.

Tom pointed to the floor and said, Okay. Just put it there. I won’t touch it.

She seemed to understand what he was saying and removed the backpack and put it behind her on the floor.

Tom nodded.

He reached over and began to unbutton her white top. She didn’t fight him, but he had to gently push her hands down to access the snaps. At first she resisted, but as she slowly lowered her arms, he again thought her eyes were filled with fear and distrust. Tom smiled, trying to gain her trust. She was Asian, Vietnamese, he thought, and quite pretty, aside from being soaking wet, dirty, and scared. She needed a warm bath and dry clothes.

She wore the typical Viet uniform. Black pants, long sleeved white top with fasteners running along the left side up to the neck, and flip-flop sandals.

He felt awkward removing the clothes from a child, especially a female child, but what else could he do? With a smile on his face he continued as if he was an old hand at it. It didn’t fully occur to him until later that a thirty-year-old male should not be with a female child taking her clothes off, even getting her ready to take a bath. Five-years-old, maybe, but certainly not an eight-year-old. Not a great idea. I guess that’s why I feel so uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t do it herself and just stood shivering.

Finally the top was unsnapped and she allowed it to be slipped off. He did the same with the snaps for the black pants and she stepped out of them. He placed the top and bottoms on the bathtub’s edge. They continued to drip. She was wearing a cotton undershirt without sleeves and cotton panties.

You need to remove those, he said, and to his great surprise, she did. He felt awkward having a naked kid with him, so he tried to avoid looking directly at her. He put her underwear with her clothes and helped her into the tub. Every time she took a breath he couldn’t help but notice her ribs. He saw she hadn’t used toilet paper, probably for the past several days. In spite of being soaked, her underpants were caked. He gave her a washcloth and a bar of soap, but she just sat there in four inches of warm water, doing nothing. I guess it’s up to me. He wet the washcloth and began to wash her. He held the cloth above her and squeezed it. She actually smiled at the warm water dripping on her head. He soaped her and rinsed her off, used his shampoo on her hair. She liked the head massage. She’d stopped shivering and he felt that was good. The water in the tub had turned a brackish brown. She was one filthy kid—or had been.

He drained the tub and ran more water, pouring a glass over her several times to rinse her off. Her ribs stuck out like a xylophone. She must be starving—have to feed her. He helped her out of the tub, gave her a towel and motioned for her to dry off which he was happy to see, she did. While she dried herself, he rinsed her clothes in clean water. Tons of dirt washed from them. He wrung them out and carried them to his wardrobe.

Inside the wardrobe, to protect his clothes from the high humidity, was a 20-watt light bulb in a number 10 can, which sat on the wardrobe floor. The can had holes punched into it and was placed upside down over the bulb. It was an effective low watt, low temperature heater and kept the few clothes he had dry and mold-free in this excessively humidity-drenched country. He hung her clothes in the wardrobe and added several wet towels—everything would dry sooner in there. Tom traveled light and only had a second pair of pants, a half dozen short-sleeve white shirts, and a couple of Polos, so there was lots of room for her wet clothes, but the towels pretty much took most of the available room but would hold in the heat. While Tom wore tennis shoes most of the time, he did have a pair of black dress shoes he kept in the wardrobe.

When he went back to the bathroom, she had finished drying off, the towel was wrapped around her, and she stood, hands clutched in front to her chest, shivering slightly in the cool, air-conditioned room. He felt better now that she was covered up, and took a dry towel and tried to wrap it around her wet hair, failing miserably. She took it and with a few deft moves, looked like she was wearing a turban.

He nodded his appreciation. Very good. That looks nice.

She wore that for several minutes, then massaged the towel into her hair, and soon her hair was just lightly damp and another wet towel was added to the pile by the front entranceway. She put her hair up again in the turban. He noticed he was just about out of dry towels and added several to the closet so there would be some dry ones for later.

The bathroom floor was a mess with six or seven wet towels and puddles of water that he’d have to clean up. There was a mop outside, but it would have to wait for the rain to stop before he could get it. When he reached for her wet backpack, she uttered a cry. He backed off, motioned for her to put it in the bathtub and made squeezing motions to get rid of the excess water. She hesitantly did as he requested.

The girl’s shivering had slowed and almost stopped. Tom gave her a T-shirt to wear, placing it over her head and over the towel she wrapped around herself. He thought it was so funny that he burst into laughter, this small child wearing his large tee. It almost slipped to the ground when he put it over her, the neck hole was so large, but she smiled too. Progress. He got a safety pin and pinned it so the neck was smaller and the tee stayed on but didn’t fit well. What else could I do? The tee was so large on her that it looked like she was wearing a floor-length gown.

He motioned her to follow him into the other room and motioned for her to sit at the small wooden table. He put two slices of bread in the toaster, took a jar of jam from the mini-fridge, and put a plate in front of her along with a napkin. She unfolded the napkin and put it on her lap. He got a knife from the drawer and placed it in front of her. She immediately uttered a moan and pushed away from the table, shaking with fear at the sight of the knife. She didn’t take her eyes off it.

Okay, okay, he said, putting the knife aside. What in the world had happened to her? This little girl was terrified of something.

