Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

  She shook her head, pulled way, and flung her arms in disbelief, then continued walking to the waiting area and her family. I followed her around the corner and stopped, watching Sally sit down by her mother. She refused to look back at me, bewildered and fearful. I felt dejected that her anger wouldn’t allow me to explain or to offer any help.

  If this was Ramsey’s doing, he had just forced me to do something I didn’t want. I remembered seeing a pay phone by the elevator and went to it. Using my credit card, I dialed James Woodruff at his home phone number. He answered immediately. Does this guy have any other life? I thought. We talked for ten minutes as I explained what happened and what I sensed needed to be done. After he agreed to my few requests, I committed to Vietnam. The date to be decided by him. He gave me instructions on where to meet him in about an hour. Despite my turbulent mind, I recognized that his authority stood high in the agency’s hierarchy.

  Hanging up, I started to walk back to the recovery lounge, but Sally and her family had disappeared. That felt ominous since they were probably summoned by the doctors. Struggling with dread, I turned and walked back to the elevator. As I prepared to enter and descend within its sterile womb, I heard a voice.

  “John, are you OK?” Sally’s mother, Mary Catton, asked, holding a cup of vending machine coffee in her right hand.

  Startled, I turned and said, “No, not a good day. I’m sorry about Mr. Catton.”

  “I have to believe he will survive. He is stubborn as a mule. You know the southern heritage and all. The doctor will see us soon to explain DuPee’s condition. I told the family to get something to eat or drink in the cafeteria.” She tried to smile but I saw her sad face—her bravado did little to overcome the budding tears. “Did you and Sally have a nice talk?” She changed the topic, concerned. “She’s really head over feet about you, you know.”

  “I . . . Can you tell her . . . ” I said.

  “John, why not tell her yourself? You are staying at the beach house, aren’t you?”

  “No . . . not now . . . just tell her I have strong feelings for her. I’m probably falling in love with her,” I said and turned into the open elevator. The doors closed off Mrs. Catton’s face and her voice, saying, “John . . .?”

  I descended to the main floor and the ER entrance. My rental hadn’t been towed, still parked where I had left it. I got in, drove to an empty parking spot several hundred feet away, put the car in park, turned off the headlights, and surrounded by the night’s darkness, I connected my laptop to the hospital’s Wi-Fi and searched the internet to find directions to the Elizabeth City Coast Guard Air Station. I had an hour to find it before Woodruff landed. I wrote the directions on my notepad and shut off the laptop.

  Just as I put the Volvo in drive, I glanced back at the hospital. Sally stood in the ER entrance; her face concealed by the shadows created by the entrance’s lights.

  I hesitated, torn between returning to her or proceeding with avenging the shooting of her father. Hate-filled revenge won the moment and I stepped on the car’s accelerator. Her image grew smaller as I drove from the hospital. I promised to protect Sally, but my emotions still roiled. I now knew she would not be in my future. Depressed, I avoided looking back in my rearview mirror. Ramsey and Loan had to be eliminated, and I had to focus completely on that. I had agreed to do a dangerous, hateful thing, purely out of love.

  Elizabeth City Coast Guard Air Station, Late Christmas Day

  The directional signs easily guided me to the base, which overlooked the inlet to Albemarle Sound south of the city. A US Coast Guard ensign waited for me at the air station’s guard shack as I drove up. “Welcome on base, Mr. Moore. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, impressed by the recognition, but also with the military complex that spread out before me. In the distance, a C-130 Hercules taxied along the tarmac, preparing for takeoff, its powerful engines reverberating toward me. Scattered along the runway were landing pads with various Coast Guard rescue helicopters. The air station hummed with noisy activity even at this time of night, performing the Coast Guard’s unique functions: saving lives on the high seas and securing our coastal borders.

  “ETA on Mr. Woodruff is about forty minutes. I’ll take you to the VIP lounge to wait. We have fresh hot coffee. Just park your car over to the right, sir.”

