COVER PAGE

TITLE PAGE

EPIGRAPH

What Was Lost

I sing what was lost and dread what was won,

I walk in a battle fought over again,

My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;

Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,

They always beat on the same small stone.

—WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

PRAISE

PRAISE FOR

LOST SOLDIERS

“A STRONG AND UNUSUAL NOVEL . . . a . . . tale of intrigue, adventure and mystery . . . a well-plotted story about Americans and Vietnamese in Vietnam more than a quarter century after the war’s end. You want to know what will happen next: You will not be disappointed . . . there is powerful nostalgia for lost youth, friends dead, forever-missed possibilities of life . . . A WAR STORY AND A LOVE STORY . . . Webb knows what he writes about . . . His rendering of Americans in modern Asia is reminiscent of Joseph Conrad’s portraits of Westerners in the East a century ago . . . Lost Soldiers pays homage to the Vietnamese and to the Americans whose lives were entangled and, so often, lost in that long-ago and far-away war.”
—Los Angeles Times

“Webb has a sniper’s eye and a lover’s heart and is at his best here.”
—Playboy

“Along the way to writing a very fine adventure novel, James Webb has written a book with A GREAT—PERHAPS DEFINITIVE—DEPICTION OF THE VIETNAM THAT AMERICA LEFT BEHIND . . . a chilling look inside the Stalinist regime . . . powerful fiction, working on multiple levels . . . a pulse-pounder that is filled with wise experience and shrewd observation. . . . Throughout Lost Soldiers Webb is making profound points—about honor and betrayal, about loss and hope.”
—The Asian Reporter

“A MASTERPIECE, one of the most poignant and powerful novels of this generation . . . Not only a beautifully realized literary triumph but also a crackling page-turner . . . [a] seamless blend of mystery, intrigue, history and culture. . . . Jim Webb did not set out to write a healing book, but that is what he has done. I suspect Lost Soldiers can bring my country together after years of debate and division—and it took a warrior to write it. You will come away a different person after you’ve read it.”
—Walter Anderson, chairman and publisher, Parade

“Captivating . . . unforgettable . . . A mystery, but also a statement about America’s adventure in Vietnam and its enduring power over both veterans and victims.”
—The Wall Street Journal

“James Webb’s new novel paints a portrait of a modern Vietnam charged with hopes for the future but haunted by the ghosts of its war-torn past. It captures well the lingering scars of the war, and exposes the tension between the dynamism of a new generation and the invisible bondage of an older generation for whom wartime allegiances, and animosities, are rendered no less vivid by the passage of time. A novel of revenge and redemption that tells us much about both where Vietnam is headed and where it has been.”
—Senator John McCain

“CRACKLES WITH AUTHENTICITY.”
—The Kansas City Star

“A STUNNING work . . . more than a first-class thriller . . . full of insights about both Vietnam today and the American military.”
—Houston Chronicle

“Lost Soldiers explodes like a hand grenade.”
—Colonel David Hackworth (Ret.), author of About Face

“This gripping tale is a PAGE-TURNER, but is also much more: a COMPELLING, INSIGHTFUL, AND BEAUTIFUL portrait of a fascinating place, as well as A MOVING SAGA of revenge, love, loyalty, honor, and, ultimately, redemption. Despite its tragic themes, the novel is an affirmation of life.”
—Booklist

“A DARK AND TWISTY TALE of vengeance in a seductive . . . Southeast Asia years after the Vietnam War. His story of an obsessed Marine tracking a pair of lethal renegades and his fascination with the East suggest Conrad.”
—James Brady, author of The Coldest War

“Lost Soldiers . . . rewards readers with a rich and exotic ride.”
—San Francisco Chronicle

“We know what happened to my dad and his buddies in the famous Iwo Jima flag-raising photo. But we don’t know what happened after another unforgettable photo, of the last helicopter lifting off from the U.S. embassy in Vietnam. Lost Soldiers is about what might have happened in Vietnam after the photographers left.”
—James Bradley, author of Flags of Our Fathers

“Webb’s cultural and political portrait of Vietnam . . . is delivered with bold strokes and magical detail . . . a rich cast of supporting characters . . . highly textured mood and atmosphere. . . . A highly personal and empathetic look at today’s Vietnam.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Character is . . . the soul of this tense narrative . . . an AFFECTING AND TAUT tale.”
—The Weekly Standard

“Once again Jim Webb has captured me in a well-told story that teaches us as much about how to live our lives as it does about how one man lived his.”
—Senator Robert Kerrey, president, The New School

“Webb [is] one of our finest war novelists since Stephen Crane. . . . Lost Soldiers is taut with skillfully narrated realism. . . . No one else has ever conveyed better the dangers, risks, and horrors of our war in Vietnam.”
—Forbes (Caspar Weinberger)

