Tara of Vietnam

"Oh my god, we're gonna crash!" a woman shrieks. White knuckled passengers tense as the plane's cabin pitches upward then noses down like a diving roller coaster. The woman's screams sound like Faye Ray in King Kong. I've flown a lot but this ancient airliner is rattling like it's held together by loose bolts.

A Vietnamese flight steward stumbles down the aisle keeping his balance by clutching at seatbacks. Reaching the hysterical woman's seat, he starts barking at her like an angry pit-bull. There is a dull whack - the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh. My temper grinds into gear. The fuckin' bastard actually backhanded her right across the jaw. Should Jim Becker interfere? Hell no. I ain't that crazy.

The air smoothes out as clouds melt away. My ballpoint clicks over the woman's sobs and the roar of the worn-out Russian jetliner's engines. Under "Passenger Comments" on the ticket envelope, I write "Cabin crew needs to work on their people skills." I stare out the window at the jungle below. My father flew those Indochina skies during the Vietnam War. I've been invited to Hanoi to bring Lieutenant Clifford Becker home, or what's left of him anyway.

A blast of hot and sticky air immediately hits as I step through the plane's doorway. Five armed military militia escort the passengers into a dilapidated terminal building. Inside, sour-faced immigration and customs officials scrutinize each foreigner as if we're dangerous felons entering a third-world penitentiary.

Two hours later, I pick up my suitcase, and step through the swinging doorway into the sizzling Vietnamese atmosphere. Motor scooters, car horns and smoke-belching busses infest the street outside the terminal. Although the war has been over for more than twenty years, one can't slough off the not-so-subtle side-glances. The message in their Vietnamese eyes is clear: Mistrust of the American Imperialist is still alive and well. Okay where is Minh Von Dong?

"Excuse me sir?" a soft feminine voice says in English. "Might you be Mr. James Becker?"

Her beauty is staggering - disassembling. My disoriented wits quickly reassemble themselves. "Yes Miss. I am James Becker."

Luscious lips smile as she extends her hand. "Welcome to Hanoi Mr. Becker. My name is Tara Fon-Dong. Father asked me to meet you."

"Oh yes." Her handshake feels warm and firm. "How do you do Tara? It's very nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too." She winks, "Oh, and no one's complained yet."

Behind her, a husky uniformed Vietnamese bulldozes his way through the crowd yelling in unintelligible words. Tara's face goes tight as piano wire. She spins around, snapping at him in Vietnamese, seemingly undaunted by his uniform or that ominous revolver strapped to his hip. I'm at a loss as to the shouting match's meaning but cordial pleasantries it isn't. The verbal slugfest is over in a few seconds. The angry man withdraws, staring at us, pacing like a panther in a cage. Tara's quick eyes dart from side to side. "Hurry Mr. Becker," she says motioning frantically. "We must go before he has second thoughts."

Trotting across the roadway to the parking lot, we climb into a battered canvas-covered Toyota Land Cruiser. Tara swings into the driver's seat and cranks the vehicle's engine.

"If that guy is your boyfriend or something, I'll be happy to catch a bus or a taxi."

"Just the stupid fuzz," she says waiving off concern. "Forget him."

"Cops with guns I don't forget. He was yelling like you were breaking some law."

"To him, you are breaking the law."

"Me? I just got here."

"You see, for an American gentleman to speak to, or be seen with a Vietnam lady is quite forbidden."

I gulp. "Forbidden? Well, some days I'm the dog and some days I'm the hydrant."

She laughs. Her delicate hand shifts the Toyota's transmission into gear. "He calls it -- ethnic pollution. Seems he forgot that it's the twenty-first century. So I had to remind him."

"I can imagine how you did that."

She glances over her shoulder. Her smile fades to a frown. "Shit," she mumbles, lips twitching. "Looks like that cop had second thoughts."

I twist in the seat. Coming across the parking lot is a white pickup with a revolving red light on its roof. "What does he want now?"

"Hang on Mr. Becker."

I grab for the dashboard as Tara's booted foot shoves the accelerator to the floorboard. Tires spin as we peal away in a spray of flying gravel. A siren wails. I roll my eyes. Less than an hour in Marxist vacationland and I'm already doing sixty in a parking lot with a crazy woman at the wheel with the cops in hot pursuit. Tires scream for mercy as the Toyota roars into traffic. With me clutching the seat for dear life, Tara rockets through Hanoi at mach-two. Weaving through this chaotic mishmash of motor scooters, bicyclists and rickshaws all going at warp-speed says there're only two types of drivers in Hanoi -- the quick and the dead.