2

The toaster popped up. They both stared at it for several seconds without moving, startled into inaction by her fear, a fear that seemed to overwhelm them both. Her eyes were wide, her mouth partly open. He was surprised by how her reaction affected him. Finally, he removed the toast and put it on her plate. She didn’t move. He pulled the plate over to his side of the table and opened the jar of jam. Cautiously using the knife, he smeared jam on both slices of bread and pushed the plate back to her. She still didn’t move, her eyes never moving from the knife. Okay. The knife is causing her anxiety, so he put it aside and covered it with a napkin, smiled, and motioned for her to eat. Slowly, she reached for one slice and tasted it. A small bite at first then a larger one. She ate it quickly. This is one hungry girl. She had no hesitation on the second slice.

He knew that too much food eaten too quickly could make her sick, so he willed her to eat slowly. It didn’t do much good. She gobbled it up. The mini-fridge held a box of milk. When he arrived in Vietnam, like most Westerners, he was surprised seeing the individually sealed boxes of milk. He was used to the refrigerated kind back in the States. The boxes could last for months and didn’t need to be refrigerated. Why don’t we use them back home? He pushed a straw through the seal and passed it to her. She finished it in seconds. She looked like she hadn’t eaten for a while—so thin and bony. He gave her some cookies that he kept in the fridge because of the high humidity, and another half glass of milk. She smiled gratefully—Tom smiled back. Perhaps he had gained her trust, or at least some of it.

The jam and milk had left smudges and a moustache on her upper lip. Tom smiled and reached to wipe her face with a napkin. Her eyes flashed and she backed away. He pointed to her mouth and made like he was wiping his. She shook her head. Okay, she doesn’t trust me yet. He reached for his hand mirror and showed it to her. She steadied it and looked at herself, then relaxed and smiled, and used the napkin to wipe her face.

Tom smiled back and nodded. Now that’s better.

The apartment, as he liked to call it, was just a large room with a bathroom off to the side. It held a king-size bed, an old easy chair, two straight-backed wooden chairs and a small kitchen table on which was a toaster and a one-burner hot plate. The mini-fridge completed the luxurious kitchen. A six-drawer dresser and two-door wardrobe finished the upscale furnishings. Other than a mirror over the dresser the walls were bare—no pictures. The far wall of the room was adorned with only a door to the rest of the house where the landlord and his family lived, which was kept locked, and the door to the bathroom. The front window had an ancient air conditioner unit that worked some of the time, and he was sure contributed to the girl’s shivering since it was operating now. He had no need for more stuff in the apartment because most of the time he was at the job site, sometimes sleeping there as well. His landlord wasn’t money hungry, and Tom was only going to be here for four months, so it seemed a good deal for both of them. It only cost him $400 a month for rent.

Tom was in Ho Chi Minh City on a contract to install a communication system for a couple of high flying Viet companies. Everyone on the contract suspected it was for the government, but no one cared. The pay was good, the work interesting, and being in Southeast Asia afforded the opportunity to do some sightseeing in locations they probably wouldn’t otherwise see. Tom was planning to visit more of the city and maybe some other cities further north and take a few days to travel to Thailand and perhaps even Burma. Not too many chances like this to visit such exotic countries, and it’s especially good when someone else is paying for it.

Since he spent so much time at work, he hadn’t seen much of the city. Most of his off time was spent reviewing blueprints, especially during the damned monsoon rains. When the rain-soaked kid appeared at his door, he was working on the blueprints, and rolled them up to clear the table after bringing her inside.

The Vietnam War had ended twelve years ago. Tom had never been called up because of a deferment. Just as well, as far as I’m concerned. The war was only something he saw on the TV nightly news. Being mostly a technical nerd, he had little idea what the war was about, or even where Vietnam was, and could really care less, and now here I am, helping rebuild the country’s infrastructure. He vaguely recalled that the French had surrendered at a place called Dien Bien Phu or something like that. Then the Americans were in Vietnam and there was a hell-of-a-to-do about it. I think half the U.S. was against the war. I sure as hell didn’t want to go to war, and as long as I stayed in college I was safe with a deferment.

When he graduated from Cal State with a degree in electrical engineering, his first job was with the telephone company. He wanted to develop some real EE expertise, and after six boring years, he saw an ad from a commercial company looking for electrical engineers, so he sent in a résumé. After two interviews he accepted a job as a communications systems installer. Turned out the company was an international conglomerate, a French-German company with American connections and supervisors, but he didn’t care, the pay and bennies were good—very good. Just about all the projects he worked on were military communication systems, avionics, and spy satellites. It was interesting stuff requiring a Top Secret clearance. Until the background investigation was completed, he did just routine, non-classified stuff, like testing and fine-tuning equipment for high-band radio frequencies. He had a few meetings with government suits from Washington and had to sign a bunch of papers.

Just routine stuff, they said. It’s a good job, good bennies, and important work. Sure you don’t want to read this more closely?

It was about 20 pages of tiny print. If you wanted the job it was a no-brainer. Sign and be employed. Don’t sign, and hit the bricks.

You realize you’ll be working on classified government contracts?

Sure.

If you have overseas assignments, we’ll want detailed reports. Just remember that we want you to report back what you did and saw.

Fair enough.

One of the suits from Washington wanted him to send him a weekly postcard.

What, a postcard every week?

Yeah, just to say all’s well. Make sure the card has a nice picture on it.

Just say all is well? It sounded asinine. Are you guys spies? Why would you want such a thing?

The man laughed. Nope, no spies. We just want to make sure you’re all right. You’re working on high tech projects and we want to know you’re okay. If we don’t hear from you routinely, then we can make some inquiries. It’s kind of a soft alert system. Nothing official, but it keeps you in touch.

Well, he had to admit it sounded reasonable but he rolled his eyes and agreed.

Several years later, when the