by Jake Aaron
“But didn’t your long absence show a lack of will or desire? Didn’t you just quit, Ms. Olson?” the doctor on my right argues.
Objectively, the committee is badgering me. I feel they had their minds made up before we even met. This is a kangaroo court, but Olsons don’t quit. They fight on.
“With respect, doctor, I didn’t just give up,” I say with anger in my voice. I could mentally hear Gunnar telling me to take it down a notch. Acknowledging that voice, I go on more calmly, “While I was not here in school, I did volunteer work in a rural clinic under the tutelage of a doctor. I spent off hours studying journals and procedures.” I am pleased my voice is no longer so high-pitched. It is as if I can leave my body and this Alex person can go on defending herself. I feel that I am watching this melodrama from the ceiling of the room. Are the walls moving in on me, making the room feel like a telephone booth?
The chairman of the board moderates, “We, of course, will need proof of what you say — some sort of documentation. I want to be very clear that a decision to not admit you, if that be the case, is not anything personal against you. We need to be fair and impartial …” His voice trails off, or maybe I am no longer listening.
I know I can get strong support from Dr. Aurand. Of course, that will mean telling him I was not ever really a doctor. And I cannot have the medical board knowing I worked under an alias. I can also tell the board is leaning strongly against readmitting me. The big shocker is that I am relieved. Somewhere in me, I know this is not the channel the river of life is taking me, nor where I want it to take me — for now. I question why I even showed up today — except that humans are very complex and sometime contradictory. I hope that the claustrophobia I felt in the boardroom is not driving me away from the real goal of getting my MD.
I also sense the contrariness in my disposition rising. I want to argue with these board members just because they challenge me. I flash to the New Mexico state debate tournament, “What do you mean we can’t win with a counterplan?” I want to push back. I want to beat them. If they had been adamant about admitting me, I would have felt the urge to argue with that. I even feel vengeful, but I decide to back-burner that for the time being.
The chairman of the medical board is speaking in more platitudes, I think. I am tuning him out. I might be able to get into a state medical school. Many of them would have an additional issue against me — the rejection of my appeal to my original medical school. That direction does not have an immediate appeal to me. I think my long-term issue with authority is festering. I never liked to be told what to do. I crave autonomy. I do not have Gunnar’s flexibility of tolerating the insufferable, even for a short period of time.
At the same time, I am aware of just how good I feel firing a rifle under pressure.
Ruidoso, NM
I really don’t know how to deal with my newfound freedom. Out of habit, I keep using aliases and communicate with Gunnar and Aunt Cece as anonymously as possible. Maybe, security procedures are still required. Maybe, not. I am concerned enough to let the dust settle after my operation against Deputy Director Higgins before I really relax.
I’m not sure what happened with the reporting of Higgins’ demise. His death made the news as a stroke. I suspect the CIA launched a cover-up. It may have been because the Agency could not handle the international publicity that it was lax on security. It also may have been that he had so many enemies within the Agency that each feared being investigated for having a very strong motive to erase him. Whatever the case, the tear gas at the theater allowed morphing of the story. Indeed, newspapers reported another man being shot in the back of the head near the theater. The identity of that body is still under investigation.
I call Aunt Cece at work with an alias. She okays my use of the cabin at Ruidoso. I need some time to think about what to do next. Events have been driving me. Now, maybe I can get back in the driver’s seat. Do I pursue a medical career? When do I see Gunnar again? And, oh yes, when do I tell Gunnar about Dad and Mom?
I fly to El Paso International and and rent a car to drive 135 miles to Ruidoso. I take I-54 N through Alamogordo, NM. At Tularosa, NM, I turn right toward my destination. The austere desert scenery feathers to lush alpine greenery. Going through the shadows of Dark Canyon near Mescalero, I see the welcome sight of Sierra Blanca in my twelve o’clock. Passing through this picturesque canyon, I immediately get a cascade of pleasant memories from my teenage years. Internally, I feel rejuvenated — indeed a teenager again. Dean Martin is singing “Memories Are Made of This” in my ear.