  Once I parked the rental, I took my briefcase and my carry on, leaving nothing behind, and followed him to his government vehicle for the short ride to the airfield lounge. From the time I had talked by phone to Woodruff, I sensed that much had been initiated. The ensign excused himself to his duty office in the same building, allowing me my own time as I drank the coffee he had provided. I smiled. Recall of army mess hall coffee flashed as I sipped the strong bitter brew. Time stood still, maintaining the acquired taste from my years of active duty.

  After writing my business instructions for the firm, addressed to Sally, on a legal pad, I dozed off in the comfortable lounge chair, tired from the long drive from DC and from the devastating meeting with Sally. What the hell had I gotten into?

  “Sir, the plane is taxiing to us now,” the ensign said, nudging me awake. I looked at my watch; it was just past midnight.

  “Thanks,” I replied and followed him out to the airplane parking area, just as a nondescript Lear Jet rushed toward us from the landing strip, its twin engines winding down as it stopped abruptly, fifty feet from me and the ensign. The ramp came down and the ensign escorted me to the aircraft, indicating for me to climb on board. I took my carry on from him, shook his hand, and thanked him.

  Woodruff, wearing a pink golf shirt and black slacks, greeted me at the top of the ramp. “John, give the Ensign your rental’s car keys.”

  As I handed them to the officer, Woodruff yelled over the jet engines’ piercing noise, “Ensign, thanks for escorting Mr. Moore. Please secure the rental car. I’ll have an agent pick it up.”

  “Yes, sir,” the ensign said, saluting Woodruff, holding the keys in his left hand.

  “Well, John, when you decide something, you certainly don’t mess around. Come on board, the flight to DC will be less than an hour and we have a lot to discuss.”

  As I strapped into a cushy seat, Woodruff plopped into his seat, facing me across a small mahogany table, while a fellow agent, I assumed, brought us bottled water and cups of coffee, then sat nearby, observing me. The plane quickly taxied to the runway and within minutes ascended into the dark sky,

  James Woodruff pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “Please read this and see if this works. I think it’s solid.”

  I grasped the sheet of paper and read: Press Release: On the morning of December 25, at the Outer Banks, North Carolina, a Charlotte psychologist was seriously injured by a random drive-by shooting. Accompanied by his associate, he was driving in the Village of Duck at the time of the event. He was taken to the Elizabeth City Hospital. Doctors stated that he sustained brain damage, and during the operation to remove the bullet, the patient died. Any witnesses to the crime should contact the local police. The name of the victim is being withheld until next of kin are notified. The rest had a general description of a possible Asian suspect in the shooting.

  “When will it hit the papers?” I asked.

  “It’ll be in all the morning newspapers in Eastern North Carolina and Southern Virginia.” Woodruff turned to his man, handed him the press release, and nodded the go-ahead. The agent got up and walked to the cockpit. “We’ll continue to stonewall the release of the name.” Woodruff paused. “This should convince the hit man that he accomplished his task. You have something for me?”

  “Yes.” I handed him a large manila envelope that I had secured from the Coast Guard officer. “Please deliver this to Dr. Sally Catton at the beach house. It’s my apology for endangering her and her family—especially her dad. I also gave her full authority to run the firm in my absence, with a
power of attorney—which I hope you will get notarized for me. I assume the US marshals you assigned to protect her, and her parents will be there soon?”

  “Don’t worry, John, everything is handled. I’ll ensure Sally gets the packet. I’ll explain everything to her but will avoid compromising information that may endanger you in Vietnam. Leave everything to me.”

  “I guess I don’t have much choice.”

  Woodruff’s furrowed brow deepened as he ignored my remark. “I’ll need your condo keys and car keys. We’ll arrange to get your car from the Charlotte airport parking to your condo garage. I will need the parking ticket too.”

  I passed him all the items.

  “You can get clothes and stuff for the trip while you are at Jim’s house. Remember the basics: good comfortable shoes and a pair of hikers. Also Colonel Zang will provide access to gear and weapons when you are in Vietnam.”

  “I think I know what clothes to take. Can’t believe I’m going back to Nam after all this time. But weapons—why?”

  “A precaution while you are there,” he said. “They, the Vietnamese, want you to be secure.”

  I thought for a moment. “I want to take my .45 pistol then. It’s in my condo, locked up. Can you arrange that? I’m skilled with it.”

