Body Count: A Vietnam War Thriller by Richter Watkins

Author:Richter Watkins
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: A Vietnam War Thriller
Publisher: Pryde Multimedia, LLC
Published: 2019-04-25T23:00:00+00:00

37

Walking toward the Saigon River, Teague followed Moore and Frank Acosta to Cholon’s bustling riverfront. Engler had stayed behind on the Bassac with the Wayward Angel and fifteen other junks, including Xam’s. They would be waiting at different points for the weapons offload to take them to General Duyet’s base camps near the Seven Mountains. If, that is, all went as planned.

Teague watched the women stevedores trudge from the waterfront to the waiting Philco Ford trucks, their neck muscles cable-stiff under the pressure of the fifty-kilo bags perched on their tiny heads, the bundles forcing a corkscrew-like twist to their bodies as they walked. The frail looking yet surprisingly strong women amazed him that creatures so small and spindling could carry such weight without snapping like dry twigs.

Acosta stopped and pointed toward the line of ships waiting out in the middle of the Saigon River for their turn to be loaded or offloaded. “Third one. That’s the Pelican’s Beak that we’ve made available. Khiet and Xam are making final arrangements.”

It was a small, grey freighter sporting a Liberian Flag.

Acosta said, “We can send the ship right up the Mekong or Bassac. The river police have been warned to stay clear of any and all ships. They aren’t allowed to inspect foreign ships anyway, but things aren’t what they used to be.”

“We’re ready to get off-loaded onto smaller craft as soon as we reach the big river,” Teague said.

Seagulls drifted and darted over the river and the backed-up ships like small, quick-darting white kites.

Acosta waved his hand over the whole world along the river. “These warehouses and docks are feeding half a dozen armies and who knows how many criminal drug enterprises.”

As they approached one of the large warehouses, Acosta pulled a gold medallion out of his shirt and let it hang in the open.

“That a key to entry?” Moore asked.

“Yes. It’s a Corsican Crest, the badge of honor, and it will give us access to this arena,” Acosta replied.

“It looks like it’s worth a lot. Is that solid gold?”

“It is and it’s a hell of a lot more valuable than gold.” The medallion worked magic in getting responses from the tough looking security men around the warehouse. The man who let them in through a side door had a neck on him like an oil drum.

And there it was, a dreamland arms bazaar. Just like that, they were standing in the all-pervasive smell of oil and paint and all around them in stacks fifteen to thirty feet high, every kind of weapon imaginable, crates and crates of them, many open for inspection and these weapons were brand new.

Acosta went over and talked to two of the men, then came back.

Half a dozen prospective buyers were being escorted up and down aisles looking into crates. Several men passed them. Two sounded like they were probably Israelites and an Asian, and a guy who wore an Aussie hat and had the aura of a mercenary about him was showing off various weapons.

“You’re

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