"Looks like you lost him," I say as we screech around a corner.

"Pay him a penny for his intelligence, you'd get change back," she says with a devilish grin.

Tara's feisty self-confidence is as attractive as her physical splendor. Minh Von Dong had mentioned a daughter in his letters. But this daredevil on wheels hardly fits the demure Vietnamese gal I'd imagined. She looks a few years younger than I am, maybe 21 or 22. Quit slobbering Becker. She's forbidden fruit. Besides, that cop's pissed as hell. Good chance he's broadcasting an all-points-bulletin with orders to gun down the American on sight. Well, deep shit being what it is, may as well enjoy the view. Beneath Tara's pointed straw hat, lustrous skin covers her animated, high cheek boned face. Big deep-chocolate eyes sparkle like diamonds when she smiles. And those jeans - those incredible jeans. Watching Tara move in them is like is like getting subtle whiffs of pornography. It's impossible not to keep an eye on the sunlight splashing across her filmy lavender blouse and wonder . . . is she or isn't she? Not wanting to be too obvious, I turn away and stare at a passing billboard. Is it a Communist slogan warning foreigners not to touch? Brakes grab pitching me forward. We swerve off the road and skid to a stop behind a thicket of trees. Tara shifts the transmission into neutral and her burnished black boot ratchets the foot brake.

"You okay Mr. Becker?"

"I'm great. But I think my stomach's about five miles back."

"It'll catch up. Reach under your seat. Grab that screwdriver and license plates. Bring them."

"Isn't switching license plates illegal?" I ask as she's tightening a screw.

She considers that for a second, then shrugs, "Sure it is. But it's better than sitting under hot lights and being interrogated all night by crooked cops."

"I see your point," I say following her purposeful strides toward the front of the Toyota. "Now that we're turning to a life of crime, you may as well call me Jim."

"Okay Jim." Knees bend and jeans strain against her ass as she squats down to attack a rusty bolt. "Father said you work for American Army Intelligence, right?"

"Army Intelligence? Now that's a contradiction. How long before we get to Loc Chao?"

"Perhaps by nightfall, if that cop hasn't alerted the army patrols."

I wince. "Perhaps and army patrols don't sound encouraging."

"We'll be fine." She flings the license plates into the bushes and swings into the driver's seat. "Hop aboard. Let's go."

As she swings the Toyota onto the roadway, I try to forget the danger and concentrate on that cooperative slant of sunlight that's floating across Tara's shoulder. It moves, sending a splash across her chest. For a split-second a bottom curve is all but visible. Most of the Oriental girls I've seen have underdeveloped mosquito bites. But Tara? Well, she definitely does not fall into that category. Better living through chemistry? Ah, the wonderful mysteries one must contemplate.

"What are you looking at?" she asks, knowing full well where his eyes have landed.

My eyes snap to her face. Caught like a naughty kid filching a look. "Ah, nothing, just - well - looking."

She gives me a devious smile. "Look all you want. Oh, and if you're wondering, I'm not wearing one and they are natural." Her brown eyes sparkle, making me feel naked and ashamed. "You know Jim; you're cute when you blush."

"I am not blushing," I say digging up all the manly innocence I can muster.

She swallows a giggle. "Oh yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Well, I don't mind the attention, really I don't."

Those freely spoken and quite suggestive comments build the mounting intrigue. And she did say I was cute. At least that's something. Outside, the landscape turns from decrepit inner city suburbs to fields with humble farmers tending rice paddies, to impoverished villages. As Tara's fingers spin the steering wheel, her eyes keep flicking toward me. Is it more than casual interest? Direct eye contact and a brief smile splays across her succulent lips. She swings her gaze back to the road. A puff of hot wind ruffles her loosely fitting, light lilac blouse. The sun spotlights both magnificent glands. Rounded contours spill into view. Deliciously bare nipples are semi-erect and are just stiff enough to poke against the flopping fabric. Yeah, I'm trying not to peek. Nevertheless, with a display like this, efforts are rather non-productive. Tara's very apparent lack of modesty is stretching restraint. Sexual signals are strong. One moment, I have the determination of a chained dog that's discovered a weak link. Then that word forbidden looms like a huge flashing red light. And then there's -- Janet - very blond, very built, and very jealous -- Janet. Twisting the seat, I look behind. The roadway's empty. No cops or distant sirens. Screw common sense and make a play for her anyway? The idea is -- hold on. Idiot-check: Tara's drop-dead-gorgeous, a bit of a flirt and let-it-all-hang-out sexy. However, this is no slut on the make. Small talk has told me that her mother was French. She was born in Hanoi and attended college in the UK. A babe with her looks and background doesn't play the come-fuck-me role with a stranger without a damn good motive. Guard up. She has an angle. The Toyota's engine coughs. I smell gasoline.

