Thieu's Treasure

By Alan Roberts

A story of two ex-military men, one American, the other Vietnamese. They transport a treasure trove of diamonds and gold through the jungles of Southeast Asia while being pursued by elements of communist armies. They receive life-saving assistance from strangers and also save others from certain death. The proceeds of the treasure is put to unexpected use.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Roberts
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215017456

Book preview

ONE

The signal startled several passengers into wakefulness, others not so much. The bell indicated descent through ten thousand feet. I began to stow my things ahead of the inevitable announcement about crew coming down the aisles for one last trash pickup, and to ensure all trays and belongings are stowed, blah, blah, blah. Heard it a million times. Knowing the Boeing restroom would be infinitely better than the dismal excuses for restrooms in the terminal, I paid a final visit. I had at least sprung for business class on the twelve-hour flight out of San Francisco to Saigon.

Back in my seat, I peered out the window to see the Vietnamese coast rapidly approach and the turquoise blue of the South China Sea give way to more shades of green than I knew existed. Rice paddies, copra and rubber plantations, elephant grass, jungles, and groves of tropical fruit trees merged into an undulating carpet of vegetation that flowed to the horizon.

The wheels of the aircraft struck the runway, casting clouds of burnt rubber smoke. We taxied past parked war planes, most in protective revetments. Soldiers and airmen busily fueling, loading munitions, and dispatching the aircraft to rain death and destruction on some distant enemy. The activity was reminiscent of a hornet’s nest. Tan Son Nhut Air Base had once been the world’s busiest airport, before the Paris Cease Fire was signed, an unending stream of military landings and take-offs, twenty-four hours a day responsible for the title. It was all familiar to me, and it was still busy, just not as busy as before.

Saigon International Airport was part of Tan Son Nhut Air Base. The sprawling MACV complex that had once been the nerve center for American military presence in Vietnam was also integrated into the base. MACV was still used by the U.S., just re-purposed. More spooks and defense contractors, fewer military. I had been one of the contractors, even though I spent little time there. Less than one week after the meaningless Paris Agreement, I arrived in Saigon to ‘replace a soldier’ according to the DOD orders I carried. Now I was arriving in Saigon again. This time to find a soldier.

Two weeks ago, I left this hellhole of a country with my Vietnamese wife, hoping never to return. That was before the phone call. Eleven days later, a midnight call woke me from a sound sleep. A heavily accented voice asked if I was Travis O’Neil, and when I said yes, the call was connected. It was my brother-in-law, Phat Tang. He was excited, a bit edgy, perhaps fearful, and that set off warning bells, because Phat feared nothing. He was a seven-year veteran South Vietnamese marine and had been to hell and back more than once. He was adamant I return immediately.

During my years in Vietnam, a tremendous professional relationship and respect for Sergeant Tang had developed. I had known him longer than I had his sister—my wife.

Phat wouldn’t say much over the phone, for obvious reasons, but was able to convince me of the urgency. He insisted I bring ten thousand U.S. dollars in smaller bills and whatever I thought necessary for a clandestine trip cross country. This was so unlike him that initially I thought he had been kidnapped and I was being extorted. After reflection, I knew that wouldn’t be true. He was the toughest and most innately good human being I have ever known. I couldn’t ignore his request. If the roles were reversed, he would not hesitate to come to my aid.

Between the carry-on pack and the larger checked ruck, I had managed to bring eight thousand in greenbacks, knife, hatchet, mosquito nets, water purification kit, mess kit including a backpacker vortex stove, para cord, Leatherman, light weight tent, rugged quick-dry clothes, tropical first aid kit, and dehydrated food packets. Amazing what could be crammed into those new featherweight hiking packs. I figured anything else, like weapons, could be obtained locally. Hell, there were so many guns in Vietnam, people used them as lawn ornaments. Not really, but they could have.

Clearing passport control was a breeze. People were fleeing, not entering this garden spot in April of 1975. In March, Danang had fallen to the communists and Saigon was the only airport left open with commercial traffic, and that would end soon. I made my way out of the terminal and into the mayhem that was Saigon. The heat, humidity, noise, and stench were a full-on assault to the senses, but I waded in with feelings of familiarity and understanding. Surrounded by screaming cyclo, taxi, and motorbike drivers vying for my business, I chose a young man on a 50cc Honda for transportation.

