UNKNOWABLE (Murder on the Mekong, Book 2)

by Rivers, Hart;

  “Way too many,” he muttered, and told himself not to sulk. Just because he missed his girlfriend Margie who was living in Hawaii, just because he missed Gregg, his partner in crime who was back in California, and just because he missed his family in New York, that was not enough reason to feel sorry for himself.

  He was, after all, a lot more alive than the thousands of other good American boys who had been sent home in body bags. He was, at least so far, somewhat saner than the marching line of traumatized troops who kept the beds at the 99KO filled and his days as a psychiatrist busier than Macy’s the day after Thanksgiving. He was happy with some Jack and weed instead of being strung out on the hard stuff like the guys he was treating at the drug groups. And he was no longer sweating because of the sizzling hot weather that had greeted him when he arrived last May, just as he had survived Nha Trang’s monsoon season from September through December, when his sheets felt like a wet towel at night and everything smelled like mildew.

  It was a large country, and the rainy season shifted depending on your whereabouts, but no matter where or when, he was always prepared to take cover—whether under a poncho or in a bunker. As for what went on under the covers, that was pretty much a solo endeavor unless he counted a picture of Margie and the pair of red silk panties he had slipped off during their last, frantic act of goodbye.

  That had been in Hawaii after a certain someone arranged their rendezvous six months ago. Six very, very long months ago, and Margie’s poor panties were almost in tatters from his repeated washings. But. He had a little less than three months to tough out, the torrential rains were only sporadic, and he was all alone in his special spot on the beach—which left the best part of all: being alone meant he wasn’t in the presence of that certain someone and all the messed-up crap that inevitably came with him.

  “Hey. Wake the fuck up.”

  Startled, Izzy leaped to his feet and glared at the bad news he had apparently summoned.

  “You know I hate it when you do that. You shouldn’t sneak up on people, JD. It’s rude.”

  “Sorry, Izzy,” he said, as if he really meant it.

  Knowing what a consummate actor JD could be, and especially knowing JD didn’t show up unless he needed something, which typically involved unpleasant business, Izzy folded his arms—as if they could protect him from whatever was coming next.

  JD bowed his head. He took a deep breath and then lightly touched Izzy’s shoulder. “I need your help.”

  There was the barest, slightest suggestion of a whisper of stress in his voice. No one would have heard it except someone who had spent the last ten years in training for hours and hours a day, listening for the subtlest levels of human emotion and feelings.

  Izzy felt as if he had just taken an elbow to the solar plexus. JD’s body and voice had never betrayed any emotion, not even in a worst-case scenario. If anything, he seemed to thrive under pressure—like some Jimi Hendrix equivalent of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, only with bombs, M-16s, and the ravages of war.

  Izzy’s hands had shaken like crazy the first month he was here, which wasn’t surprising since he had no sooner finished his residency as a child psychiatrist than the army drop-kicked him to the Nam. He had worked hard to get his fears and stress under control and his hands had quit shaking. This would be an answer to prayer if he still prayed, considering steady hands were critical for the medical procedures he sometimes had to perform. But now, like a bad déjà vu moment, he could feel a fine tremor working its way from the inside out, that primitive hot shot of warning just before—

  “Kate is missing.”

  “Missing?” Izzy repeated. “What do you mean, missing? Like, Shirley can’t find her at the mission, or—or like—”

  “Like she was on a private boat with me. I was called away. The pilot was killed and she was taken in my absence by someone who is now using Kate as bait.”

  Bait. Izzy knew all about being used as bait. JD hadn’t hesitated to use him and Gregg for exactly that same purpose to track down a monster and pick their brains along the way, completely indifferent to the fact they didn’t belong anywhere outside a psych unit, much less in the jungle, after the army snatched them both right after graduation—Gregg with his surfboard and PhD from USC; Izzy with his Columbia University MD. God only knew why JD decided they were the “consultants” he had to have—and whatever JD wanted, JD got from Command—but after what he had put them through, neither of them wanted to get anywhere near J. D. Mikel again.