I pull my head from under the Toyota's hood. "I'm no mechanic Tara, but the fuel pump's shooting gas all over the engine. We're lucky it didn't explode."

"I'm so sorry, Jim. Think you can fix it?"

I shake my head and look up and down the desolate road. "Where's Mister Good-wrench when you need him? Don't suppose we can hail a cab or call the auto club?"

She laughs. "You find a phone and I'll call." She points to the tangle of trees across the road. "C'mon. The Red River is only a mile or so through the jungle. We'll thumb a ride on a sampan. Oh, and bring your suitcase. Car-strippers will have this thing down to the frame before daybreak."

Car-strippers huh? Sounds like Harlem after dark. I heft my suitcase and trudge into the snarl of mossy cypress trunks and fungus laden vines. What's next on the menu, salivating cannibals with a taste for white meat?

Sudden and startling screeches cut off our crunching footsteps. A sickening smell lingering around my nose says there's a dead animal nearby. Man-alive, I thought I was in good shape. While sweat is gushing from ducts I never knew existed, Tara appears cool as a debutant at a dance. "What is this place?" I ask trying to keep from sweating all over myself.

"It's the infamous Ho Chi Minh trail." She sighs. "Many Vietnam and American soldiers fight here. So many die."

As I hoist my suitcase and climb over a mossy log. I can practically hear the harsh, startling sounds of ghostlike gunfire.

Only pleasurable thing about this little escapade is watching Tara's beautiful butt-muscles testing the stretch capabilities of cotton denim. What I'd give to explore Tara's deep crevasse with my tongue. Janet's nagging emerges like a familiar worm. "Keep your eyes to yourself Jim Becker," her bitchy voice echoes. "How dare you think thoughts like that?" Bingo, you win a cookie. Janet's a real looker, but the territorial type. Pestering me about marriage is her full time job. But around Tara, testosterone levels are stuck on high. Squash the worm: Janet darling, you're on the other side of the planet. Right now, you generate as much interest as varicose veins or granny-panties.

Tara pauses at the edge of a shallow muddy rivulet that's washing across the jungle floor. Her hands slide up her twin half-apples hugged so snugly by faded denim.

"What now? I ask dragging attention away from where her hands are resting.

She turns around. "Unless you want to play Tarzan and hop a vine, we wade across."

"Sorry, vines aren't my thing. Isn't there a foot bridge or something?"

"You want luxuries on the economy tour? Don't look so glum. Didn't your travel agent tell you that cops, car trouble and wet feet are the fun part of touring Vietnam?" She steps into the water. "C'mon Jim. It's only ankle deep. Want me to hold your hand?"

"No thanks. Streams I can handle."

"No-no, don't take off your shoes. Could be bloodsuckers in this water, and they bite."

There are squishy sucking sounds as the bubbling stream consumes her blue-black boots. Ahead lays a minefield of slippery rocks covered with slick slime. Fall on my ass and she'll think I'm a third-rate dope. Wait a sec. Minefields?

"Ah, Tara?"

"Yes Jim?"

"There wouldn't be land-mines around here, would there?"

"Whole jungle's peppered with them," she says with a shrug, "so step only where I step, okay?"

"Absolutely I'll only step where you step." Manliness is in deep jeopardy. I mirror her sure-footed steps. My shoe slips on a rock and my arms windmill in a bumbling attempt to regain balance.

"Jim? Are you okay?"

"Nothing but a rogue banana peel." Now she must think I'm a first-rate dope and clumsy to boot. The bottom turns to slushy sand making it fairly easy to complete the crossing. Safely on wet mud, Tara ducks under a fallen tree trunk. I follow, carefully placing my feet in her boot-prints. Beyond stretches a rutted footpath winding through a tangled mass of undergrowth. This heat is stifling. There's not a capful of breeze or a single breath of air. Each time I pass a tree trunk, I half expect that Vietnamese cop to reach out from behind it and grab me.

The trail winds up a hill that I'm sure had a number during the war. Below, a lazy river feeds a wide expanse of swamp-like rice paddies. The scent of moisture hangs heavy in the air. Below, three sampans cut through the calm water.

"If that's our ride, I think we just missed the boat." I say wiping my brow with my arm.

"Damn rotten luck," she mutters. "Hong Kong Chinese are making a war movie in Ninh Binh. All the sampan drivers smell money."

