Chapter 33: Run Silent; Run Deep

August, 1986

CIA HEADQUARTERS

Section Chief Rodgers POV:

Dammit! What the hell just happened? That fucking Chen has put me into one hell of a trick bag. I had everything set up perfectly to slide into the Black-Ops Executive Directors job and that fucking Chen comes along. I don’t know how that weasel managed to get my spot, but he did and I’ve been sucking hind titty ever since. How the hell am I going to explain to the Director that Executive Director Chen just up and disappeared? Like he’s gonna believe ‘Jonah’ did it? RIGHT. If I try saying that they’ll either arrest me, thinking I killed him, or put me in the looney bin. I wish I’d never told the Big Guy I hated Chen.

I gotta come up with a plan and quick. Luckily, the Director won’t miss Chen for a few more days since he’s supposed to be on furlough. EXCEPT, that brown nosing NSA Director Sloan DID see what happened, along with Grissom and Cosgrove and Special Agent Monte. And it figures they all took off out of here like rats from a burning barn. My buddy Franklin’s men had better not lose them. Those three are up to something and by God I’m going to find out what.

‘Ring’. “Chief Rodgers, Director Logan is on line one for you.”

Shit ... here goes. “This is Rodgers.”

“What the heck is going on? Where’s Executive Director Chen?”

Fuck... “He’s supposed to be on furlough...”

“Well, then WHY THE HELL DID NSA DIRECTOR SLOAN JUST TELL ME JONAH SNATCHED HIS ASS? HE SAID YOU WERE RIGHT THERE.”

Gulp ... Dammit all. “Ohhh, THAAAT. Well, it’s more like Chen kinda just disappeared before my very eyes. At least we found out who Jonah is!?”

“LIKE HELL WE DID. Rodgers, get your weasely ass to my office ... NOW. And don’t try leaving the building; you’ll be shot on sight.”

I’m fucked! God damn that Chen... “I’m on my way, sir.”

William Monte (‘Big Willie’) POV:

Wow, talk about a weird day!

I know I’m not the first one to feel that, but, it needed to be said. My name is William Royce Monte, though most of my friends call me Bill or Royce. Some called me ‘Big Bill’, since I’m big boned, stand about 6’2” tall, weigh 256Lbs and have 5% body fat.

I work out every day and can bench-press 350Lbs with 10 reps. I run about 5 miles every morning at about a 6-minute mile pace and crank out 50 push-ups, chin-ups and sit-ups, just because I can. That came in handy when I was a Marine sniper in Viet Nam and I’ve maintained that regimen ever since.

It actually started much earlier than that.

I can shoot a rifle better than 99% of all marksmen. With my 30-06 sniper rifle I can (and HAVE) made a kill shot at over 1200 yards and I can put 9 out of 10 in the center spade of the Bicycle deck Ace of spades at 500 yards. I’ve always had extraordinary hand-eye coordination and with my 45 automatic routinely put 10 of 10 into the head of a 100’ target ... in less than 8 seconds. I can also shoot an English longbow and hit a deer with a kill shot at 200 yards. My favorite bow has a 75Lb pull.

My dad taught me to shoot that when I was 7 years old. He did that by starting me on a workout regimen when I was 6.

I had asked for a bow and arrow set for my 6th Christmas. REALLY wanted one! As in I’d bug him every day starting before Thanksgiving. Dad was smart. On Christmas morning there sat my longbow and a quiver of 25 target arrows under the tree. I was friggin’ overjoyed! UNTIL he took me out to my uncle’s farm and let me try to shoot it. He put this nice leather armguard on my left arm, showed me how to ‘nock’ an arrow then gave me the bow. I couldn’t even pull it 2 inches back! I was devastated. The arrow barely flew 15 feet before nosing into the ground. He chuckled when he saw my forlorn look, “Son,” he said, “I could have gotten you a little toy, but, you’d end up learning everything the wrong way. You DO really want to learn, don’t you?”

“Yes sir. Why does it have to be so hard to pull?”

I remember him smiling at me, “If you ever want to go hunting with me, the arrow has to have enough power to kill a deer, or you’ll just wound it and then we’ll have to chase it all over hells half acre till we find it. That’s cruel and not how it’s done. This bow is what real hunters use, and you’ll learn to use it too. You’ll just have to work on your upper body strength to do it. When we get home, you’ll find the rest of your Christmas present in the basement. ‘Santa Claus’ bought you a full set of dumbbells. I’ll get you started on a routine of exercises so by hunting season next year you’ll be able to shoot that arrow over 2 football fields!”

