Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  We’d been in the jungle for two days—nothing compared to the weeks I’d spent slogging from one tunnel to the next in Cú Chi. But if anyone had wanted to know what hell felt like, all it would have taken would have been a trip to Southeast Asia in summer. Heat and humidity rivaling a good steam room. Mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. All manner of poisonous snakes, spiders and scorpions. Stinging insects. And always the threat of running into a company of VC or being discovered by Cambodian authorities. The pressure-cooker atmosphere had set the whole team’s teeth on edge, making everyone nervous and short-tempered. The only good news had been that August meant our path remained relatively dry. In rainy season we would’ve needed boats to traverse the flood plain.

  About noon that second day, I got a hand signal from Dickie to stop. After a moment of listening to birds and the hoots and chatter of gibbons in the trees, Dickie waved me forward and waited until I drew abreast.

  “The moment you’ve been waiting for, kid,” he murmured. “Follow me.”

  Curious, I stayed a step or two behind as Dickie carefully and quietly picked his way forward through the forest. Each member of the team stared indifferently as we passed, making me increasingly uneasy. A hundred yards down the trail, Dickie put a finger to his lips and crawled under some brush and disappeared. I lay prone and followed, pulling myself forward with my elbows. When I came up next to him, he sat up with legs crossed and pointed up ahead. Forty or fifty yards away, several grass huts on stilts clustered near the river in a semblance of a small village. The rank smell of dead fish and decaying algae wafted toward us on a breath of air that fluttered leaves and palm fronds.

  “Hut on the far right,” he whispered, glancing at his watch. I’d let my gaze follow the direction of his pointing finger. “One man inside. Sleeping.”

  I looked at him quizzically and shrugged.

  He sighed, his shoulders drooping. “He’s the target. I need you to get inside and kill him.”

  I felt my eyebrows rise up past my hairline. “Why me? Why not Reilly? Or Leslie?”

  “Because it’s what you do, kid. I need a quiet kill. Sure, one of the other guys could probably get the job done, but I picked you for this one. Gotta start sometime.”

  “What the fuck?” I whispered fiercely. “I thought you said we ran recon.”

  “We do.” He paused, eyes searching my face. “We find the bad guys. And we blow their asses to hell.”

  “But murder a guy in his sleep? This is a ‘green’ op, not ‘black.’”

  “It’s war, kid. You didn’t have any problem killing gooks in the tunnels. All of a sudden you want to debate morals? This is the job you signed up for. You up to the task or not?”

  “This is on the up and up?”

  “What do you think the last three missions were about?”

  He stared me down until I looked away at the hut where the man lay sleeping—my target. I suddenly realized that the team’s primary job wasn’t about protecting Dickie but protecting me, the team’s weapon.

  “Who is he?”

  Dickie must have seen my desperation. “Village elder and a Communist sympathizer. He’s been insuring safe passage of arms along this stretch of the river.” He looked at his watch again. “You’re running out of time, kid. Nap time’s nearly over.”

  I handed him my carbine, checked my pistol and knife, and moved silently into the brush, circling toward the hut on the right.

  * * * * *

  I pushed the memories aside. I’d relived those kills too many times in my head when I got back. They didn’t haunt me the way they once had, but I still dreamed about them occasionally.

  I worked missions in Cambodia until Congress prohibited U.S. forces from operating there in 1970. By then, my tour had ended, so I was free to return to the states. But MACSOG was still sending Special Commando Units of mercenaries into both Cambodia and Laos, and Dickie convinced me to stay on for another year. When the draw-down in troops began in earnest in 1972, I’d gotten out and Dickie had moved on. Before we’d parted ways, he’d given me a phone number and had told me to call it if I ever needed anything.

  I didn’t expect much, but I dialed the number anyway on the burner I’d bought. A man answered on the third ring.

  “Is this Dickie Swopes?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I must have the wrong number.”

  “If there’s someone here by that name, he’ll get back to you. Give me your number.”

  “Hang on.” I fished in my pocket for the piece of paper with the number on it, clicked on a map light and read the number off to him. The line went dead before I could ask him what he meant.

  26

  Amir played back the tones through his earphones, cranking the volume all the way up. They were very faint, but he thought a couple more tries and he’d be able to identify the phone number Keator had called. The one-sided conversation had intrigued him, and any communication Keator had at this juncture was important. He played back the beeps five more times before he grew confident he had them written down correctly.

  As he opened his laptop, he glanced out the windshield. Traffic at this hour was still thin, though the stream of lights in the oncoming lanes had thickened as commuters got on the road to work in the city behind them.

  He looked at Fahrouk sharply. “What’s your distance?”

  “About half a mile, like you said. I can barely see his taillights. Don’t have a cow, man.”

  Amir grunted, already absorbed in the task of running the phone number through the reverse directory programs on his computer. When nothing had come up a few minutes later, he played back the tones one more time. He felt sure he had the numbers right, but changed the one he was least certain of to a different digit and ran that number through one of the directories. It came back to a dry cleaner in Alexandria, Virginia. Amir frowned. He found it highly unlikely that a man on the run would call a dry cleaner halfway across the country.