A single raindrop pelts my head. "It's starting to rain too."

"It's monsoon season. We'd better find cover before we get caught in a downpour. Ditch that suitcase in that thicket. We'll come back for it later."

Turning sideways, she slips silently through the dense underbrush. Something shrieks like a banshee. High in the jungle canopy trees rustle. Wait around to find out what it is? No-way. I crash through like a ten-axle semi on the loose. Cloth rips. Damn fuckin' thorns just stabbed me in the back. My shirt tears again as I'm struggling to break free. Shit. Now I'm a dope dressed in rags. Oh well. It's too friggin' hot and humid anyway. "Tara, wait up!"

She turns. Her eyebrow rises. "Going topless are we?"

"Yeah, I'm trying to turn on a bush."

"You're already doing that," she says with an impish smile. "Jim, you're blushing again."

"Will you please stop telling me I'm blushing?"

She giggles. "Well I think it's charming. By the way, sexy chest."

I crisscross my arms over my chest. "Hey, isn't that supposed to be my line?"

She laughs. "Now you're making me blush. C'mon, Song Bo's not far. There's an abandoned American bivouac there. Hooches have mostly rotted away. But the old monastery should be dry enough to spend the night."

Spend the night in a monastery with a tasty tidbit like Tara? Things are looking up. Hold on. Monasteries got monks. Forbidden-forbidden. Janet's bitchy voice cracks like a lightening bolt: "Touch the bitch and you die." I glance at Tara's incredible ass and the enticing sway of her up-thrust breasts. Ah well. In a fantasy, anything goes, right? Lifting a foot, I lumber on.

Golden slants of sunlight pierce through the rain clouds. We descend the hill and venture out on a slender thread of marshy land. With each sinking step, water climbs up Tara's pant legs, rising past her covered boot-tops, inching slowly up her thighs, darkening her skin-tight jeans as it goes. Being close witness to water tickling Tara's most intimate parts is getting a rise out of mine. Janet's voice is quiet, but danger seems to thrum through the air. That word forbidden won't stop pounding in my head. With my luck, that enraged cop and an armed platoon of Viet Cong whom nobody told the war is over will jump out of those bushes and haul Jim Becker off in shackles. The crime? One hard-on. The punishment? Nail the American's nuts to a tree.

"Jim, am I going too fast for you?"

"No. It's just that my legs are in mortal combat with rice-roots."

"Say, you're not a sissy and afraid of roughing it, are you?"

"Who me? Until now, my concept of roughing it was black and white television. Damn, Tara, how can you walk in this tangled mess?"

"You got a problem with rice?"

"Not if it's in a box of Uncle Ben's."

Laughing, she disappears around a waving clump of rice-plants. Raising a foot out of the guck, I take two steps forward and then sink like a stone. "Tara, I just stepped into a damn sink-hole."

Her laughter echoes from behind the rice plants. "So climb out."

"I'm trying."

Rice plants separate revealing her lovely face. "Need a hand?"

"No, I need a boat. And I think a couple of fish are trying to mate in my underwear."

"That's why I never wear any."

No panties? Oh Lord -- give me strength. "Tara, just don't tell me that there are leaches in this swamp."

Rice plants hide her face. "No leaches, but watch out for poisonous snakes."

An image of deadly fangs sinking into my Adam's apple flashes out of nowhere. My feet and legs are suddenly very motivated. In two splashes, I'm around a rice clump. I stop cold. Nervousness about venomous reptiles and communist cops instantly vanish. Tara's simply standing there, fully clothed, with little wavelets washing around her denim covered crotch. Little triggers go off in my stomach. My mind is buzzing with why is she doing this questions as her eyes graze about my face and chest. If Tara Fon Dong is plotting a seduction, then this stunning diva deserves the Oscar. Roll with it and see where it leads? "You'd better not, dumb-ass," Janet's voice echoes. Fuck off Janet. Who invited you?

Finding solid footing, I wade closer. Tara does likewise. The water inundates the thick white belt that circles her slender waist, licking her tummy, then kissing her deep navel. Her smile is wistful, inviting me to proceed. Sparks seem to be flying between us. She's making me dizzy, as if her very presence is made of hallucinatory narcotics.

"Jim," she whispers, "I know we just met, were chased by the cops, my car broke down and I must look like a wet dishrag, but - is it possible, that you -- like me?"

"Like you? Of course I like you."

Her eyes drop with cute and feminine shyness. "I was hoping you'd say that," she whispers.

Her arms float around my neck. I can feel my face turning pale. Am I losing control? Just being near Tara is like having an unreachable itch that only she can scratch.