And that’s how my workout regimen got started. Besides progressing with weights, Dad had me start running. In the summer he added swimming, especially after my weight training so I’d stretch the muscles out that I was developing. He didn’t even let me touch my bow again until he felt I was ready, which was almost a year later, just before the start of hunting season.

Then I amazed myself ... as well as my dad!

When we got out to my uncle’s farm, there was a target set up out in the middle of a field. Dad had paced off 100 yards and told me to just see if I could get close to the target. He showed me the trick to using the bow. You DIDN’T do it like you see in the movies. You nocked the arrow, then pushed the bow away from you while holding the arrow near your chin. I felt there must be something wrong with my bow, since it wasn’t nearly as hard to pull/push as I remembered it was. Dad told me to just try to aim near the top center of the target and see where the arrow hit, then we’d adjust my aim from there.

I did just like he told me and the arrow stuck in the target about halfway between the top and the center bullseye. Dad started laughing like crazy. I thought I’d done pretty good and wondered why he was laughing. When I asked him what I did wrong, he picked me up, swung me around and yelled, “Oh my God! Son, you’re a natural! I felt you’d be lucky to get within 50 feet of the target. Then, when I saw you pull that bow, I wondered just how far we were going to have to chase that arrow! Okay, now, shoot a few more and just see how close to the bullseye you can get.”

My third shot hit the bullseye. So did 5 out of my next 8, with the other three in the next circle. To me it was easy, because it’s like I was just looking down the arrow, and it just went where I wanted it to. My dad just had his hand over his mouth. Just as I was nocking my 15^th arrow, he told me to stop. He said he didn’t want me ruining my arrows. I guess my grouping was pretty close. Dad asked me just how much weight I had on the bar when I worked out. I looked sheepishly, “All of it? Sometimes I had Terry, (my little brother), put some buckets full of water on so I wouldn’t have to ask you for more weights.”

Dad just laughed and shook his head, “Do you know, with those buckets, you were probably lifting nearly 200Lbs?”

I was flabbergasted, “Wow! No wonder I could only press it 20 times!”

Dad just laughed and shook his head. He was still snickering while patting me on my shoulder. The next week, besides getting a better weight set, we went to my uncle’s farm again. This time my uncle had two deer targets made up with hay bales behind them. One was a profile view and one was like the deer facing us. Dad showed me where on each to aim for a kill shot. We moved back to about 150 yards and he told me we were half again further than last week, so I needed to keep that in mind.

My first shot landed in the target’s leg. My second was in the kill zone ... so were my third and fourth. Dad moved us up to about 100 yards and reminded me we were about the same as last week. My first shot was perfectly where I aimed. I was getting cocky, so Dad moved us out to 200 yards and told me, “Try it from here, you little smart-ass!”

Wingo! My first shot, while not in the kill zone would have been in the upper leg. My second and third were perfect. Dad said we were almost ready to go hunting.

But first, I needed to learn a hell of a lot about tracking and keeping quiet. He showed me how to walk heel-toe and we worked on how to ‘listen’ to how much noise we were making. After a whole weekend I could literally hear even small animals, like rabbits scurry around. Deer made a lot more noise, and he showed me how to stalk and track them. It was fun when after seeing one, we were able to get much closer before it could hear us. He taught me how to try and stay up-wind so the deer couldn’t smell us either.

By the next weekend we were ready!

He got his rifle out of the trunk and loaded it. He said it was a 30-06 rifle. He told me that I’d get the first shot, but he was going to be ready, so if I missed, he could make the shot. He REALLY didn’t want to have to chase a wounded deer!

We crept through the woods for almost an hour before we saw our first deer. He stopped me from nocking my arrow, and explained it was a young doe and since we only had one tag, he wanted at least a 10-point buck. It took a little time but, by the time we spotted our buck, it’s like we were walking without making any noise at all. My dad was strict, but he always explained why everything we did was important. When we saw it, he motioned to his eyes, then pointed at the deer. He moved his arm up and down, indicating he wanted me to get used to the deer’s movements before I shot at him. I was glad I did. The deer had a ‘rhythm’ that repeated as he grazed on the remaining grass in the field.