  “I’ll have an agent pick it up. Where is it?”

  “In the top drawer of my only nightstand in the bedroom.”

  “Good. I’ll clear this with Colonel Zang. He can send it under diplomatic pouch ahead of you. It will be waiting for you in Hanoi.”

  “So when do I depart?”

  “First we need to update your shots, such as Hep A and B. I’ll have a year’s worth of malaria pills sent over to Jim’s. I already told him that you’re committed, and he said that you’re staying with him while you prep for the trip. You still have your passport with the Vietnamese visa?”

  I pulled it out of my right inside suit pocket. “All set. I think I’m current on most shots since I travelled to India and China for business consulting two years ago.”

  “Are your shot records at the condo?”

  “Yes. In the desk drawer of my little office.”

  “We’ll get those with your .45-caliber pistol. I’ll verify all your immunizations. The danger to you, besides the bad guys, will be exposure to mosquitoes and other crap while you’re in the bush. But then, you know that.”

  “I guess I’m as ready as I can be.”

  “It’s a hell of a commitment. Zang was elated when I called him and couldn’t wait to call Colonel Tin to set things in motion. Jim Schaeffer is reluctant—worries about you going.” Woodruff paused. “By tomorrow, call me with your bank account number so I can get your monthly contract payments deposited. I’ll also deposit money for you to cover travel expenses. Arrange for Jim to pay your bills—credit card bills, utilities, cable, phone—so you will always be current. This keeps the CIA out of it and will help verify that you are dead. Also, turn off your cell phone and give it to me. Dead men don’t make calls.”

  I nodded as I handed my cell phone over, but then asked, “You didn’t want to discuss who shot Mr. Catton when I called you earlier tonight. I think we are secure now?”

  “OK, it was probably Colonel Loan. We are trying to find him, but he must have fled the country. Ramsey probably ordered the hit, though.”

  “Did you have any idea this would happen?”

  “John, we are as surprised as you. That is why it is more important than ever to have you get over to Vietnam. They both must feel that all loose ends tied to Reed have been taken care of. You going to Vietnam will catch them off guard since they believe you are dead now.”

  “How did they know I was spending Christmas at the Outer Banks?” I asked. My stare bored into Woodruff.

  “Tonight, we were able to trace Loan’s phone activity at the Boston Airport Hilton Hotel, on Monday, December 23. He listened to the office recording by Doctor Catton reaffirming that both of you would be out for the holidays and would return on January 6, 2003. Doctor Sally Catton left an emergency phone number to call. He obviously logged onto the web and determined the location for area code 252. It pinpointed the Outer Banks area in North Carolina—specifically the Catton’s beach house. We assume he left the Boston Airport Hilton and flew to Norfolk, Virginia, then drove to the Outer Banks.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you know about this earlier, or where to locate him?” I asked, my frustration showing.

  “He was good at hiding his whereabouts. I’m sorry we couldn’t find him before this happened.” Woodruff shook his head; the bags under his eyes seemed deeper than before. His voice intoned total exasperation.

  I couldn’t stop looking for clarifications. “Did Sally describe the guy as Asian, short, with a very thin face?” I asked.

  “Yes. She had a good look at him before he shot her dad, just as he pulled up beside them at a stoplight. He sped off in blue-colored Chevy,” Woodruff said.

  “So it was definitely Loan?” I said.

  Woodruff nodded then averted his eyes.

  “Shit, so Ramsey is in Hong Kong, Colonel Hung is in a reeducation prison in Hanoi, and Tom Reed is dead. And Loan is probably on board a flight headed to Cambodia?”

  Woodruff settled back and attempted to read some papers in his lap. His defenses had kicked in. His silence answered all.

  Still I persisted. “You knew this was going to happen.” I took a sip of coffee.

  “No, we didn’t. We know now after the fact, that’s all I’m saying. Christ, John, it’s simple as that.” His anger showed.

  I lolled my head back into the headrest of the executive-style seating and closed my eyes; I wouldn’t get anything more from him. So there it was, if I believed Woodruff: Ramsey had orchestrated the hit on me, and endangered Sally and her dad by mistake. It confirmed my need to protect her by helping the Vietnamese capture Loan and ensure Ramsey ended up in the hands of the Vietnamese. My destiny had been set.

