Whistleblower and Never Say Die

by Tess Gerritsen

  Sunlight sparkled through the shattered windshield. The navigational equipment was gutted; charred wires hung from holes in the instrument panel. Her gaze shifted to the bulkhead, riddled with bullet holes. She ran her fingers across the ravaged metal and then pulled away.

  As she took a step back, she heard a voice say, “There isn’t much left of her. But I guess you could say the same of me.”

  Willy spun around. And froze.

  He came out of the forest, a man in rags, walking toward her. It was the gait she recognized, not the body, which had been worn down to its rawest elements. Nor the face.

  Certainly not the face.

  He had no ears, no eyebrows. What was left of his hair grew in tortured wisps. He came to within a few yards of her and stopped, as though afraid to move any closer.

  They looked at each other, not speaking, perhaps not daring to speak.

  “You’re all grown up,” he finally said.

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I guess I am.”

  “You look good, Willy. Real good. Are you married yet?”

  “No.”

  “You should be.”

  “I’m not.”

  A pause. They both looked down, looked back up, strangers groping for common ground.

  Softly he asked, “How’s your mother?”

  Willy blinked away a new wave of tears. “She’s…dying.” She felt a comfortless sense of retribution at her father’s shocked silence. “It’s cancer,” she continued. “I wanted her to see a doctor months ago, but you know how she is. Never thinking about herself. Never taking the time to…” Her voice cracked, faded.

  “I had no idea,” he whispered.

  “How could you? You were dead.” She looked up at the sky and suddenly laughed, an ugly sound in that quiet circle of trees. “It never occurred to you to write to us? One letter from the grave?”

  “It only would have made things harder.”

  “Harder than what? Than it’s already been?”

  “With me gone, dead, Ann was free to move on,” he said, “to…find someone else. Someone better for her.”

  “But she didn’t! She never even tried! All she could think about was you.”

  “I thought she’d forget. I thought she’d get over me.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Wilone.”

  After a pause, she said, “I’m sorry, too.”

  A bird sang in the trees, its sweet notes piercing the silence between them.

  She asked, “What happened to you?”

  “You mean this?” He gestured vaguely at his face.

  “I mean…everything.”

  “Everything,” he repeated. Then, laughing, he looked up at the branches. “Where the hell do I start?” He began to walk in a circle, moving among the trees like a lost man. At last he stopped beside the fuselage. Gazing at the jagged remains, he said, “It’s funny. I never lost consciousness. Even when I hit the trees, when everything around me was being ripped apart, I stayed awake all the way down. I remember thinking, ‘So when do I get to see heaven?’ Or hell, for that matter. Then it all went up in flames. And I thought, ‘There’s my answer. My eternity…’”

  He stopped, let out a deep sigh. “They found me a short way from here, stumbling around under the trees. Most of my face was burned away. But I don’t remember feeling much of anything.” He looked down at his scarred hands. “The pain came later. When they tried to clean the burns. When the nerves grew back. I’d scream at them to let me die, but they wouldn’t. I guess I was too valuable.”

  “Because you were American?”

  “Because I was a pilot. Someone to pump for information, someone to trade. Maybe someone to spread the Party line back home….”

  “Did they…hurt you?”

  He shook his head. “I guess they figured I’d been hurt enough. It was a quieter sort of persuasion. Endless discussions. Relentless arguments as I recovered. I swore I wasn’t going to let the enemy twist my head around. But I was weak. I was far from home. And they said things—so many things—I couldn’t argue with. And after a while…after a while it made…well, sense. About this country being their house, about us being the burglars in the house. And wouldn’t anyone with burglars in their house fight back?”

  He let out a sigh. “I don’t know anymore. It sounds so feeble now, but I just got tired. Tired of arguing. Tired of trying to explain what I was doing in their country. Tired of trying to defend God only knew what. It was easier just to agree with them. And after a while, I actually started to believe it. Believe what they were telling me.” He looked down. “According to some people, that makes me a traitor.”

  “To some people. Not to me.”

  He was silent.

  “Why didn’t you come home?” she asked.

  “Look at me, Willy. Who’d want me back?”

  “We did.”

  “No, you didn’t. Not the man I’d become.” He laughed hollowly. “Everyone would be pointing at me, whispering behind my back, talking about my face. Is that the kind of father you wanted? The kind of husband your mother wanted? Back home, people expect you to have a nose and ears and eyebrows.” He shook his head. “Ann…Ann was so beautiful. I—I couldn’t go back to that.”

  “But what do you have here? Look at you, at what you’re wearing, at how skinny you are. You’re starving, wasting away.”

  “I eat what the rest of the village eats. It’s enough to live on.” He picked at the rag that served as his shirt. “Clothes, I never much cared about.”

  “You gave up a family!”

  “I—I found another family, Willy. Here.”

  She stared at him, stunned.

  “I have a wife. Her name’s Lan. And we have children. A baby girl and two boys…eight and ten. They can speak English, and a little French….” he said helplessly.

  “We were at home!”

  “But I was here. And Lan was here. She saved my life, Willy. She was the one who kept me alive through the infections, the fevers, the endless pain.”

  “You said you begged to die.”

  “Lan was the one who made me want to live again.”

