Chapter 5: Chapter 5 The Train to Memory Lane — Ink on an Old Map

Hanoi Railway Station at five o'clock in the morning was covered in a thin layer of fog and the cold of the late autumn dawn. The air was thick with the smell of coal and the smell of damp dew on rusty corrugated iron roofs. The screeching sound of the train whistle tore through the quiet space, signaling that the Thống Nhất train SE3 was about to depart on its long journey along the length of the country.

Lê An pulled up the collar of her moss-colored windbreaker, shouldered her worn silver backpack, and stepped into car number 4. She pushed through the crowd stowing their luggage and found her seat by the window. After dropping her heavy backpack, filled with copied documents, notebooks, and a GPS device, onto the floor, An breathed a sigh of relief. The trip was completely unexpected—a rare impulse for someone who had always lived by the rigid standards of archival work. She had no detailed plan, referral from the agency, or support from colleagues, and worst of all, she was risking her job to find a place not recognized by law, a place cursed and rejected by the people who had created it.

The train began to vibrate intermittently and then slowly moved. Heavy iron wheels grind on the rails, creating a steady, stereotypical rhythm that lulls the human mind to sleep. The fading city scene receded through the mist-filled window lens, giving way to green rice fields stretching endlessly under the gradually brightening dawn.

Leaning her head against the faded felt of the chair, An closed her eyes. Her mind drifted to childhood memories. Her father, a diligent historian at the Institute of History, had instilled in her a deep love of the past. In his cramped office, filled with old books and the smell of moldy paper, he had let her sit on his lap and used his rough fingers to turn the pages of ancient genealogies and decrees.

"History is not just the brilliant words written by the winners, An," her father's deep, slightly worried voice echoed in the memory. "True history is still hidden in dark corners, in backspaces, in small notes crossed out in the margins of paper by forgotten people. The job of historians is not to sing praises for great things, but to listen to the cries from nameless graves, to return justice to the small lives."

Her father passed away in an unexpected traffic accident ten years ago, taking with him many unfinished research projects about the hidden corners of the war. When deciding to enter the field of archives, An had a hidden desire to continue his father's path, to become the person who awakens voices buried by time. But never, in all her years of working, had she faced a cry that was muffled as cruelly and systematically as the name Đan Trầm. The cold-blooded order "Completely destroy the land, leaving no witnesses" neatly written in red ink in Colonel Hung's notebook haunted her forever, repeating over and over in her head like a haunting melody.

After all, because of a logistics station codenamed T-9, can people coldly wipe out an entire innocent community? Or behind that logistics station is hidden a more terrible secret, some brutal geopolitical calculation that forces the commanders to act so cruelly? The fact that Colonel Hung got angry and kicked her out of the house proves that the wound is still bleeding, and the people involved are still living in fear of the truth.

Twenty-four hours passed on the train, which An used to calm down and organize all the data she had collected. Ignoring the noise of the passengers around her, she spread photos of French book pages from 1930 on a small folding table. She compared them with the terrain around coordinates 14°N–108°E using the offline satellite map Nam had meticulously downloaded to her tablet. It was an extremely dangerous area on the border between Kon Tum and Quang Ngai provinces, where cat-ear mountains rose like natural walls around a narrow valley. There were no highways or residential areas nearby. It was an oasis completely isolated from the civilized world.

The Thống Nhất train blew a long whistle and slowly arrived at Diêu Trì Station at dusk. From there, An had to catch a bus into the deserted highlands and find a way deeper into the forest.

The town on the border of the Central Highlands welcomed her with a torrential rain and the bone-chilling cold of the mountainous region. That night, she slept temporarily in a cheap motel, unable to sleep due to the sound of rain pounding on the corrugated iron roof. The next morning, when the weak rays of sunlight had just broken through the clouds, An went to a shabby car repair and motorbike rental shop located at the corner of the town market. She rented an old Minsk car, the body of the car was covered in red mud. This is the only type of vehicle capable of "treating" the horribly steep, muddy roads of this land.

The owner of the auto repair shop, an austere dark-skinned man with a burned cigarette hanging from his lips, squinted at the slim young city girl in a moss green jungle outfit.