I watched for about 30 seconds, that felt like an hour, before raising my bow and letting the arrow fly. I’ll never forget it. I ‘heard’ the arrow hitting his body, he suddenly raised his head, then just fell over.

I just stood there, frozen. I started welling up in tears. I’d just killed an innocent animal and somehow it wasn’t anything like I thought it would feel. I didn’t want my dad thinking I was a wuss, so I tried to act tough. My dad sighed, then pulled me into a hug.

That was unusual, because dad wasn’t a ‘huggy’ kind of guy.

He was more the firm handshake kinda dude. He whispered, “I know exactly how you feel, Son. I would have been worried if you hadn’t felt the way you do. Now, just so you know, you can’t let what you’re feeling right now affect you the next time you have a deer or other game in your sights. That deer is going to feed our family for most of the winter. We’re going to use every bit of the hide and meat. Hunting is something that man has done since the beginning of time. We’ll never hunt anything just to have something to shoot at. THAT would be wrong and I don’t think I have to tell you not to do it ... do I?”

I remember smiling, having felt like my dad had just treated me like a man. “No sir. I’ll only shoot living things if I have a good reason ... I promise.”

He chuckled and gave me a firm handshake. “Deal!”

I also remember how much work it was to field dress, then haul that big sucker back to my uncle’s barn. There we spent the rest of the day and early evening butchering that deer. They made sure I knew everything and made me help do everything with them. It was a little gross, but Dad said it would come in handy when I went to High School and took Biology.

He chuckled, “Dissecting frogs is REALLY gross!”

That night we had deer steaks for dinner.

Over the years, dad taught me many things that I’ve taken to heart. That day of my first hunt seemed to forge a bond between us and he was no longer the head disciplinarian, but rather my mentor and friend. That’s NOT to say I never got into trouble. He just never had to correct me twice!

In June of 1969 I turned 18. The Vietnam war was in full swing and I had to make a decision. My draft number was 5, so I WAS going in. Dad took me out to lunch and we had a talk.

He said, “Son, if it were me, I wouldn’t just go into the Army. I’ve heard too many stories about what’s going on over there and you don’t want any part of it. I think you should go into the Marines. Their discipline is better and you’d get more opportunities to be in better jobs. I need to tell you. You’re skill with your 30-06 (Which he’d bought me for my 14^th birthday.) is such that you’re most likely better than damn near anyone in the Corps. Just don’t be a smart ass about it. Also, with the exercise regimen you have, where most guys will struggle mightily in Basic Training, you shouldn’t have much trouble. Again, the first rule of the military is to keep your mouth shut and NEVER volunteer for anything. Trust me, if you do you’ll learn the hard way that it’s a huge mistake. Oh, and NEVER, AND I MEAN EVER, call your DI (Drill Instructor) SIR! Always address him as Sergeant. Yes, Sergeant, No, sergeant. You ONLY call officers sir. Do what they say when they say and you’ll be fine.”

And those words of wisdom are what got me through Basic Training.

I could not believe how many dumb-asses there were when we stepped off the bus at Parris Island. I swear, my left thigh still has scars from where I pinched myself to keep from laughing out loud! (Another thing Dad taught me.)

That’s NOT to say I wasn’t tested. Our DI, Staff Sgt Springer, was a chiseled, hardened Marine who’s face looked like it might break if he ever cracked a smile. It seemed that yelling was the only volume he possessed. I thought half the guys were going to shit the first time they got yelled at.

Of course there was one moron who thought it was funny.

That started my thigh pinching.

Sgt Springer had his nose right on this fool’s nose, “JUST WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT, PRIVATE BOZO?”

Yeah, the fool had red curly hair.

The idiot really copped an arrogant attitude. “This whole yelling bit. You can’t intimidate me. My dad’s a lawyer.”

“DROP AND GIVE ME 20, PRIVATE BOZO.”

The dumb bastard just stood there with one hand on his hip. That lasted about one millisecond before he got slapped silly. It was only one slap, but he went down like a sack of shit. He was now stunned and looking up at a red-faced, furious Sgt Springer, “YOU BETTER GIVE ME 20 GOOD PUSH UPS, NUMBNUTS, OR YOU’LL BE PUSHING UP DAISIES YOU PATHETIC PUKE.”

The rest of us were as silent as mice, looking wide-eyed waiting for what was going to happen next. Bozo turned over and it was apparent he’d never done a pushup in his life. He gasped and grunted for a minute, then laid flat on his stomach with his arms out. He’d almost done 2 of the most pathetic pushups I’d ever seen.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT! IS THAT ALL YOU CAN FUCKING DO, PRIVATE BOZO? ... CORPORAL BAKER.”