  He transposed the digits and ran the phone number through the programs again. The number did not exist. That wasn’t quite accurate. The number obviously was in service, but it hadn’t been assigned by any telecommunications carrier as far his programs could ascertain. He leaned back and thought about what that might signify.

  27

  The sky had brightened considerably, the ribbon of interstate unfurling in front of me visible far past the reach of the headlights. The sun would make its daily appearance any minute now.

  I needed a safe haven, a place I could hole up and sort things out. Back when I’d first gotten out of the army, I’d connected with some of my fellow rats. Seemed like they were the only guys who truly “got it.” Yeah, there were a lot of vets around who could share stories about ’Nam that sounded a lot alike. We’d all eaten rat meat, and some of us had eaten dog meat without knowing it. We’d all come back twenty percent lighter due to dysentery or cholera. We’d all seen enough stupidity, bureaucracy, savagery and killing to swear off war forever. Many of us still believed that we’d been right to support our country and fight against communism, even though in hindsight we thought getting sucked into Vietnam was the dumbest fucking thing this country could’ve done. I was sure the vets of Iraq, at least those who fought in the second war with Iraq, secretly believed the same thing.

  It didn’t take long, though, before the last thing I wanted in my life were reminders of the war and what I’d been through. Like so many others, I drank to forget. When that didn’t work, I faced the choice so common to veterans—sober up and move on with life, or die a slow death. I screwed up a marriage and did some damage to my liver before I made a decision. When I accepted the fact that I’d chosen to serve my country, that I’d done so admirably, honorably and without regret, life got a whole lot easier.

  I’d stayed in touch with one of the rats for several years online, though our conversations had grown less and less frequent, coming to a stop when I’d married Susan. I’d found a life, finally, and he’d s
till been stuck in the old one. Now, as he popped into mind, I realized Parker Jackson might be just the guy to help. I knew him as “Dinky” during his time in Vietnam for the obvious reason that at a hair under five feet tall, he was the shortest rat in the service.

  Last time I’d chatted with him online he lived in Canton, Ohio, and I think I’d initially aimed the car in that direction subconsciously. But it had been years. He could easily be dead by now. I groped for the second phone on the seat next to me, and dialed information. They had a number for him. I tried it.

  A gruff voice answered before it even rang. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

  “Wait! Dinky?”

  The line went silent for a moment, and I thought I lost him. Then, “Who the hell is this?”

  “Zane,” I said quickly. “Zane Keator.” I put the call on speaker.

  “How’d you get this number?” he groused.

  “Information,” I said, unable to hide my surprise.

  “Oh. Right, it’s still listed. Shit, one more thing on my to-do list I forgot. What do you want?”

  “I could use your help, man. Maybe a place to crash for a day or two.”

  “What’s the problem? Jealous boyfriend after your ass? If so, can’t help you.”

  “No, nothing like that. Something weird going on, Dinky.” I briefly told him about the raid on my house earlier.

  “Fucking feds?”

  “Don’t know who else it could’ve been.”

  “Why’n’t you say so in the first place? You give me any chance to stick it to those motherfuckers, I’ll take it. What do you need?”

  “A new name?” I laughed. It sounded hollow.

  “Whoa! For that I need to call you back. You come up as ‘unlisted’ on Caller ID. You on a burner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Gimme a minute.”

  The line went dead, but before I had a chance to put the phone on the seat, it rang. “Seriously,” Dinky said, “you want ID?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. I need access to cash, credit. Someone stole my identity.”

  “You know how to take a selfie? With your phone? Text me your picture,” he said when I finished. “You want, I can work on who did it. Or at least where they are. If they’re still using your ID, that is.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “I’ll start with the new stuff.” His voice turned nervous. “Look, I’m okay with doing you this favor, since you were a brother-at-arms and all, but we never met, you know.”

  “Hey, no problem, man. You don’t want me to crash there, I’ve got enough scratch to get a motel room for a few days.”

  “No, no, that’s not it. I think it’s about time we pressed the flesh and shared a beer. But as for that other, I don’t do any of that here. I work with subs who get it done.” He paused. “What I’m saying is that I don’t want any physical connection to that business. Your daughter—the one we talked about—is she still living in the same place?”

  I had chatted with Dinky about Rachel. Well, not about her so much as her deadbeat husband. “Yeah, she’s still there.”

  “Good. That’s where I’ll have it sent. If you don’t have enough to get you there, I can front you some cash when I see you. How far out are you?”

  “Thanks, Dinky. I really appreciate it. I think I’m about two hours out.”

  “Okay. Call when you get close and I’ll guide you in.”

  A moment later, he sent me a text. I glanced at it—it had the price for the new ID and instructions on where to wire the money—but decided to read it later. No sooner did I toss the phone on the seat than the other phone rang, making me jump. I leaned over and reached for it, stretching to keep my eyes over the dashboard and focused on the road. The car veered toward the shoulder. I extended my arm just a little farther, grabbed the phone and sat up, yanking the wheel straight to keep the car on the road. I glanced at the phone and thumbed the call button.