I gave directions to the young entrepreneur. He quoted me a price about ten times the going rate, then turned and shouted in Vietnamese to a friend that the stupid American would pay. I grabbed the kid by the shirt and yanked him to me while saying I would pay the fair price of one hundred dong, and if he insulted me again, I would rip his head off and piss down the hole in his neck, and to never assume a stupid American could not speak Vietnamese. I got on the bike behind him, and we sedately motored out on the short ride to the house in Gia Dinh I had purchased the year prior. One had to be firm with the street people. They lived a hardscrabble life and only understood consequences.

Five minutes later, I walked in the front door. The in-laws now lived here. The house wasn’t much compared to American standards, just three rooms, a shotgun-style home. It fronted an eight-foot-wide street that was paved, except for where it was not. The back door opened onto a narrow alleyway, an open except for where it was covered sewer running down the center that serviced all houses on the block. It was advisable to keep the back doors closed and locked because sewer rats wandered back there, big as ponies. Well, maybe Dobermans.

Mama San was cooking something on the charcoal brazier and after much wailing and whining about her daughter being safe, she handed me the package Phat had left. She tearfully informed me he had gone to Da Lat the day before.

I settled on the plastic covered couch in the living room after sending my sister-in-law, Nha, out for a couple of beers and a sandwich. The package contained a map of Da Lat, and a clipping from a newspaper telling the story of Thieu, the president, being thwarted in his attempt to fly tons of gold—most of the national treasury—out of South Vietnam. Maybe he was a bigger rat than the ones that wandered out back. There was an envelope addressed to me.

Nha barged in complaining about the price of the 33 beer she had purchased. I heard her speaking with her mother in the kitchen before she returned and handed me a glass of ice, the beer, and one of the best damn sandwiches in the world. Not sure what was in it, but it was tasty. In Vietnam, most beer was served warm, but poured over ice to cool it. Sounds bad, but one got used to it and the beer kills anything lurking in the ice.

After reading the letter, I understood why Phat had been so secretive, and understood why I had flown halfway around the world. Someway, somehow, he had managed to locate and ferret away one hundred of the one kilo gold bars the Viet president had attempted to smuggle out of the country. He was not only being chased by Thieu’s secret police but was caught in the middle of at least a million NVA and VC troops tightening a noose around Saigon. There were only small pockets of resistance left outside of the capital. I had to make my way through one hundred and ninety miles of contested territory to reach him in Da Lat, and once there we would still be in hostile country. Nothing to it. Right?

I summoned Nha and asked if her friend, Trung, still toured the countryside with his shows. He ran a troupe of actors, singers, and dancers, all amateurs, who traveled to small villages putting on performances. They were not great as far as talent was concerned, but were extraordinarily popular with the people, because when they came to town they provided a brief, bright spot in the locals’ dreary lives. For them, there was no end in sight. The war had been raging since before most had been born. The only variable was the combatants. Nha had worked with the show as a singer. I remember her returning once from a weekend trip to some village, with a live chicken in tow, her reward for serenading the villagers. Trung had not ventured out of Saigon in more than a month. Too dangerous. I asked her to get word to him. I needed to see him immediately. I knew Trung well enough to know he could be convinced to help me get to Da Lat—for the right price.

I gulped down the last of my beer and yelled back into the house, I’m going to Jim’s and will be back soon. Jim was a black American ex-pat, former U.S. Army, and extremely successful entrepreneur. He was married to a Vietnamese woman, had a flock of kids, and had lived in Vietnam for God knows how many years. He owned a service company that installed, repaired, and refurbished just about anything from artillery to air conditioners. He had contracts with the American Embassy and DOD and was making a killing, since he was the only game in town. He was honest by Asian standards and spoke American English—no misunderstandings. We met a couple of years earlier when I needed to have some hvac work done. We hit it off and I sent a lot of business his way.

