by Mike Jenne
Baker used a stethoscope to listen to Ourecky’s chest. “This ain’t good, either,” he observed. “His breathing is shallow and his pulse is rapid and thready. I’m guessing that all that blood pooling in his gut is starting to impinge on his diaphragm, so it’s going to make it that much harder for him to breathe.”
“What can you do?” demanded Henson.
“Not much,” replied Baker, trying to keep his balance in the slick bed of the van. “I can tap his gut to relieve some of the pressure. I can stabilize him, at least temporarily, but he really needs to be seen by a real surgeon as quickly as possible.”
“How long can you keep him alive?” asked Carson anxiously.
“I don’t know,” replied Baker. “There’s no way I can tell the extent of his injuries. He could last two or three hours, or he could punch out in thirty minutes.”
“Surely there’s a doc on board the ship. Do you think he can make it there?” asked Glades, slowing down as he beeped the horn at several children walking in the middle of the road.
“I seriously doubt it,” replied Baker. “And they said it would take at least an hour for the boats to make it ashore, depending on the tides, and possibly longer to transit back to the ship.”
“Can’t you do anything else?” pleaded Carson, gripping Ourecky’s hand. “Can’t you do a transfusion? Maybe give him some fluids of some sort?”
Baker placed his hand flat on Ourecky’s abdomen. “It wouldn’t help much. I’ve got serum albumen and other fluids, but any additional volume that we pump into him would just spill into his gut and press harder against his diaphragm. His only shot is to get to a surgeon now.”
Using a small penlight, Henson analyzed the map. “Sergeant Glades, there’s a dirt road about a half-mile ahead on the left,” he said. “It’s the back route into the airport. Take it.” He picked up the radio handset and spoke into it. “Recon Six, this is Assault. Over.”
“This is Recon Six,” replied Lewis in a very low voice. “Go ahead.”
“Six, our medic is telling me that one of these guys won’t make it to the ship. He’s in very fragile condition. I think I can send him out by air, if I can divert to the airport. Okay by you?”
“Do it,” replied Lewis. “We’re going to displace in about ten minutes and head up the hill. Be advised that no one came after you. Right now, they seem to be just milling around in front of the building. They don’t look too happy with themselves. Over.”
“Got it,” replied Henson. “Be careful getting to the pick-up site.”
“What the hell is that stench?” asked Baker. He grabbed Carson’s hand, sniffed the salve, and examined it. “Man, that’s ripe! Did you stick this paw in a frying pan or something?”
“Burned it right after landing,” answered Carson. “Don’t worry about me. Take care of him.”
Cap-Haïtien Airport, Haiti
10:10 p.m.
Seeing Taylor’s Maule parked alongside his building, Henson breathed a quick sigh of relief. In the back, clutching his bloated stomach, Ourecky made gurgling sounds and writhed in pain.
“He’s in a very fragile state,” advised Baker. “We need to evacuate him now.”
Even before Glades braked completely to a stop, Henson jumped out and sprinted towards the door. Pounding on the warped plywood, he shouted, “Taylor! Let’s go! Up and at ’em.”
At least two minutes passed as Henson continued to bang at the door. Finally, yet again naked, a barely conscious Lydie answered the door. “Kisa, blan?” she demanded, obviously agitated to be so disturbed from a sound slumber.
“Mesye Taylor, souple,” replied Henson.
She turned her head and mumbled, “Blan.”
Pulling on a pair of blue jeans, Taylor came to the entrance. “What, Henson? What in the hell are you doing out here this time of night?”
“I need to rent your plane. Right now.”
“Didn’t we just have this same conversation?” asked Taylor. “Can’t this wait until morning?”
“No,” said Henson emphatically. “There’s a badly injured man in the van. He needs to be flown to the closest American medical facility as quickly as possible.”
“Is he shot?” asked Taylor.
“No, but apparently he has severe internal bleeding and is going into shock. Can you do it? I need an answer right now.”
“Is he military?”
“Could be.”