“A gripping tale of mystery and intrigue . . . Like the best of such tales . . . the novel offers more: it also tells a poignant story of a love that might have been and of friendship across partisan lines and is rich with the sounds and smells of its foreign setting . . . exceptionally well-written.”
—Library Journal

PRAISE FOR JAMES WEBB’S

Fields of Fire

“Few writers since Stephen Crane have portrayed men at war with such a ring of steely truth.”
—The Houston Post

“A novel of such fullness and impact, one is tempted to compare it to Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead.”
—The Oregonian

“In swift, flexible prose that does everything he asks of it—including a whiff of hilarious farce just to show he can do it—Webb gives us an extraordinary range of acutely observed people, not one a stereotype, and as many different ways of looking at that miserable war. . . . Fields of Fire is a stunner.”
—Newsweek

“James Webb has rehabilitated the idea of the American hero—not John Wayne, to be sure, but every man, caught up in circumstances beyond his control, surviving the blood, dreck, and absurdity with dignity and even a certain elan. Fields of Fire is an antiwar book, yes, but not naively, dumbly anti-soldier or anti-American. . . . Webb pulls off the scabs and looks directly, unflinchingly on the open wounds of the Sixties.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer

“Webb’s book has the unmistakable sound of truth acquired the hard way. His men hate the war; it is a lethal fact cut adrift from personal sense. Yet they understand that its profound insanity, its blood and oblivion, have in some way made them fall in love with battle and with each other.”
—Time

PRAISE FOR JAMES WEBB’S

The Emperor’s General

“This compelling, fascinating exercise of historical fiction proves, again, that James Webb is as fine a novelist as he was a Marine. Enough said.”
—George F. Will

“A rich, sweeping epic of a novel . . . an absolute winner.”
—Nelson DeMille

“James Webb offers it all . . . a page-turning tour de force that examines our morality and makes us question what we ourselves would have done.”
—Nicholas Sparks, author of The Notebook and Message in a Bottle

“Webb writes history with an urgency and clarity that makes it pop from the page.”
—The Washington Post Book World

“A seamless tapestry of history and fiction . . . a truly enthralling work.”
—The Hartford Courant

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special thanks to Nita Taublib, Katie Hall, and Tracy Devine, who shared my passion for this book and made it happen.

And to my family, for enduring the odd world of a writer.

And to my many Vietnamese friends, both in Viet Nam and overseas, whose struggles, insights, hopes, and affection fueled these pages.

Arlington, Virginia
February 2001

MAP

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

The Arabat,
Moscow, Russia

A fat, brightly smiling woman in a tattered cloth coat stood on the landing where the steps came up from the subway, waving her hands into the air so that the puppies at her feet would dance. They were happy little dogs, eight in total, each one thick-furred and multicolored, of some unknown Arctic breed. The woman was trying to sell them to the tourists who were exiting from the subway to the street.

Anatolie Petrushinsky grunted cynically as he watched the well-dressed westerners move quickly past the woman. Not one of them so much as looked at her fuzzy little dogs. Foolish woman, he thought. Or maybe she has sold everything else already. But she would have done better to kill the puppies and make them into hats. For why would a German or an Englishman or especially an American want to bring a live dog home?

Petrushinsky stood on the curb thirty yards away, hunched inside an old army jacket. His grim, lined face was burnt from the cold. His own fur hat, which had been made in a rural village near Peredelkino out of rabbit skins, was folded down over his ears. He silently smoked a cigarette, masking his disgust as he scrutinized the tourists who were making their way along the street toward him. They emanated a conqueror’s condescending arrogance, pausing here and there with an airy cheerfulness as they examined the paltry goods for sale.

Dozens of bedraggled vendors lined the curbside, making this section of the Arabat look like an odd, gigantic yard sale. Petrushinsky himself was holding a case filled with military trinkets. The case was rigged so that it folded out into a portable tray, hanging open just below his waist, its top part up against his chest and strapped around his neck. In contrast to those who owned the little shops behind him, he and the other curbside merchants were selling their goods without official licenses. The licenses were expensive, and difficult to obtain. If the police decided to conduct a raid he could snap the tray shut and quickly disappear inside the curling roads and vast blocks of apartments just behind him, where most police officers were too lazy and too afraid to follow.

What do they care, he thought. Pieces from my own army uniform. To sell away my pride I need a license, or at least to bribe the police officer? Petrushinsky hated what had happened in his country over the past ten years. There was no justice anymore, no nobility of purpose, indeed no Soviet Union. Only silly police shakedowns and a cannibalistic selling-off of one’s own heritage. And every new morning another fucking game.