I stepped out into the haze of pollution that always hung over the city and turned towards Gia Dinh Street when a little Honda motor bike buzzed up beside me sounding more like an angry bee than anything mechanized. The same smartass kid from the airport was piloting it. What the hell? Are you stalking me kid? I asked. While never losing his stupid grin, he asked if I needed a ride. Not for what you charge.

My name is Rocky, and I will be your personal transportation wherever and whenever, for a fair price.

Yeah, right. Your name is Rocky, and mine is George Washington. I climbed aboard. Five minutes later, we arrived at Jim’s warehouse. Wait here. I won’t be long.

Six small trucks were backed up to the loading dock. There were pallets and bins everywhere, packed with produce, fruits, car parts, scrap metal, used clothing, and stuff I did not want to know about. Jim had a diverse and profitable operation. I walked through the warehouse wondering where he had found the huge fans overhead that stirred the thick air enough to almost feel comfortable. There were offices in the rear of the warehouse. I received suspicious stares from people. Some I knew to be armed security, but several recognized me and allowed me to go directly to a set of double carved teak doors. A shiny brass name plate was attached to one, proclaiming the occupant to be The Big Kahuna. I think Jim had gone on R&R once to Hawaii years ago.

I entered without knocking and met a look of pure venom on the face of one of the largest humans in all southeast Asia. The venomous look was replaced by one of recognition and a huge smile. After exchanging pleasantries and asking after each other’s wife, he got to the point. What can I do for you, my favorite white man?

I need a .45 auto, extra mags, a hundred rounds of ammo, and three grenades. Can you help me? I said.

"Sure. When do you need them?’

Now.

Okay, come back in an hour. What are you up to?

Jim, you really don’t want to know, and I trust you to keep this just between us.

No problem brother, be careful. Things are changing fast. It’s crazy out there. He warned.

I made my way back to the loading dock and shouted down to Rocky, Hey, I’m hungry. Take me to Cheap Charlie’s. I’m buying.

After a good meal in one of Saigon’s iconic restaurants, we boarded Rocky’s little rice burner and navigated through the chaos of Saigon traffic to arrive back at the warehouse only ten minutes late for my appointment. As I entered Jim’s office, I noticed everything requested on his desk. I examined the military issue M1911 and, not surprisingly, found it to be in perfect working order. I thanked him and asked what I owed.

You don’t owe me a damn thing. Too much water under the bridge between us, Cracker. I don’t know what you are up to, but believe me, this country is about to fall apart. Saigon is surrounded and I have already lost a few crews and vehicles. Hell, even Bien Hoa is Indian Country now. I am going to shut down within the next couple of days and lay low. Go easy and watch your back, friend, he said.

Thanks, it means a lot. I’ll buy you a drink when I get back. I collected the weapons, put everything into a rucksack, and was back on the Rocky Express minutes later. After he’d delivered me to my door, I handed him a crisp new twenty dollar bill. You would have thought the kid had just won the lottery. He actually had tears in his eyes. I changed my mind about the young guy. He had the spunk and fire in his belly to do whatever was necessary to survive while his world was disintegrating around him.

I walked into the living room to find Trung sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in his tobacco-stained hands. We cordially greeted and I wasted no time getting to the point. I need to get to Da Lat yesterday. Can you help me, and how much will you cheat me for?

Make me an offer. Why Da Lat? And you are aware that the country is collapsing with a million bad guys everywhere? You a dinky dau man! he whined.

I am not crazy. It is around two hundred road miles, and we could do it in a single day. If we are stopped, you tell them we are headed north for an important performance requested by a general near Da Lat, to celebrate the impending reunification of Vietnam. Hide me with your actors. I will pay you five hundred U.S. dollars.

I could see Trung considering it. The hook was baited and to set it I told him I would double it if we left tomorrow morning. One thousand dollars in 1975 was serious amount of money, and Trung always needed money. After a minute, he said, Okay, but money up front, and you do what I say until we reach Da Lat.

Agreed, but half now and the rest when we get there. I’ll even pay for petrol and food.

He then told me, One of my people will come here tonight. When she is finished you won’t even recognize yourself. Be at the corner on Gia Dinh at seven sharp tomorrow morning.