  This was different, though. This was Kate. Gregg would go nuts.

  “What can I do?”

  “Pick Gregg up for me at the hospital LZ at 0900 hours tomorrow. He’s on his way.”

  Dr. Gregg Kelly stared out of the chopper as it neared the 8th Field Hospital’s landing zone. His stomach churned bile and it felt as if a hand was clamped around his wind pipe. It had from the moment he heard JD’s voice on the phone.

  That was three days ago. He had been traveling non-stop ever since.

  Gregg still could not believe this was happening. Going home after spending a year at the army’s psych unit for the frontline troops had been like crawling over glass to reach some grand and glorious Mecca. Okay, so maybe home hadn’t quite turned out to be as grand and glorious as he remembered it, but never did he dream he would no sooner be discharged than turn right around and return to Nha Trang. As for why, this was his worst nightmare.

  And boy, did he know about nightmares.

  The chopper landed and Gregg smiled for the first time in what felt like ages at the mock salute that greeted him. He dropped his duffel and gave his best buddy a bear hug, and then held him at arm’s length. Even in faded fatigues and with dark circles under his eyes, Izzy looked good—harder, leaner, tougher than when they had said goodbye; but overall he looked good for a hard-working physician who put in crazy hours at a psych unit.

  “How many days now, pal?” Gregg asked.

  “Eighty-two, so that moves me from eternity to just forever—not that I’m counting.”

  In a familiar gesture, Izzy pushed up his black, horn-rimmed glasses. His owlish brown eyes looked wiser, older, sharper, and the skin that had been pale upon first arriving in Vietnam bore a nice, golden tan. Not much lighter than Gregg’s skin, still fresh from the California sun.

  “Man, am I glad to see you, Iz. Just not under these circumstances.”

  “Same here. I wish I could say something besides I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t even come close to how JD’s going to feel when I get through with that bastard.” Gregg’s jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder he didn’t break a molar. No need to elaborate. What could he say that Izzy didn’t already know? That JD had stolen the girl Gregg had adored since grade school? That JD was sketchy, manipulative, and had nearly gotten both Izzy and him killed after dragging them into a crazy, undercover assignment to nab a psycho who made Norman Bates look like Mary Poppins? Izzy knew all that and more. It was part of the glue that bound them as friends and colleagues who had gone through hell and back together.

  “He’s expecting us at headquarters and—” Lightning cracked overhead and Izzy produced a military-issue poncho, tossed it to Gregg, then draped himself with an identical one as the clouds immediately belched out pouring, windy, buckets of rain.

  With no more words they fell into step and made their way across the familiar grounds of the 8th Field Hospital. It wasn’t any prettier than when Gregg left. The “grounds” were still composed of metal cat tracks laid on top of soaked sand that supported a variety of crude structures. Everything had the ugly, utilitarian simplicity of the temporary, even though it had all been here now for a decade. The endless war was always “almost at an end,” or, at least, victory was always a light at the end of the tunnel, but for most of the war-torn patients at this hospital the tunnel had collapsed and they would no doubt spend the rest of their lives recovering from the trauma.

  Gregg was no exception, and yet he was
grateful to be returning as a civilian with the freedom to leave tomorrow if he wanted, even if the idea of going anywhere without Kate after this was beyond unthinkable.

  “Have you heard from her since you left?” asked Izzy.

  “A few short letters, a postcard, all of them sounding remarkably chirpy about the mission. No mention, of course, of JD. Guess she figured that wouldn’t be welcome news. After all, how many times did I warn her, loud and clear, to keep her distance from a guy who was nothing but trouble and stick with someone she could trust?”

  That would be him. Kate should have listened but she never listened to reason, and now she was paying the price he would gladly pay for her. He felt no satisfaction in saying “I told you so” when her safety was in question, and just thinking of what she could be subjected to made him feel sick. But once they got her back—and they would; he couldn’t think otherwise or he’d go crazy—then yeah. Then he might be tempted to privately gloat while seizing the chance to move in once his competition was drop-kicked out to the South China Sea on the black-ops chopper he had ridden in on.