And so it has come to this, mused Petrushinsky as he huddled against the bitter cold. It is not enough that the CIA agent Gorbachev sold out our empire to the west. It is not enough that our government collapsed into a comical, corrupt anarchy run on the inside by the KGB and on the outside by a murderous mafia. It is not enough that our military, once the proudest in the world, occupier of more foreign territory than any army in history, is reduced to living in slums and suffering defeat at the hands of ragtag militias in places like Afghanistan and Chechnya. No, it is not even enough that two-thirds of the men in our country now die in a drunken stupor while still in their fifties, their very hearts polluted by the hopelessness of our new existence. Now I must survive by selling the emblems of our greatness, pieces of the uniform I wore with honor and pride, to the same slime who took our empire from us.

There were about twenty people in this latest group, strolling slowly in their threes and fours along the Arabat. Just down from him a dark-haired, fortyish woman in an elegant gray wool coat had stopped to bargain with a man who was selling antique dolls. A fur collar hugged her neck just below the ears, framing her face as if it were a winter halo. From her coat and the cut of her hair, Petrushinsky decided she was German. He found himself admiring her flawless complexion and the clean features of her face. When she smiled he fell in love with her just for an instant, his mind lost for that moment in a memory of a town near East Berlin.

Then he felt himself begin to hack. He could not stop it. In seconds he was coughing violently, his hands over his mouth. The endless cigarettes caused him to do this. And the vodka. And the cold. As he coughed he felt the woman’s eyes on him. Turning, he saw that she was fighting back revulsion as she looked at his bluing face and his reddened, bark-hard hands. And in that instant he hated her.

I could have had you, he thought. Not too many years ago you would have been begging me to take you.

Four well-dressed men had stopped before him as he coughed. They elbowed each other, speaking quietly as they examined the buttons and medals in his tray. Their scrubbed faces and perfectly cut topcoats told him immediately that they were Americans. Three of them were older—from their slate-gray hair and etched faces perhaps in their fifties, but it was always so difficult to tell with Americans. The other one, a cherubic, animated man who smoked a pipe like an Englishman and seemed to be their escort, was considerably younger.

Petrushinsky could tell that they were speaking English, although he could not make any sense from their words. The younger man was pointing at him with an implied familiarity, and the three older men were now staring with fresh interest. Finally the younger man switched to Russian, speaking directly to Petrushinsky.

“We saw the tattoo on your hand when you were coughing,” said the younger man. He had an accent so perfect that he might have been an academe. “I told my guests that you must have been a member of an elite airborne unit.”

Involuntarily, Petrushinsky glanced down at the parachute that was tattooed on the back of his right hand, remembering for a moment the proud night that the tattoo gun had burned its image into him. Then he gazed back up at the four men who stood before him. Their eyes were bright, as if now viewing him with some vicarious camaraderie. From somewhere deep inside his spirit, a pride burst forth. We were as good as you, thought Petrushinsky. Maybe we were better than you.

“Yes,” said Petrushinsky. “I was airborne, for many years. I know you are Americans. It may surprise you, but I served in Cuba, twice!”

The rotund younger man quickly laughed, translating the remarks for his three guests. Petrushinsky had now decided that the escort was probably an intelligence agent working out of the American Embassy and that his guests were visiting businessmen or perhaps government officials. Petrushinsky’s remarks seemed to electrify the three older men. They spoke rapidly to one another for several seconds and then to their escort, as if ordering him to respond.

“These gentlemen are American businessmen,” explained their escort. “But when they were younger, all three served in Viet Nam.”

“I was in Viet Nam,” answered Petrushinsky, determined not to be outdone. The shock that pulsed across the three men’s faces when his words were translated filled Petrushinsky with a silent but gleeful pride. They began chattering, their eyes round with discovery, peering at him with an intense curiosity.

“When?” asked their escort.

“Many times. The first time, 1968. The last time, 1987.”

The three men became even more intense as their guide translated for them. They spoke quickly, all at the same time, looking at one another as if on the edge of some profound discovery. Finally their guide translated another question for him.

“You were in Viet Nam in 1968? What were you doing?”

Petrushinsky shrugged nonchalantly, eyeing them as if they were stupid. What was I doing? What did they think I was doing? “I was a soldier!”

As the four Americans grew even more excited, a nervousness that bordered on nausea began to creep through Petrushinsky. He had not thought that such a casual boast would cause such an eruption of emotion. What was Viet Nam, after all? So many years ago. So much had happened since then. The war in Afghanistan, the emergence of the traitor Gorbachev, the collapse of the east, the drunken chaos of Yeltsin, the murderous, criminal shadow government, the folly of Chechnya. So much. What did it matter that he had been in Viet Nam?

“Where were you?” It was becoming overwhelming, an interrogation. The three men were asking him in English, leaning forward over his little tray, their voices tight with amazement and even disbelief, as their guide persistently quizzed him in Russian.