  “How is Sally’s dad?” I asked. It seemed we had forgotten the most important event tonight.

  Startled, Woodruff sat up, staring at me quizzically. His silence became ominous. “John, I thought you knew . . . Mr. Catton died shortly after you called me from the hospital.”

  The shock hit me like a sucker punch. Nausea swept my stomach. “No . . . it can’t be . . .” I mumbled as my head tilted back, my closed eyes. Anger welled in me. I finally glared at Woodruff and said, “Why the fuck didn’t you say something earlier?”

  He sat silent and stoic. Did he see my hate, my anguish?

  “Again, I thought that was why you decided to go to Vietnam. Look, John, we need to move along—we can’t undo this. . . We assumed you knew.”

  Woodruff’s assistant leaned to him and said something. They nodded together.

  “John, you will be travelling under your own name. We feel you are safe doing that. Moore is a common enough name, even if they get access to the flight manifests, which I doubt. There is no time to create a false identity for you. And again, we believe it’s not necessary.

  “We’re almost to DC. I’ll personally drop you off at Jim’s. Rest up, and we’ll meet later today and get everything worked out for your trip,” Woodruff said.

  Overwhelmed, I felt too tired to continue. My emotions over Sally’s dad tore at me. I watched in a blur as Woodruff continued to instruct his man.

  The man finally went to the back of the aircraft, returned with an aluminum briefcase, and gave it to me. “I’m Paul Tanner,” he said.

  He extended his right hand and we shook. Paul Tanner seemed forty and represented a younger version of Woodruff, with a balding hairline, a face and body showing the wear and tear of the job, but not as overweight. He glanced at Woodruff, still seated across the table from me, who nodded, then focused on me. My mind still couldn’t grasp Catton’s death as I stared at the case
.

  “Your standing orders are to contact James first.” I raised my head to look at Tanner. “Should that fail, call me. In the briefcase there is an agency Palm phone together with detailed communication instructions with codes and passwords. There is also a critical contact list with phone numbers and a portable satellite telephone with GPS and the power pack. The lid is a flat plate antenna, which negates the need for a parabolic antenna. With the satellite link, you’ll be able to communicate with us from anywhere in Vietnam, including the jungles or mountains, because NSA satellites are in space over twenty-two thousand miles high. Use the Palm phone mostly for emails unless it’s an emergency. Both James and my phone numbers are already loaded on the Palm phone and the satellite phone, ready for speed dial.” He had me sign a document for the equipment then patted me on the shoulder, recognizing my bewildered stare. The seat belt sign flashed, and accompanying warning chimes sounded for our descent into DC. Tanner stepped to a nearby seat and strapped himself in.

  Woodruff added, “Are you OK?”

  I had no more words for him and simply nodded.

  Continuing to ignore my foul mood, he explained that the case weighed twenty-six pounds, measured eighteen inches by fourteen inches, and was five inches thick so it would fit into a back pack. The satellite phone was in digital mode, and calls would be digitally encrypted using NSA codes, which was more efficient than analog transmissions.

  He stopped talking and focused on the jet’s descent as I closed my eyes, wondering what I would face in the days ahead. Woodruff and Zang hadn’t been completely truthful with me. They had manipulated me, but I had no choice now—I had committed to moving forward. I would avenge the death of Sally’s dad.

  Alexandria, December 26, 2002

  Tired, I had finished my second cup coffee when Jim, sitting across from me at his kitchen table, answered his cell phone. My watch showed 7:00 a.m. I slept only a few hours after I arrived at Jim’s house early this morning, dropped off by Agent Tanner. A slight change by Woodruff, who knew he had done enough damage and needed some escape from me. Jim switched to speaker mode and I recognized Woodruff’s voice: “Loan left the Norfolk Airport Holiday Inn by the shuttle to the air terminal this morning. He read the Elizabeth Daily newspaper story on the shooting and killing of a psychologist from Charlotte. Loan smiled as he read the article.”