  Gregg shook his head and more rain poured off the top of his poncho liner and down his face, everything around them gray in the rain amidst a sea of mud, metal and various army-green vehicles. As they entered the headquarters, still helmed by Colonel Kellogg, the CO, a hard knot asserted itself in the pit of Gregg’s stomach. The HQ was standard military, clean and unfussy, but with nice décor in a 60s Winnebago kind of way. The small desk in front was manned by an armed MP who immediately came to attention.

  “Greetings, sir. And what is your business here, sir?”

  “Oh hell, Conley,” growled the roly poly sergeant major at the slightly larger desk to the MP’s right. “It’s just the shrinks here to see the CO, not the goddamn NVA. Good to see you, Doc Moskowitz, and this must be Cap’n Kelly here with the long surfer hair.”

  “Just Gregg please, Sarge. I’m a civilian now.” His new status came out with more emphasis than Gregg intended. He wondered if it was a knee-jerk reaction after being unexpectedly greeted by an MP. “Mind if I ask what’s up with the extra security since I left?”

  “Colonel Kellogg’s been pretty jumpy since the fragging we had last month. He’s got another guard just inside his office there.”

  Gregg looked over at Izzy. “Fragging?”

  “It’s kind of a new, very low-morale phenomenon: rolling a fragmentation grenade under an NCO’s or officer’s bed—or somewhere they can’t get out—while the soldiers doing it aren’t likely to get caught. I guess that extends to headquarters now. It’s pretty crazy, especially with the new heroin thing going on.”

  “You got that right, Doc,” the sarge agreed. “This whole damn war’s turning so crazy, pretty soon we’ll be needing more shrinks here than troops.” He hitched a thumb in the direction of Kellogg’s office. “You better go in.”

  Gregg didn’t need a second invitation. He was ready to get in JD’s face. Still, the closer they stepped to Kellogg’s office the harder his stomach knot became. Then harder still when a second MP barred the door, combat boots firmly planted at the entry, M-16 drawn across his chest.

  “Stand down, Clark!” boomed the over-amped voice of Kellogg.

  The guard stepped aside. Kellogg enthusiastically waved them closer, greeted them like some long-lost old uncle. “Well if it’s not my favorite shrinks. Come in and join us for some pastries and coffee. I had it prepared just for this occasion—”

  “That will be all, Colonel,” interjected an all-too-familiar voice. It belonged to the much decorated General Glen Claymore, who emerged from a far corner of the room. “You are dismissed. Take your security blanket with you.”

  “But sir,” Kellogg protested, “it was my understanding that—”

  “All you need to understand is that you’re no longer needed here and you are to clear the room. Close the door behind you and clear the office on your way out. You may return to the building when we leave and not a moment before.”

  “Sir, yes, sir. If you want any pastries—”

  “Out!”

  The next thing Gregg knew their host was gone from his own office, orders were being barked in the reception area, and then the only sound he could hear was a roaring in his ears as his gaze fixed on a movement in the farthest, most shadowed corner of the room.

  The knot in his stomach took on the weight and size of a bowling ball. Gooseflesh prickled the back of his neck. He could not have selected more appropriate attire for the man in the black poncho, cloaked like a bat, with the same panther-green eyes, slick black hair, and deeply tanned skin marked with strange scars and welts and stories behind them that Gregg did not care to know.

  If he had learned one thing about J. D. Mikel, the more distance you kept, the safer you were. Hard as he and Izzy had tried to drive that one fact home to Kate…

  “You bastard.” Gregg immediately ate up the distance between him and JD until they stood almost toe to toe. He tapped JD hard in the chest. “You damn bastard. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “All I can say is take your best shot.” JD lifted his perfectly chiseled chin, opened hands in defeat that Gregg knew could rip his still-beating heart out before his knees had time to hit the floor. “Take as many as you want. I won’t hit back.”

  Leave it to JD to ruin even this. Gregg dropped his clenched fists and went for the jugular instead.

  “Go to hell. You’re not worth it.”

  “Agreed.”