“What does it matter?” Petrushinsky finally muttered. “Soldiers go where they are told. I was in many places.”

“No one has ever admitted there were Soviet soldiers in Viet Nam during the war! After the war, certainly. But during it? How many times were you there? What did you do?”

Petrushinsky stared in horror at their taut, incredulous faces, amazed at the reaction that had followed such a simple statement. He did not understand it, and now he deeply feared it. If he gave them any more answers, what would come next? Would they try to detain him and bring him to an American television camera? Would they call the police and request their assistance, causing his arrest for peddling without a license? Would they corral him and bring him to the American Embassy for further interrogation? Had he committed the breach of an oath he no longer even remembered?

No, he decided. There had never been an oath, because there had never been a need for one. There had never been journalists or probing, arrogant American businessmen or even the ability to ask such questions when the Soviet army was supreme. It was only now, after the army and the empire had been disgraced. He spoke fiercely now, startling them. “Why do you want to know all these things? Who are you? I ask you, why do you want to know?”

Quickly, he snapped his case shut and began walking away from them. One of the older men stepped forward as if to follow him, and Petrushinsky pointed at him, a threat. The man raised both hands as if pleading with him to be patient. And immediately Petrushinsky began running.

The four men’s calling voices grew fainter, and then finally he could hear them no longer as he ran behind a row of shops. He turned onto a side street with more shops and other people lined against the curb, selling their pitiful bags of nothing. Across the street a fire had been lit inside a trash can, and a half dozen weather-beaten men were standing around it, warming themselves. My people, he thought, jogging past them. Soldiers who served the empire and today have nothing to look forward to but the bottle and an early death.

But he could not stop to be with them, not yet, not even for a moment to get warm. He disappeared inside a cluttered alleyway, still clutching his peddler’s case. Maybe later he would come back. But now he kept on running.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Quang Nam Province, Viet Nam

“Typhoon,” said Brandon Condley, his hard gray eyes expertly searching the bruised horizon.

It had been drizzling all morning, which was no surprise because actually it had been drizzling for weeks. But off to the east the real deal was rolling in from the South China Sea, having just wreaked havoc in the northern islands of the Philippines. Condley zipped his rain jacket all the way up underneath his throat as if to emphasize the coming storm, then pulled his worn baseball cap lower over his eyes. And finally, just to make the point that he did not really care, he laughed.

“Hey, Professor, Buddha’s pissed. Welcome to the real Viet Nam!”

Hanson Muir stood like a dreamer ten feet in front of him, near the prow of the narrow wooden boat. The boat was struggling against the angry current of the chalky, swollen Thu Bon River, its two-cylinder motor putting like a loud lawn mower. Its bow yawed this way and that, smacking against odd flotsam and swirling eddies. The monsoon had come to central Viet Nam five weeks before. It had dropped a hundred inches of rain in two weeks and then settled into an intermittent drizzle that would last for months. The fog-shrouded, unending mountains to the west were still weeping tons of water every hour from it. The rivers and streams had outgrown their banks. The endless terraces of rice paddies that filled the valleys leading eastward to the sea were now hidden under vast lakes of rainwater, often indistinguishable from the rivers or even the sea itself. And along the tree-choked knolls and ridges in the middle of the paddies, hundreds of villages sat serenely above the water, isolated like ancient little islands.

“How much further, Brandon?”

Muir’s posed stance made Condley laugh yet again. The brilliant scientist seemed to be imagining himself as a Viking marauder with his puffed chest and raised chin, one hand stroking his beard as the other held on to a railing. Hearing Condley laugh, he turned and caught the smaller man’s amused expression.

“Having your fun, are you?”

“You look ridiculous, Professor.”

“And it’ll be even funnier if we drown, I suppose?”

“You won’t drown. You’re too fat to sink.”

“I’m surveying the riverbanks,” said Hanson defensively. “In the event I am required to swim ashore.”

Condley laughed again. He knew this river. “I wouldn’t give a nickel for you making it to shore if this boat splits in two.”

“I thought you said I wouldn’t drown.”

“That doesn’t mean I think you can swim.”

“Your sense of humor leaves me weak.”

“Then don’t lose your grip, there.”

Condley walked carefully toward the stern and caught the attention of the boat’s owner. The tight-muscled little man, whose name was Tuan, was intently working the tiller of his creaky wooden craft while standing barefoot in a gathering pool of water. Three hours before, Tuan had seemed incurably happy when these two Americans had offered him forty dollars to take them upriver to the village of Ninh Phuoc and back. Now he had lost his smile. His narrow eyes squinted as he watched the clogged current. He was drenched and shivering, his rain jacket and shorts soaked all the way through.

“Bao,” said Condley, using the Vietnamese word for typhoon and pointing again toward the distant sea. “Sap den! Phai khong?”

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