3:49 PM Vietnamese Customs

Missy | Sept 5 1998: 1549 ICT | Trần Hưng Đạo Airport: Terminal 3(10.81240074227845, 106.65419786737144) |Tan Binh District

“We aren’t even supposed to be here! You don’t want us here! So let us out, damn it!”

A couple in disheveled expensive clothes argued at the gate with the attendant.

“Please be patient, ma’am. All flights are grounded.”

“This was supposed to be a 20-minute connection!”

The tall, fit man beside her wore an expensive black turtleneck and chinos so tightly fit they seemed ready to tear themselves off. An Olympian body bought and paid for by the circles under his eyes and early greying hair, which he wore like military decorations. The bleach-blonde woman a head shorter wore her orange Wayfarers like a headband between her ram horns, all to keep her $473 “natural” look together after a 21-hour flight and a seven-hour layover. She was dressed for a reservation on Phuket Island that her digital calendar constantly reminded her of. She growled and dismissed her notification for jet-skiing.

The two watched helplessly as guards broke up the chattering crowd of caged expats and transfers for Kente to walk through.

Regardless of the chaos above and around the airport, the customs office maintained a veneer of normalcy, allowing trapped passengers to enter from one section of the pen to another. Kente chuckled at this. He passed through a special lane designated for “Special Dignitaries and Exclusive Visas:” Saito’s Personal Fastlane.

“The hell!”

“What is dis bullshit!”

If Kente saw the look of death the golden-eyed woman and her partner gave him as he passed through, he made no show of it.

The attendant, abandoned by the army, clung to bureaucratic language by her fingernails.

“You can try speaking to our front desk if—”

“Cut the shit. You know we can’t do that. Fascist pricks won’t let me through the damn gate because I’m… American.” Her fiancé moved to her shoulders and tried to soothe her. It almost worked as she nuzzled her horns into his shoulder.

“Listen, Frau… Neu-vuen. Ve know planes can go in and out.”

“That damn Saito plane landed and you guys act like it’s the freakin’ King of England!”

“Dahling, please. Look, sure Saito is important, but I verk for Parsons in California. Ja, dat Parsons. They vill compensate Saigon Air—and you. But you need to call dis number, you need to get us a plane, and get it now!”

The German man likely tried to seem reasonable, but things seemed different when you were 144 cm Mã Thái Hà, facing a 1.88 m Venice Beach bodybuilder jabbing his finger at you. The attendant maintained her composure while pressing the silent alarm under her desk.

“I’m sorry, sir. There is nothing I can do.”

Lisa threw up her hands.

As Ludvig and the attendant argued, the sun-kissed woman impatiently tapped her manicured hooves against the carpet, angrily gnawing on a piece of bubble gum. The fiery socialite came from Arcadia, a hedonistic land of wild song, endless sunshine, orgiastic violence, bottomless wine, and incorrigible women—though similar things are said about the rest of LA County as well. She looked on with growing contempt at the Japanese man walking through the special gate.

Kente slid through the lane while the guards formed up on each side, waiting for him to pass. He showed his black badge and ID to Dỗ Vân An, a 48-year-old customs officer. The woman barely looked up from her game of solitaire.

“Did you bring your passport?”

“No.”

She grabbed a visa sticker from a drawer and made a few marks on it. “Please place it in your passport at your earliest convenience,” she said in practiced Japanese.

She then passed him a bronze coin with a red card attached—the Magistrate’s Visa.

“And here is your priority card.” Her emotionless face broke into a wry smile. “For all the good that will do you right now.”

Kente rejoined his escort team as he passed the food court and lobby of the airport. The airport—the House of Commerce Saito built—bore more resemblance now to newspaper photos of a refugee center or humanitarian intervention. Wide halls of peppy advertisements and inviting shops were filled with well-dressed, ill-tempered travelers from across the world.

A middle-aged man, likely from HICE, took a break from his phone call to flag one of the guards in Cambodian. The guard did his best to reassure him while maintaining escort duties. Kente looked past the gap to a mounted TV in the corner of a deserted izakaya. Beneath it stood Factory Manager Ozawa Subaru (Aichi 41) and car salesman Colton Law (Toronto 65), watching with tired eyes, drooping cigarettes, and hands in their pockets.

Muraoka Karen of the Saigon News Network delivered the news in Japanese with Vietnamese subtitles:

“The Imperial Diet has authorized additional troops, promising a swift ‘restoration of normalcy.’”

The captain noticed the announcement and, while he thought Kente wasn’t looking, shook his head sadly. He coughed to grab Kente’s attention. They stood at the railing overlooking the first floor. Through the airport windows at the kiss-and-ride, Kente saw lines of magistrate and imperial guards holding back rioters. Below, the first floor had been transformed into a bunker: machine-gun nests, patrolling troops, sandbags. Hue Si Limitada APCs sat in the lobby, waiting.

At first Kente thought the sandbags on the tarmac were merely a precaution. Only now did it dawn on him: it was a siege.

“This isn’t the first time outside powers have tried to topple us, and it won’t succeed this time either,” the captain proclaimed, hands clasped behind his back. “But as you can see, there will not be any taxi cabs to take you to a nice sushi restaurant and a hotel.”

“So where are you taking me?”

“Taking you?” He laughed. “No, senhor. My orders are to keep you safe, not to take you anywhere.”

“This is unacceptable. Saito has given explicit instructions for me to be escorted to Saito Tower immediately.”

“We have taken their ‘instructions’…” The word lingered too long on Captain Bui’s tongue. “…under advisement, and will fulfill Saito’s delivery as soon as I deem it safe to do so. I’m sure Saito can survive a check for embezzlement and payroll fraud later than scheduled.”

Kente was about to reply. The captain stepped closer, a hand on Kente’s shoulder.

“Now, unless this urgency is related to the current situation, I can get a chopper in the air now. We would be happy to assist those who assist us—so long as you don’t mind a minor detour to Vũng Tàu in exchange.”

Kente shook his head. He slumped into a mid-century modern chair, a display of wounded pride and impotent rage: the trappings of a defeated man.

“Tsk. Shame. Well, you may as well get yourself comfortable, senhor.”

Kente placed his jacket over the sofa and surveyed the airport. He rested his elbows on what passed for armrests, checked his Swiss watch, and lit a cigarette from a red packet. Captain Bui waited to see if he would be offered one.

He was not.

Kente waited for the captain to turn away before speaking.

“You said you can get me food?”

“Fast food from the airport, or rations from my commissary. Which suits your taste?”

“Hamburger. Fries. Beer.”

After a long flight, Kente always ate the same thing—TKG and mineral water—but he rattled off his old Wharton lunch order, hoping the captain would read into it.

“Seems you were more American than I thought,” the captain said, amused. One of the soldiers snapped to attention; the captain dismissed him.

“I’ll go to the restroom to freshen up. Will dinner be ready by the time I get back?”

“This is Saigon, not Tokyo or New York. It will be timely—so long as you take your time.”

“I can see that.”

Kente spoke in short phrases, masking impotence as he slung his blazer aside and walked toward the restrooms, cigarette in hand. He placed his headphones over his ears and, once out of direct sight, pressed a button on the silver box.

“Hello, Ken-san. Would you like to practice Vietnamese?” Missy asked brightly.

“No. Find me a hotel for tomorrow. One with a good view.”

“Of course, Ken-san.”

“Has my wife been able to find something to keep the kids busy?”

“I’m still looking for the right show, Ken-san!”