At the cabin, Aunt Cece has appetizers and champagne waiting for me in the refrigerator. I warm up a couple of jalapeño chile rellenos from the oven and enjoy them with a glass of pinot noir — room temperature, of course. Then, I savor Aunt Cece’s legendary con queso and guacamole dips with tortilla chips. I sit out on the deck. I listen to the wind whistling through the evergreen trees and enjoy the clean pine scent. I spot several blue jays. The air is fresh and cool — the right temperature for thinking.
You might be hoping that I have a revelation that leads me to repentance and redemption. It occurs to me that, as a great vegetarian sailor once said, “I am what I am.” I can try to deny myself. I can become self-loathing. That sounds like an exercise in futility. I think I must honor what I am.
I think about my whole life. I recall how much I loved my Mom and Dad. I remember all of the happy times with Gunnar. Especially, I remember how he would bail me out of hopeless situations that would have spiraled out of control without his intervention. I think about my commitment to becoming a surgeon — for mastery. I recount how happy I was hiding out in Vanuatu with Dr. Aurand and Monique, helping my patients. I am also aware I’m growing pleasantly accustomed to the approval of patients and their families — the “loving tentacles of good deeds,” as Dr. Aurand terms it. What I can’t shake is the tremendously complex, exquisite feeling I get shooting a rifle and hitting the mark where few others can.
Once a day I revisit the places in Ruidoso Gunnar and I used to haunt. I love the walk along the highway to the edge of the Mescalero Indian Reservation. I climb on Big Rock, always surprised that it is as big as I remembered it as a child. I still wonder whether some of the deep, smooth half-spherical indentations on its surface are from water dripping from trees or Native Americans grinding corn. My money is on the latter, but it could be both. Or some from rain, some from grinding, as my quantum twin would theorize. I hear Gunnar’s word’s in the gurgling waters of the river. A gust of air whistling through the pines ends my wistfulness.
Fortunately, I have access to Uncle Walt’s telescopic .30-30 rifle. Once a day, I find a remote location where I can fire without disturbing anyone. Every time I shoot, I remember Dad, Rifle Club, Gunnar, and all the pleasant times of practice. I connect again to my euphoria at Vanuatu when I fired at David. I almost felt that way with the Higgins hit. I suppose its vividness was dampened by the muted .22 pops and lack of recoil. Just thinking about those events almost takes me to that feeling, but the feeling is diminished by time. I conclude I will do almost anything to feel that euphoria again.
After three weeks of relaxing, shooting, meditating, and soul-searching, it is time to catch my flight to Guam. I have been coordinating the trip for days. Gunnar has warned me that until 1962 travel to Guam had been restricted to US personnel with a security clearance. He says to expect few travel options even now. I can understand why the government has not wanted high traffic through the remote island, with its vast nuclear arsenal and strategic importance. I plan to travel under an alias. Guam is over 9300 nautical miles from San Francisco, on the periphery of Gunnar’s vast area of operations. In fact, I will go the ends of the earth to see Gunnar.
Guam
Because of the limited commercial flights to Guam, I use my press-pass letter to hop a military flight from Hickam AFB, Hawaii, to Guam. The Air Force public affairs officer falls all over himself helping me at Hickam. I think he was more impressed
with my calves than with the Senator’s letter — the same one I used in Vietnam. I happen to stretch while he tries to look at the letter. He likes the view.
Within twelve hours, I board a jet for Guam. The four-engine Air Force C-141 approaches its descent point east of the Micronesian island in the Marianas group. I am sitting in the jump seat in the cockpit. I am behind the center console and between the pilot and copilot. Normally, I am told, the scanner sits here. The flight engineer is behind me, facing to the right toward his panel of gauges of performance and fluid status. The quirky navigator is also behind me, facing to the left at his radar, loran, and computer displays.
The crew have been telling me interesting tidbits about the small island destination below and its culture. Occupied by the Japanese in World War II, there are still stories about Japanese soldiers being in the jungle, holding out on orders to never surrender. The locals are Chamarros, the indigenous people of the Mariana Islands. The beaches are world-class, pretty much untouched by the low level of tourism. Don’t venture into the “boondocks,” as the jungle is called, because of unexploded ordnance from the War. Shake your shoes out in the morning to avoid squashing a cockroach or shrew. And the humidity is so bad that many homes have a “hot closet,” a small room where an incandescent bulb burns around the clock to keep clothes from mildewing.