  Up close Gregg realized there was something different about JD’s eyes. They were still that striking green of a 7 Up bottle, but there was something off, that seemed almost…vulnerable, anxious?

  Human. That was it. They were on common ground for a change.

  “Captain Kelly, Captain Moskowitz, may I ask you to take a seat, please?” The general’s request was really an order. Gregg’s first impulse was to do the army thing and obey without question; his second impulse was to tell Claymore to shove it because Gregg Kelly was a free man now and was here of his own volition.

  “It’s Doctor Kelly now, General. And the only situation I want to discuss is between me and Mikel.”

  “What you want?” Claymore repeated. The sound of a fist striking the desk coincided with Claymore’s low roar. “Now you listen up and you listen to me, Doctor Kelly. I can do this gentleman to gentleman or it can go another way entirely. Like all draftees, now that you’ve completed your active duty, you, Doctor Kelly, are presently in the US Army inactive reserves. Look around you, Doctor Kelly. You are not in sunny California. You are not in civilian life with palm trees and lawyers. I am God and the law here in this theater of war. I can and I will activate your ass as of right now to active duty, put you in uniform, bust you down to private, and court martial you in five minutes along with your pal Moskowitz for insubordination if you fail to sit down, shut your mouth, and listen up immediately.”

  Claymore paused. He pointed to the two chairs fronting Kellogg’s desk.

  Izzy sat, his eyes begged Gregg to do the same. Gregg hesitated and then followed suit. Claymore parked himself in Kellogg’s executive chair. Then JD did something more alarming than Claymore’s anything-but-idle threats: J. D. Mikel, always under control and calling the shots, who would still be standing if the entire world and everyone in it fell down around him, plowed a hand through his perfect hair, straight and black as a crow’s wing, and began to pace.

  Claymore smiled grimly. “So now that all the pleasantries are out of the way, are we clear about who is running this very precise E&E operation and who will be following any and all orders issued by me or any other superior, particularly Agent Mikel?”

  It felt like nails coming up in his throat, but Gregg’s innate sense of self-preservation forced a “Yes, sir,” which Izzy promptly echoed.

  “Very well, then. Mikel?”

  JD quit pacing but he kept a slight distance from the desk as he moved into automatic pilot and a tumble of spook/mi
litary jargon poured out, things like “precise E&E above the 17th parallel involving MRF and bringing smoke up, to include Arc Light if necessary…” that Gregg found incomprehensible.

  It did not matter anyway since once again he was on a journey to hell against his will with Beelzebub as his guide.

  “Look, could we just cut to the chase?” Gregg interjected. “Tell us what happened to Kate and how she fits into this mess.”

  Either it was a trick of the lighting or JD grimaced.

  “Basically we are dealing with some low-level criminals—river pirates—who are running a heroin transport operation up and down the Mekong. Apparently they thought they could buy some protection by nabbing Kate and want to negotiate some kind of ‘treaty’ with the military to continue their drug operation without interference in exchange for her safe return. The general is giving us everything we want or need—fast boats on the river, choppers on call—whatever it takes. Right, General?”

  “Right. You guys have nothing to worry about. Just follow Mikel’s direction and everyone will be fine, including the young woman all of you want to see safely returned.”

  Gregg exchanged a look with Izzy. They would both do anything to get Kate home, which was the ace the general was presently playing—in addition to the whole damn deck he had threatened them with—yet this was a too-familiar song and dance that sounded like complete bullshit. Nobody outside this room had any idea where they were going, or what they were doing, and they would be completely on their own once JD was calling the shots.

  Which he already was.

  “So where do we come in?” Izzy, asking the obvious. “You know we’ll do whatever it takes to help find Kate, but we’re just a couple of shrinks. You want us to deal with some demented or strung out soldiers? Fine, sign us up. But I fail to see what we bring to this particular table when it comes to rounding up pirate drug dealers who aren’t even part of the war. Do you want Gregg to help them figure out what went wrong in their childhood while I hit them up with some sodium pentothal if the talk therapy doesn’t work?”