Taylor nodded knowingly. “If he’s military, your closest bet is Guantánamo Bay Naval Base in Cuba. That’s about two hundred miles west of here, about an hour and a half. Second option is Puerto Rico, but that’s about four hundred miles east. Either way, it’s going to cost you. As soon as I touch down on US soil, it’s fairly likely that my plane will be confiscated. Assuming that I even come back here, I’ll need money to uh … acquire a new plane.”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand,” replied Taylor flatly. “US greenbacks only. No Haitian gourde.”
Henson was in no mood for negotiating, nor was there time to strike the best bargain or fret about whether he would be reimbursed. “Ten thousand. That’s all I have. Take it or leave it.”
“Done,” answered Taylor. He rubbed his eyes and whistled for his two guard dogs. “Stick your guys in the plane. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
Henson turned and gestured to load the plane. Glades pulled the Volkswagen around so that Carson and Baker could move Ourecky quickly.
“Wait,” said Taylor. “How many guys are flying out with me?”
“Three,” replied Henson.
“Nix that. I’ll take two: the injured guy and a medic. The less weight I haul, the faster I fly. I’ll yank out the seats on the right, so he can lie flat with his feet sticking back into the cargo area.”
“I’ll take out the seats,” offered Carson. “Where are your tools?”
“In my workshop, on the left side of the shed. And while I’m getting my stuff together, there’s also a hand-driven pump out there. Top off my tanks from those drums over there.”
“I’ll handle that,” said Glades.
As the two men worked to ready the plane, Henson pulled the rubberized pouch from his back pocket and counted out fifties and hundreds.
Moments later, Taylor reappeared with a faded blue canvas gym bag. He took the money that Henson offered. Without counting it, he stuffed several bills into the bag and handed the majority of the cash back to Henson. “You still have my card?” he asked.
Henson nodded.
“Then write me at my Miami address. I’ll send you instructions on where to send the rest of the money.” Taylor jammed some aerial charts into the bag and added, “Matt, one more thing. If I do come back, I won’t be coming back here. I had already planned to move my shop to Port-au-Prince, so this is good timing. This place is paid up for another two months. If you want to use it, it’s yours.”
“Thanks. How about Lydie? Is she going with you to Port-au-Prince?”
“Lydie? No. She’s paid up through the month, so she can cook and clean for you if you want. After that, she’ll probably want to go back home to Limbe.”
Henson nodded. He looked at Lydie, enchantingly beautiful in the glimmering light of the partial moon. Mercifully, she had thought to cover her nakedness with her makeshift T-shirt dress. He heard the sound of a car horn beeping far away, and looked towards the west. He saw a string of headlights in the otherwise dark streets of Cap-Haïtien and knew that it had to be a military convoy; someone had probably tipped off Roberto about the rescue.
“It’s the Fad’H,” observed Taylor, pulling on an old baseball cap and a leather jacket. “It looks like Colonel Roberto intends to pay us a visit.” He nonchalantly started into his pre-flight checklist. “You boys need to hit the road as soon as my tanks are filled.”
Glades spun the pump’s rotary handle as fast as he could as Baker and Henson loaded Ourecky onto the floor of the plane. Henson spoke a few words to Lydie and then took over
for Glades on the pump. The young Haitian woman nodded and ran back into building.
“I’ll finish this,” said Henson, grinding away at the pump. “Take Carson and head for the pick-up site.”
“You won’t make it there by the time Lewis gets there,” said Glades.
“I’m staying. After things settle down, I’ll head back to my place to call the States on the radio, and then I’ll hoof it up to the bamboo grove to grab my bike.”
“Suit yourself,” said Glades. He whistled at Carson and pointed at the van. He extended his black-painted hand out to take Henson’s. “Hey, it was a pleasure working with you, Matt.”
“Likewise. I hope to see you again someday. Hopefully not too soon, though.”
After saying an anxious goodbye to his unconscious friend, Carson walked up and spoke to Henson. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure. Now, you two need to leave.”