Wearing a crew headset, I listen to the loadmaster start to sing a little ditty he heard on an old 45 rpm record: “I’m balmy over Guamy. Love the ocean. Love the shore. Love the padded cell I have in the psycho ward.” The crew roar and demand an encore.
The aircraft commander in the left pilot seat is a 1959 graduate of the Air Force Academy. He reminds the crew, “Okay, guys, noise discipline. We’re about to descend. Descent checklist!” After that, it is very quiet as the pilot reduces thrust by pulling back on the throttles. There are only crisp calls to air traffic control, checklist queries with responses, and altitude reminders from the copilot.
The massive turbojet does a graceful arc around the northern tip of Guam. The island looks like a peanut from the air — roughly thirty miles long and ten miles wide. I never tire of seeing emerald-like islands poking up through the Navy blue waters of the vast Pacific Ocean. After Vanuatu, you’d think I would have had my fill. Not so. A native of mostly arid New Mexico, I love the water I grew up without — as well as the greenery I seldom saw. My mood is further elevated by the expectation of seeing Gunnar once again. I can’t wait.
The runway at Andersen AFB appears to run off a 600-foot cliff. We get radar vectors to an ILS (instrument landing system) approach to land on runway 06R. The pilot handles the dip in the first one-third of the landing runway with ease. The copilot genuinely compliments him. Apparently, the idea of landing on sloping runways throws many pilots.
Before getting off the plane, I get five separate offers from the crew to show me the island. I thank each of them for a very professional flight. I politely decline the invitations due to my previous engagements. These guys definitely are not the jerks I’d fended off in college and medical school. I liked the flyboys from Norton AFB.
*****
The mustache does not fool me. I would know Gunnar anywhere. He is wearing a white short-sleeved Panamanian wedding shirt, chinos, brown belt, and brown sandals. Our joyful greeting of each other prompts an aside from an air terminal onlooker: “Isn’t love grand?”
Get over it, people, I answer mentally. He’s just my brother. Well, not just — long lost, once-dead brother, Silver Star hero, and twin. Having lost him once, I know I love him more. I really know what he means to me.
“You’re looking well, John,” I say with sincerity.
“Thank you, Karen. I see you’re sharp as ever,” Gunnar answers. He knows my alias for the trip. “After we get your bags, I’ll take you to billeting. We’re both in the visiting officers’ quarters Rooms are clean, nice, and, above all, cool. The concrete walls and wind wafting through the louvers work wonders. After New Mexico, every tropical place feels too humid for human beings. Even my vacation in the jungle didn’t totally acclimate me.”
The air is not quite as muggy as Vanuatu, but close. We have to lower the windows of the rental car to let the air conditioner catch up with the tropical heat. Waiting in line at billeting, I hear speculations on what un-uniformed Gunnar is doing on base: “He’s too young for a retiree.” “His hair is too long for active duty.” “He must be OSI (Office of Special Investigations)”. Those made Gunnar chuckle to himself.
Gunnar carries my suitcases to my room. “After you freshen up, let’s hit the beach! Put on a bathing suit underneath a skirt and blouse,” he suggests. “I’ve got some zoris — thongs — in the car for your feet. I’ve got cocoa butter, zine oxide, a blanket, and a cooler of drinks.”
*****
Tarague Beach is on the base’s northern shore. The drive down from the heights of the Andersen AFB is singularly spectacular. Today is clear enough for me to see Rota, a sister island about 40 miles away. There are very few people at the beach today. Gunnar jokes that there are more lifeguards than swimmers.
“Do you think sharks ate the other swimmers?” I jest.
Gunnar recognizes his warmed-over humor. “Touche! Let’s hope not! Good one, sis.” He puts his arm around my shoulders. “Actually, the reef serves us well in keeping the sharks away.”
We spread a camouflaged polyester poncho liner out over the sand under a coconut tree. Gunnar explains, “I picked this spot because this tree has shed all its coconuts, which can be a real hazard to those below. Gee, it’s great to be here in paradise with my favorite sister. It’s so peaceful here now with the ocean breeze. Hard to believe so many Americans died taking this island in World War II. You’d never know that now.”