Just be there at seven or kiss the five hundred goodbye, he shouted.

TWO

After Trung left, I figured it might be the last chance I had to relax. No telling when the next opportunity would present itself. I stepped outside and within seconds I heard, Where to boss?

I told Rocky, I want to have a drink, smoke a cigar, and relax for a couple of hours. I don’t think that’s going to be possible for the next couple of weeks. Heck, I’ll even buy you a drink if you tell me about yourself. I like to know who my employees are.

Smiling, Rocky said, Roger that boss, let’s go.

We went to the Blue Door, a hole in the wall, once a favorite of mine. It was on the ground floor of a two-story concrete building surrounded by the ubiquitous ten-foot-high wall topped with embedded pieces of broken bottles and spirals of concertina wire as an added aesthetic. The proprietor’s living quarters were on the second floor, while the ground level had been converted into a cozy place to have a drink, shoot a game of pool on the almost level table, or just relax and enjoy the exquisite service provided by the staff. To enter, one had to knock on the blue front gate, hence the name. A small port at eye level would be opened by the gate keeper, and if he approved, the blue gate would roll open.

During our time at the Blue Door, I learned that Rocky had appropriated the name from a movie he had once seen about a boxer. I told him perhaps Rocket J. Squirrel might be more appropriate. He looked confused. Understandable, since Vietnam more than likely wasn’t on Bullwinkle’s travel agenda.

Rocky shared a barely habitable hovel with two other street hustlers and desired nothing more than a life free of the constant threat of arrest, beatings, and worse. He had a middle-class upbringing and completed high school the same day his entire family was murdered by the VC. He escaped the same fate only because he had been out with classmates celebrating graduation. He came to Saigon an orphan, with only the clothes on his back and a five-year-old Honda motorbike. He was a good kid trying to survive in a place that would eat you alive if you didn’t fight and scrap every waking hour. One small miscalculation, let your guard down just once, trust the wrong person, and you were toast. I understood and respected him for his courage and perseverance. His real name was Tran.

Rocky, aka Tran, delivered me back to the hacienda just after dark. I gave him another twenty and admonished him not to spend it in one place. He was elated and appreciative. I went through the door in the steel grate that stretched the width of the house. The grate was lowered and locked every night for security, like a storefront.

Seated on a chair and laughing at one of Nha’s stupid jokes was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever laid eyes on. Her left profile was presented to me, but when she turned, I was shocked at the horrible disfigurement of her right profile. The side of her head appeared to have melted. A mass of burn scars ran from her ear to her shoulder. Rather than being self-conscious, she smiled and said, I am Phuong. Trung asked me to transform you into a Buddhist monk. We have an impossible job, so let’s begin. Oh, and to satisfy your curiosity, it was napalm. Please remove your clothes and sit on the stool.

"Why do I have to take my clothes off and you don’t? I said.

When we start the dye, I will remove mine also. Now sit. I have to shave your head and body, she ordered.

Thirty minutes later, I was bald. Nha spread a large square of plastic on the floor to prevent staining. While Phuong shaved me, Nha mixed up a batch of foul-smelling dye to be applied to my skin. The hoped-for effect was my complexion would mimic that of a Vietnamese native. Phuong began to disrobe and directed me to take off my underwear and lay on the plastic. No way is that going to happen. That portion of my body will stay its natural color. Thank you.

Fine she replied, as she stripped down to her panties. Your eyes are a bigger problem, so always keep your head down. There are no blue-eyed Vietnamese people that I know of. She began applying the nasty dye to the top of my head and face, effectively shutting me up. I watched her work and marveled at the perfection of her body. The napalm scars, her only blemish, caused her life to be a living hell of mockery and derision. I felt sorry for her.

It took an hour to complete the dye job. During that time, she caught me staring, and each time she smiled. She tossed me a saffron colored robe and conical straw hat to complete my transformation before leaving the room to wash and dress. It was getting late; Phuong and I were to meet the truck at seven in the morning.

Before catching a little shuteye, I sorted, checked, and stowed everything again. I set aside two thousand dollars