As the Volkswagen putted off to the south, Lydie brought a faded quilt out of the shed. She covered Ourecky before snugly tucking the blanket in around him. She hugged Taylor, obviously knowing it was for the last time. With tears in her eyes, she retreated back into the building.
Watching the convoy’s lights grow ever nearer, Henson strained to transfer the fuel as fast as he could. Taylor, on the other hand, continued through his checklist at an almost leisurely pace. Aggravated, wanting to hasten the process, Henson asked, “You can’t do that any faster?”
“I’m getting ready to fly two hundred miles over open water in a single engine airplane,” replied Taylor. “So excuse me for not rushing, but I’m not about to do a half-assed pre-flight. Besides, I’ll be finished before you’re done cranking that knob, and I know I can beat Roberto’s guys at this point, even if they’re driving at full tilt, so just relax, Henson. I’ve done this before.”
Taylor took off in the nick of time. As Henson disposed of the tools and passenger seats, he glimpsed the darkened Maule soar off in the distance towards the south. At the same time, three Fad’H trucks and a jeep arrived on the airport grounds from the north end.
Standing before the building, he watched as the convoy screeched to a stop. With junior officers and sergeants barking orders, a phalanx of soldiers swiftly dismounted and encircled the building. Henson’s exhausted brain spun as he tried to concoct a plausible cover story, but nothing gelled.
“Bonswa, Matthew,” said Roberto, stepping down from his jeep and swaggering towards the building. “A bit late to be out and about, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be in Morne Bossa?”
Having no ready excuse for his actions, Henson simply replied, “Bonswa, Roberto.” Certainly it was an awkward situation, but at least there was nothing incriminating for them to discover. The only loose end was Lydie, and if she talked … well, on the bright side, Carson and Ourecky were on their way home, and with any luck Lewis and his crew would still make it to the pick-up site without interference. If that leaves me to face the music, he thought, then so be it.
He heard the door swing shut behind him; glancing back, he saw Lydie step out into the moonlight. Smiling serenely, she sidled forward to stand next to Henson. She placed her hand in the small of his back and contentedly leaned her head against his muscled shoulder.
“E bonswa, Lydie,” added Roberto, grinning as he tipped his cap.
For once, Henson was speechless, completely stumped by Lydie’s gesture.
“So when the cat’s away, the mice will play, eh?” observed Roberto.
“What?” sputtered Henson. “Lydie? Oh no, it’s not like …”
“Whatever you say, friend,” replied Roberto, winking. “And here I was, absolutely convinced that you were involved in some sort of clandestine operation, only to discover that you were involved in some sort of clandestine operation. So where is Mister Taylor this evening?”
“On an errand, I suppose,” answered Henson truthfully. “I think he’s on his way to Port-au-Prince, making a few stops along the way.”
“Port-au-Prince? Oh. I had heard rumors that he was courting some blan woman there and would eventually move. Just as well. Truthfully, I’ve never been very fond of him, so …”
“What brings you out this evening, Roberto?” interjected Henson, watching the soldiers milling about next to the building.
“Just a routine drill,” answered Roberto, examining a stopwatch. “I wanted to make sure that my troops are ready to respond immediately to the airport, just in case the Americans attempt to airland forces here. Eighteen minutes and nine seconds from a dead start. Quite good, no?”
“Quite good,” affirmed Henson.
“Well, I’ll leave you two be,” said Roberto. “Perhaps dinner this week? Tuesday evening?”
Henson nodded.
“Maybe someday, when it’s no longer too awkward, you might bring a friend with you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Adieu, Matthew,” said Roberto. “Adieu, Lydie.”
“Adieu,” replied Lydie sweetly, nuzzling Henson and taking his hand.
Roberto turned and spoke to one of his lieutenants, and in moments the soldiers embarked in the trucks and the convoy was gone as quickly as it came.
Henson stood with Lydie, watching the string of red lights slowly dwindle to the north. Then he kissed her on the cheek and said, “Mesi anpil, Lydie.”
“Pa dekwa,” she replied, grinning. “You’re welcome.”