A Lance corporal ran up and stood at attention, “Yes Sergeant.”

“Corporal Baker, take Private Bozo to the Brig. He’s to stay there until he can do 20 pushups or dies! I don’t care which!”

“Yes Sgt!”

After that he regained his composure. As the Corporal was pulling a sniveling Bozo away, the Sgt looked around. It was amazing that everyone was standing like statues with no signs of a grin anywhere.

“That’s a fucking record! You pathetic excuses for Marines had better get with the program or you’ll get washed out just like Private Bozo! Now, Atten-Hut. Right Face, Forward March ... left, right, left, right ... I was glad Dad had given me some basic drill instructions. There were only about 5 of us that actually did a proper right-face maneuver.

I noticed the DI saw it too and was just shaking his head.

We muddled through supply, getting our uniforms, duffel bags and everything a good GI was supposed to have. Dad saved me again, by showing me how to properly fold everything and put it in my duffel. Nearly everyone was just cramming it all in. They’d have to figure out later how to use an iron!

Next was haircuts and a few tears fell as every inch of our hair was shaved off. Finally, we went to a Quonset hut that would be our home for the next 13 weeks. I’d go into the details, but that would become a story of its own.

There were some funny things worth mentioning though, like the first night after we’d set up our footlockers, made our beds and got showered. We all had to gather together for our first platoon meeting. There were about 50 to 60 something of us divided into 4 squads.

The very first thing, the DI asked, “I need some volunteers.”

I grinned internally and kept my hand down. About 8 hands went up and the Sgt said, “Great! You guys are on latrine duty. 2 to each latrine. I wanna be able to eat off those floors!”

He went on and on, each volunteer getting the next lesser nasty job. Finally, the DI said, “Okay, now WHO hasn’t volunteered yet?” I looked around, sheepishly and put my hand up. There were four of us, all looking like we were getting ready for the firing squad. The DI chuckled, (a first) “What we have here are the four smartest Marines in this platoon! These are your squad leaders.”

Dad HADN’T told me THIS was going to happen. We each had to move our footlockers to the lead bed of each of the squads. I noticed the other 3 guys also hadn’t done anything stupid yet, either.

What sucked about being a squad leader was we caught hell if one of our troops didn’t have their shit together. Luckily I had a great group of guys and a quick check showed they had everything stowed away just like we were told.

PT (Physical Training) turned out to be my second favorite thing about Basic. The running was a joke and I found the obstacle course was downright fun. There were 5 or 6 other guys who felt like me and many times we turned the run into an all-out footrace. After a few weeks, I noticed a DI using a stopwatch on us.

My favorite thing was weapons training. And Dad was right, I copped attention right off the git. We were using the M1 on a 300-yard target. The target was huge even though it was pretty far away. I put 20 shots in the kill zone on my first try. My grouping was within a four-inch circle.

The DI noticed it right off, “Private Monte, I see you’re no stranger to a rifle.”

“No Sgt! I could do better with my 30-06 though. I’ll get better with my M1 with more practice.”

“Jesus H Christ! You may have to go see Gunnery Sgt Jones. He’ll check you out on some different kinds of targets ... he might even be able to get you a 30-06.”

“Sounds great, Sgt. These 300 yard targets are what I use for my longbow!”

“ARE YOU SHITTING ME? YOU CAN HIT THAT WITH A DAMN BOW AND ARROW?”

“Yes Sgt, as long as I had a bow with at least a 75Lb pull.”

He hollered, “Gunnery Sgt Jones, take William Fucking Tell here and see if he’s really that good or if he’s asking to do 1000 pushups! He says he can hit these targets with a damn bow and arrow!”

The Gunny chuckled, “I’ll be right back!”

Uh-ohhh, I suddenly got nervous. I was hoping they’d have a longbow. I was really nervous when the Gunny came back with something that looked much smaller than my longbow. He said it was a modern ‘recurve’ bow. He said it had a 100Lb pull. I asked for at least one practice shot. He handed me 10 target arrows, “If you hit it with even one of these I’ll do 50 pushups!”

I was grinning when I asked for a leather arm guard.

The Gunny grinned at my DI, “The kid might be better than I think. A rookie wouldn’t have asked for the arm guard.”