He opens an ice-cold Coca Cola for me and one for himself. “Alex, here we are out of shot of anyone or listening devices.” He smiles, “Except for that gigantic pink coconut crab! Are you sure we’re not in Bikini. That crab looks like a mutation from some of Dad’s nukes.”
“Brother, that crab is big, but the color is fuchsia. I remember you memorizing the color blindness tests for the Air Force Academy.”
With mock indignation, Gunnar stiffens his spine and announces, “I will not be humiliated over my inability to distinguish nuanced hues. From now on, I will refer to colors only as red, green, and blue — like a quality color television.”
I laugh, “So why put yourself out there? Just say white, and you’ll have all the colors of the spectrum,” I kid.
Gunnar grins, “I came all the way from Bangkok to be upstaged by my genius sister?” He pauses and shoots back, “I do like the idea of simplifying my color discrimination problem with white, though.” He chuckles. “Anyway, I’m sorry I did not get word to you in time. I think I got Tani to call off her investigation. I reasoned that she got a tip from off-shore from Vanuatu by a man, so I pretended to be that source having second thoughts. By the time I phoned you, you had done your vanishing act. I don’t want you to concern yourself about what you can’t change. You might have been able to remain in Vanuatu as Joan — or maybe not. Mysteriously surviving your disappearance on the beach might well pique Tani’s interest again in meeting you. Who knows?”
“Gunnar, I think you’re right. She impresses me as polite but doggedly persistent. She would have noticed the hole I left with my disappearance. I had Shangri-la in Vanuatu for a while anyway. I was very happy.”
I can read Gunnar. He is relieved I am taking my change in circumstances well. In high school or college, I would have chewed on this bone for days. I might have blamed Tani or myself for destroying my dream — for weeks or more. A lot more.
As I start to grow wistful, Gunnar decides to lift me out of my introspection. “Sorry, I didn’t make your funeral.” He has a mischievous grin.
“I didn’t have time to get out the invites, Mustache Man,” I fire back and smile. “I will not dwell on the fact that I attended yours!” Gunnar will recognize my adopti
on of his wit.
He shifts to sincerity, “I’ll bet you had half the island in attendance,” he offers.
“Thanks.” I nod at him. “Now, Gunnar, I have to be honest with you about something I did.” I pause in trepidation. I hope my face is not frowny with dread. “I took out Deputy Director Higgins …”
“You’re kidding, right?” Gunnar utters in disbelief. “Every report said he died of a massive stroke. Don’t be pulling my leg.”
“Nope. I used a silenced .22 rifle to stage an apparent pistol hit. I agreed with you he had to be the vengeful weasel in getting back at me by contacting Tani. He knew I couldn’t say anything about Dallas without exposing myself, too, but he could take a cheap shot for revenge. I’m sure he thought I couldn’t respond.”
Gunnar’s eyes study me. “You took a big chance that the .22 would be effective at any safe-for-you distance, which I’m guessing was 100 to 300 yards.”
“200 yards. It worked. His protective detail looked around for a pistol shooter — amidst the tear-gassed crowd. I also figured I needed to remove Higgins before I could safely tap the million in cash, the rest of the payment owed me for Dallas,” I explain.
Gunnar sighs and reflects. “Alex, wow, we’ve sure had some experiences in the few years since high school. We’re a long way from Alamogordo, Toto.”
Gunnar inhales expansively and hugs me. He kisses my forehead. Every girl deserves a brother like him.
I have tears for the first time since his funeral. “Thanks, Gunnar. I was afraid my checkered life might cause me to lose you.”
“I’m always here for you, Alex, once and forever,” Gunnar says. He squeezes my hand.
Embarrassed by all the sentimentality, Gunnar sidesteps, “I think I can explain what happened. Higgins had a lot of enemies at the Agency; I mean a lot. The rumors were that he was only still around because he knew where all the bodies were buried, figuratively — maybe literally, too. He supposedly had files that could embarrass many influential people a la J. Edgar Hoover at the FBI.