“Adieu,” he said, slinging his canvas bag over his shoulder. He turned and walked away to the south, towards Morne Bossa and his shortwave radio.
“Adieu,” she called after him.
Wright-Patterson Medical Center, Ohio
4:30 p.m., Sunday, March 22, 1970
Breathing heavily, with her heart pounding in her chest, Bea anxiously walked down the hospital corridor clutching her infant child. Just an hour ago, Mark Tew had called to tell her that Scott and Drew had crashed at a remote test site two days earlier, and Scott had been seriously hurt.
Her emotions were a mix of fear and anger. She was terrified about the potential extent of Scott’s injuries; when she demanded answers, Tew had been vague and evasive, only saying that Scott had undergone three surgeries before he was considered stable enough to be transported back to Ohio. She was furious that more information wasn’t forthcoming, and she was angry with her husband for obviously taking too many risks.
She walked past several open wards, finally coming to an individual room normally reserved for senior officers. Stepping inside, she first saw Carson. His left hand was heavily bandaged, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear.
Seeing her husband, her apprehension was dispelled by sheer relief. He looked like hell, but he was alive. Bare from the waist up, he wore blue pajama bottoms. There was a large bruise and scar above his right eye. A jagged incision, about a foot long, ran diagonally across his swollen belly. Sewn closed with thick black suture threads, the scar was puffy at the seams and obviously fresh. A transparent drainage tube, about the thickness of a finger, poked out of his right side. Three bottles of intravenous fluids hung on a rack next to his bed. Scarcely able to breathe, she stood at the foot of his bed, staring at him, watching his chest slowly rise and fall.
“Bea?” said Carson, moving to stand next to her. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Is he awake? Do you think he can hear me?” she replied, hugging Carson with one arm as she cradled the baby with the other.
“He drifts in and out,” answered Carson. “I’m so sorry about Scott, Bea. It was my fault. I misjudged the landing, the left side landing gear collapsed, and we caught fire. I’m so sorry.”
“You can be sorry later. Is your hand going to be okay?”
“Oh, sure. Just a minor burn. The docs said it will heal up in no time.”
She sat in a chair next to the bed. Several medical charts hung from hooks on the wall, but her eye was drawn to a clipboard that held a neatly typed hospital transfer form; the document, which bore a heading of “Naval Hospital - Guan
tanamo Bay, Cuba” indicated that a “Major John Smith, USAF” had been cleared for priority medical evacuation to the hospital at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.
Cuba? she thought. What kind of “flight tests” could they have been doing in Cuba? She remembered that Cuba had been prominent in the news just a few years ago, when America and Russia had almost been drawn into a nuclear war over missiles being shipped there.
“What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the clipboard. “Who’s John Smith?”
“That?” replied Carson furtively. “Uh … that was probably left there from the last patient.”
“So you’re telling me that you and Scott didn’t crash in Cuba?”
“Bea, I swear to you that we didn’t crash in Cuba. Honest.”
Bea decided to drop the inquiry. Carson seemed sincere enough, but it really didn’t matter since she wasn’t going to hear a straight answer anyway.
Ourecky moaned softly and slowly opened his eyes.
Bea leaned over him, kissed his check and said, “I’m here, Scott, but this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. You were supposed to come see me in the hospital.”
Woozy, Ourecky tried to sit up. “Bea,” he said softly. Carson bent over and turned the crank to raise the head of the bed slightly.
“Scott, meet your son,” said Bea, holding the baby towards him. Reaching towards Ourecky with a tiny hand, the infant was awake and inquisitive.
“He’s perfect,” muttered Ourecky, barely conscious. “He’s beautiful. Bea, I …” His eyes closed as he sank back into a drug-induced stupor.
“Like I said, Bea, he fades in and out,” said Carson, standing upright. “It’s the pain medications. He’ll be back around before too long. Just be patient.” He leaned towards the baby, grinning and cooing. “Scott’s right. He is perfect. Does he have a name yet?”
Bea smiled. “Funny you should ask. Just before you two left on this last trip, Scott insisted that I name him after his best friend.”