I nocked the first arrow then push/pulled the bow. It felt weaker than my longbow, so I aimed a little high. It hit the silhouette in the head, right between the eyes! The Gunny gasped, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was aiming for center mass. He didn’t need to know. By my third shot I figured out the sighting and hit right where the heart would be. I put all 10 in the target, 6 in a very tight grouping.

My DI yelled, “MONTE, MOST OF THESE JAMOKES AREN’T THAT ACCURATE WITH A FUCKING RIFLE. HOLY SHIT, YOU NEED TO GO TO FUCKING SNIPER SCHOOL.”

The Gunny chuckled, “Hey, are trying to put me out of a job? This kid could TEACH my class for Christ sakes.”

A week later, I was called into my DI’s office. He told me to be at ease and have a seat. We were soon joined by the Gunny, a Major and another guy in fatigues who I didn’t know. The fatigues didn’t have any rank or name patches on them. After standing and saluting the Major, he just said, “As you were ... I see we’re all here.”

The DI said, smartly, “Yes sir, Major Glose.”

The Maj just said, “Good, at ease, Sgt. Gunny, why don’t you start us off?”

“Yes sir. Private Monte, do you know why Marine Basic Training is 13 weeks instead of the 8 they use in the Army?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s because the Marines want a closer knit, better prepared troop. That would increase survivability in a war zone. Also, my dad said it takes that long to get guys squared away.”

“Was your Dad a Marine, son?”

“Yes, Sgt, he served in Korea and WW2 ... Pacific theater.”

My DI chuckled, “Thought so. Oh, how’s your leg, son?”

I blushed, “I’m not sure what you mean, Sgt.”

“Don’t try bullshitting me private! Pinching your leg is an old Marine trick to keep from laughing. In a war zone, laughing or making an unwanted noise could get you killed.”

“Oh, I didn’t think you saw that ... it’s fine Sgt, nothing that a few Band-Aids couldn’t cover.”

The Gunny laughed, then continued, “As I was about to say, your answer is just about right. But, we also need the time to see which recruits may be suitable for special jobs. You and your 5 cohorts have all but made a mockery of the 3 mile run and our obstacle course. All of you are going to get a version of this briefing. We chose you first because of that little display on the range last week. That was an amazing display of archery. We don’t usually teach that, as the preferred silent weapon is the crossbow. Your unique ability will come in very handy in the job we have in mind for you. Let me ask you, what’s the farthest you’ve run at the pace you did the 3 mile run?”

“Before I signed up, I was running that pace for 5 miles every day. The most I’ve ever tried is about 8 miles. My paced slowed a little I think. Maybe a 6½ minute mile pace.”

The Gunny grinned, “Well, we’re going to work you up to marathon distances. Not world class, but, not far from it. We’re going to teach you intensive hand-to-hand combat and advanced combat tactics. What I’m saying is, for the next 4 months we’re going to work your ass harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. You’re going to need it just to survive in the Marine Corp Special Ops as a covert sniper. Less than 10% of selected trainees successfully complete this training. There is no shame if you fail. You’ll just get assigned to a regular fire team as a sniper. The Marines don’t waste talents like you possess, Son. Are you interested in the challenge, Private?”

“Yes Gunny. I won’t let you down. I’ll just have to buck-up and get my shit together.”

Why was everyone laughing?

The Major said, “I have no doubts you will, private Monte. Starting tomorrow at 0500 hours you will be assigned to the Gunny’s training platoon. Get your gear together and get your footlocker moved to their barracks today. The Gunny will show you to your new bunk.”

And so it started. The training was tough. We spent half of every 12-hour day on PT and hand-to-hand combat. It was grueling and they never gave us a chance to rest. The rest of the time was spent on the firing line and classes. We learned every weapon the Armed forces ever used, including the new M-16.

They told us this was the revised model, since reports disclosed the original model didn’t fare well in combat. Modifications to the muzzle and firing mechanism were made. I think we were the Guinea pigs to let the Marines know if this weapon might be something the Corps should use. The damned thing was made by Mattel! Yeah, the damned toy company! The weapon was light, much lighter that the M1 or 30-06. It wasn’t able to hold a scope, (at least at this point in time, future models could hold a scope on the carry handle.), so we were told we’d probably never use one. It was fairly accurate and easy to break down and clean though. We were told of the bullshit about the M-16 being ‘self-cleaning’. Hundreds of GI’s were found dead with their M-16’s taken apart with a shell casing jammed in the breach. The Marine Corps was one of the last branches to embrace the M-16 for standard issue. They let the other branches of the service get all the bugs worked out. Smart ... REAL smart!