  “Hello?”

  “What was the name of the village where you had your first assignment?”

  The question startled me, and I had to think for a moment. Sweat broke out on my forehead.

  “Dickie?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “The place didn’t have a name. The nearest village was Preaek Traeng, over near the Mekong.”

  “What was the name of your target?”

  “You never told me.”

  “So, it is you. Okay, Keator, it’s your dime.”

  “Jesus, Dickie. What the hell was that all about? Still playing spy games, I see. I thought you’d’ve retired by now.”

  “You didn’t call to reminisce. You’ve got two minutes.”

  “A team raided my house in Ypsilanti less than an hour ago. Eight—no, nine that I saw, and I assume some communications back-up. Combination SWAT and what looked like feds but with no identifying markings. Rigged to go silent. I want to know why me? I pay my taxes and haven’t gotten so much as a traffic ticket since I got back stateside.”

  Dickie grunted. “Must’ve gotten the wrong address, confused your place with a drug house.”

  “There are no drug houses in my neighborhood. And they were rigged for silence.”

  He didn’t reply for a moment. “See anything unusual the past few days? Anyone follow you? Anybody watching your place?”

  “Not that I noticed, but when I tried to buy my grandkid a present last night, all my plastic was declined. Seems someone stole my identity.”

  “Okay, so that’s something. Not sure what I can do, but I’ll look into it.”

  “That’s it? I reach out to you after all these years and ask for a little help, and that’s the best you can do? Fuck’s sake, Dickie, that team tried to take me out! Guy damn near shot me!”

  “Oh, crap. Please tell me you didn’t kill anybody. Especially a fed. Tell me you didn’t kill a fed, Zany.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? This is a real clusterfuck, isn’t it?”

  “He had a vest on. I shot him just to knock his ass on the ground or he would’ve killed me. I could’ve slit his throat. I just banged him on the head instead. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “So where are you now? No, don’t tell me. Not dead, obviously, so you’re still pretty good. Nine against one? Really?”

  I heard admiration in his voice. “It’s not like I took them out, Dickie. I saw them coming and ran like hell. One of ’em happened to be in my way.”

  “Okay, well, keep your head down. I’ll see what I can find out. I assume you’re calling from a burner. When I’ve got something I’ll leave a message on your answering machine.”

  I hesitated. “Dickie, I didn’t want to call, but I didn’t know who else I could trust. And maybe you’re the last person I should trust—you know I found out there were only seven CIA personnel assigned to SOG’s Commando Hunt operation in 1969. You weren’t one of them.”

  He chuckled. “I always knew you were a smart guy.”

  “So, what are you now? You must be close to the top dog there by now.”

  “I’m doing all right. It’s a job.”

  He’d always been coy with the truth. I sighed.

  “Anyway, I guess what I wanted to say was would you mind making this a priority? I’m too old for this shit.”

  “Us old dogs might have still some hunt left in us. I’ll do what I can.”

  I juggled the phone as I ended the call, and suddenly heard the burp of a siren behind me. Cursing, I glanced at the flashing blue and red lights in my rearview mirror and checked my speed. The needle was below the limit, but the trooper rode my ass and didn’t try to pass. The air in the car turned blue with expletives. I glanced in the mirror again. The cop drove a muscle car, one of those Dukes of Hazzard knock-offs. No way I could outrun him. I flipped on my blinker to let him know I saw him, and gently applied brakes.

  Feeling panic rising in my chest that threatened to choke off my breath and burst my hear
t, I wished there was a way to do the same with my pulse. I took deep breaths, and tried to think through my options. A voice in my head screamed at me to get the hell out of there, making it next to impossible to hear any thoughts. The car came to a stop on the shoulder, and the cruiser pulled in a few yards behind me, nose angled out toward the highway. Silver-gray, it had no markings on the hood, and only a low-profile light bar. The side mirror showed a shield painted on the passenger door. He sat there a moment, running the plate, probably, and checking it against his hot sheet to see if the car was stolen.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! Think!

  The patrol officer who emerged from the cruiser looked too young to have passed the academy training. He donned his Smokey hat as he walked toward me. I kept my hands on top of the steering wheel and let my thoughts race, looking for a winner in the pack. Taking more deep breaths and pasting on a smile to greet the trooper, I watched him get closer in the side mirror. He rapped on the window. I took one hand off the wheel and pressed the button that lowered the window with a whine.

  “Morning, officer. Something wrong?”

  “License and registration, please.” Big conversationalist.

  I lifted my license from my wallet and fished the registration out of the glove compartment.

  As I handed them over, I tried again. “I don’t think I was over the speed limit, but happy to help if I can.”

  The officer glanced at the papers. “You’ve got one taillight out. I was going to give you a warning, but saw you were driving a little erratically. You haven’t been drinking, have you—” He glanced down again. “—Mr. Keator?”