"Where are you going to rent this 'gas-guzzling' car? The road up here has had a lot of landslides lately. If you don't know how to drive, you'll die in the abyss. You're a young girl traveling alone, if you're not careful, you'll fall prey to wild animals."

"I want to go towards the intersection of Mang Den Pass, the turn into the Hòn Sương mountain area," An replied, trying to keep her voice calm, pretending she was too familiar with the terrain here.

Hearing the name "Hòn Sương", the shop owner stopped, the wrench almost fell out of his hand. The cigarette on his lips also went out. He looked at An with searching eyes, full of suspicion. "That area is a sacred forest with poisonous water. The local people don't even bother to go in. What are you doing there? Illegal logging or looking for agarwood? More than twenty years ago, I heard rumors that there were people in there who were heavily hit with the southern flag, but then all died from malignant malaria and mines left over from the war. The soil is toxic, it's no joke."

"No, I'm a student interning in forestry biology, just surveying endemic vegetation." An lied smoothly, a skill she had just equipped herself with since deciding to commit to this secret.

The shop owner shrugged, struck a match and lit his cigarette again, not bothering to ask further. "It's up to you. After about twenty kilometers past the intersection, if you see a rusty sign prohibiting entry, turn around immediately. It's an old military area, getting into it will be a big trouble. Remember to fill up on gas, there are no gas stations there." An nodded in thanks, paid for the car rental, and then tied her backpack tightly to the back seat. She started the engine. The crisp explosion of the Minsk car tore through the quiet space of the highland morning, releasing a cloud of smoke.

The journey from the town to the coordinates 14°N - 108°E is truly a nightmare for a city girl. The asphalt road quickly turned into a basalt red dirt trail that was as slippery as grease. Huge potholes filled with murky water continuously threw mud and mud all over her. On both sides of the road, dense primeval forests act like giant green walls, blocking the view, creating a feeling of suffocation and complete isolation.

The higher you go, the denser the fog becomes, rolling down from the top of the mountain like white waterfalls. The sudden drop in temperature caused An's fingers to freeze and become numb. She had to force herself to continuously squeeze the brakes so that the car wouldn't skid down the death curves on the edge of a deep cliff. There were landslides where An had to get out of the car and force himself to push the heavy vehicle over the pile of rocks and soil. Her whole body was covered in mud, her breathing was interrupted due to lack of oxygen in the high mountains.

After more than four hours struggling through the dangerous mountain pass, sweat soaking the back of her windbreaker beneath the raincoat, An finally reached the location the repair-shop owner had warned her about.

Lying across a small path overgrown with weeds and ferns was an iron bar that was so rusty and rotten that even a slight push could break it in half. Besides, hidden under the giant canopy of forest left, was a sign made of corrugated iron with holes from bullets from ancient times. The bright red letters on the sign had mostly faded, but were still enough to warn anyone who intends to cross: "OLD MILITARY AREA. NO ENTRANCE. DEADLY DANGER".

Behind that rusted sign was a tiny trail, almost completely hidden by trees and thorny vines. It led straight down into a deep valley, where mist rolled in like a muddy river of milk, swallowing everything.

According to the positioning on the GPS device that is flashing the weak signal light, the center point of the coordinates 14°N - 108°E is located about five kilometers away from this location as the crow flies, hidden at the bottom of that mysterious valley. Đan Trầm, or Military Restricted Area X-14, is hiding under that deadly fog.

An took a deep breath and turned off the engine. She knew the bulky Minsk could not handle the jungle terrain ahead, so she drove it into dense bushes and disguised it with branches. She slung the heavy backpack over her shoulder and checked the bright flashlight, mechanical compass, jungle knife, and pepper spray.

Standing in front of a rusty sign carrying the threat of the past, An raised her head to look at the dark, gray sky of the highlands. She was preparing to step beyond the boundary of safety, entering a space that history had denied. Even if there were anti-personnel mines lurking at the bottom of that valley, traps for wild animals, or unjust souls that couldn't escape, she still couldn't back down. The call of the handwriting under the black ink on the old map was so intense, urging her to go to the bottom to find the buried truth.

Bending to brush aside thorny branches, Lê An slowly stepped over the broken barrier and officially entered the restricted area. Her journey into this land of blood and tears had begun. She was alone, facing vast mountains, cold forests, and mysteries dormant for half a century.