We DID get an orientation with the bow and arrow, but it was readily apparent most guys would end up using a crossbow, since the skills I possessed couldn’t be honed in the time we had. I also discovered the Gunny was damn near as good with the recurve bow as I was.

Anyway, I also discovered who the guy was in the unmarked fatigues. He was our CIA liaison. I never learned his real name and we just addressed him as ‘Fox’. He was usually the one getting us to try different strange things that it was apparent our Marine instructors were skeptical about.

This training was much different than Basic in that we weren’t considered to be idiots anymore. They also were much more adamant about the necessity to become proficient with everything we were learning. Our class was unique in that 4 out of our 10 ‘graduated’ and were sent off to San Diego for our last training and to learn Vietnamese.

Instructors were sent from the Defense Language Institute at the Presidio of Monterey to give us an intense 4 week ‘immersion’ of aural comprehension of the Vietnamese language. We weren’t taught to read the characters; it was all set up to teach us conversational Vietnamese. We did learn some military terms as at some point we may be asked to relay confidential information we learned while on our way to and from our ‘targets’.

I was glad I learned it because it saved my life.

It was near the end of my first hitch when it happened. I was about 15 klicks north of the border. I’d already traveled over 60 klicks when I got careless and tripped a VC (Viet Cong) booby trap. A 6-inch long bamboo spike was impaled in my right thigh and another spike went into my left abdomen with a small piece sticking out the front. I might have been alright except as I was trying to jump out of the way, I stepped into a noose that was tied to a bamboo sapling that pulled me upside down. The only good thing was, by elevating my leg, it slowed the blood loss. Nevertheless, I was fucked. The guys that set these traps and snares tended to check them regularly and with my stomach injury I couldn’t bend at the waist to try and cut away the noose. I was almost passed out when I heard a petite female voice, asking in Vietnamese if I was French or American.

Since I don’t look much like a frog, I told her American. She said, “Good, I get help. You be free soon.” That was all in Vietnamese, since we were told using their native tongue would ingratiate us to the locals.

She then ran off and a few minutes later she came back with an old man and 3 younger boys.

They cut me down and helped me to their hut. There, a woman in her 40’s was boiling some water and pulled the spikes out of me and nursed my wounds. She applied some kind of herbal ointment that smelled like hell, and I just hoped it wouldn’t make things worse. My little handheld radio had taken the brunt of the hit by the spike in my abdomen and was INOP (inoperative).

I couldn’t call for help, so I was stuck here for the foreseeable future. I still had over 30 klicks to go to the nearest US Base. Luckily the old man had gone back to make the booby trap appear to not have been sprung, so the VC wouldn’t be looking for me. It wasn’t unusual for a Special Ops sniper to be gone for as long as a month, so nobody would even think about me for at least another two weeks. I quickly made friends with this makeshift family and discovered they were part of a network of anti-VC sympathizers that routinely helped or hid GI’s in need. The young girl who found me, Bian, had been ‘sterilized’ when she was only 5 and was being raised for the slave trade. The damned VC were planning on using her as a prostitute to lure Americans to their death. A few years ago she managed to escape and was taken in by the old man and the woman who treated me. Bian was 15 now.

She was also infatuated with me and on my 4^th night here she climbed into bed with me. She had pajamas on and made me be quiet, saying said she just wanted to snuggle.

That lasted one night.

The next night she snuck in and was nekkid as a jaybird! She explained that she wanted me to ‘make her a woman’ now. I told her this wasn’t right, but something got lost in the translation and the next thing I knew she was crying. She didn’t think I liked or wanted her. I told her I liked her more than anything, but, we needed to talk some more before I would ‘make her a woman’. I was very concerned about her age.

The next day, the older woman caught me alone and explained that Bian would never be accepted by a Vietnamese man because of what happened to her when she was sterilized. As far as she was concerned I should grant Bian her wish. She gave me an arousing, knowing grin.

My concern now was that I could end up falling in love with her and never be able to take her home with me. Bian was so cute and small! She barely stood 4’8” tall. When she was laying in my arms, in front of me, from behind, she literally disappeared! Holding her in my arms at night was delightful and every male hormone in my body was screaming for me to do what she asked.