  Willy stared at that man with half a face, the man she’d once called her father. The lashless eyes looked back at her, unblinking. Awaiting judgment.

  She still had a face, a normal life, she thought. What right did she have to condemn him?

  She looked away. “So. What do I tell Mom?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

  “She has a right to know.”

  “Maybe it would be kinder if she didn’t.”

  “Kinder to whom? You or her?”

  He looked down at his feet in their dirty slippers. “I suppose I deserve that. Whatever you have to say, I deserve it. But God knows, I wanted to make it up to her. And to you. I sent money—twenty, maybe thirty thousand dollars. You got it, didn’t you?”

  “We never knew who sent it.”

  “You weren’t supposed to know. Nora Walker arranged it through a bank in Bangkok. It was everything I had. All that was left of the gold.”

  She gave him a bewildered look and saw that his gaze had shifted toward the plane’s fuselage. “You were carrying gold?”

  “I didn’t know it at the time. It was our little rule at Air America: Never ask about the cargo. Just fly the plane. But after she went down, after I crawled out of the wreckage, I saw it. Gold bars scattered all over the ground. It was crazy. There I was, half my damn face burned off, and I remember thinking, “I’m rich. If I live through this, son of a bitch, I’m rich.” He laughed, then, at his own lunacy, at the absurdity of a dying man rejoicing among the ashes. “I buried some of the gold, threw some in the bushes. I thought—I guess I thought it would be my ticket out. That if I was captured, I could use it to bargain for my freedom.”

  “What happened?”

  He looked off at the trees. “They found me. NVA soldiers. And they found mos
t of the gold.” He shrugged. “They kept us both.”

  “But not forever. You didn’t have to stay—” She stopped. “Didn’t you ever think of us?”

  “I never stopped thinking of you. After the war, after all that—that insanity was over, I came back here, dug up what gold they hadn’t found. I asked Nora to get it out to you.” He looked at Willy. “Don’t you see? I never forgot you. I just…” He stopped, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I just couldn’t go back.”

  In the trees above, branches rattled in the wind. Leaves drifted down in a soft rain of green.

  He turned away. “I suppose you’ll want to go back to Hanoi. I’ll see that someone drives you….”

  “Dad?”

  He halted, not daring to look at her.

  “Your little boys. You—say they understand English?”

  He nodded.

  She paused. “Then we ought to understand each other, the boys and I,” she said. “I mean, assuming they want to meet me….”

  Her father quickly rubbed a hand across his eyes. But when he turned to look at her, she could still see the tears glistening there. He smiled…and held out his hand to her.

  She’d been gone too long.

  Three hours had passed, and Guy was more than worried. He was scared out of his head. Something wasn’t right. It was that old instinct of his, that sense of doom closing in, and he was helpless to do anything about it. A dozen different images kept forming in his mind, each one progressively more terrible. Willy screaming. Dying. Or already dead in the jungle. When at last he heard the rumble of the jeep, he was hovering at the edge of panic.

  Dr. Andersen was at the wheel. “Good morning, Mr. Barnard!” he called cheerily as Guy stalked over to him.

  “Where is she?”

  “She is safe.”

  “Prove it.”

  Andersen threw open the door and gestured for him to get in. “I will take you to her.”

  Guy climbed in and slammed the door. “Where are we going?”

  “It is a long drive.” Andersen threw the jeep into gear and spun them around onto a dirt track. “Be patient.”

  The night’s rainfall had turned the path to muck, and on either side the jungle pressed in, close and strangling. They might have gone for miles or tens of miles; on a road locked in by jungle, distance was impossible to judge. When Andersen finally pulled off to the side, Guy could see no obvious reason for stopping. Only when he’d climbed out and stood among the trees did he notice the tiny footpath leading into the bush. He couldn’t see what lay beyond; the forest hid everything from view.

  “From here we walk,” said Andersen, foraging around for a few loose branches.

  “Why the camouflage?” asked Guy, watching Andersen drape the branches over the jeep.

  “Protection for the village.”

  “What are they afraid of?”

  Andersen reached under the tarp on the backseat and pulled out an AK-47. Casually, he slung it over his shoulder. “Everything,” he said, and headed off into the jungle.

  The footpath led into a shadowy world of hundred-foot trees and tangled vines. Watching Andersen’s back, Guy was struck by the irony of a doctor lugging an automatic rifle. He wondered what enemy he planned to use it on.

  The smells of rotting vegetation, of mud simmering in the heat were only too familiar. “The whole damn jungle smells of death,” the GIs used to say. Guy felt his gait change to a silent glide, felt his reflexes kick into overdrive. His five senses were painfully acute; the snap of a branch under Andersen’s boot was as shocking as gunfire.

  He heard the sounds of the village before he saw it. Somewhere deep in the forest, children were laughing. And then he heard water rushing and the cry of a baby.

  Andersen pushed ahead, and as the last curtain of branches parted, Guy saw, beneath a towering stand of trees, the circle of huts. In the central courtyard, children batted a pebble back and forth with their feet. They froze as Guy and Andersen emerged from the forest. One of the girls called out; instantly, a dozen adults emerged from the huts. In silence they all watched Guy.

  Then, in the doorway of one hut, a familiar figure appeared. As Willy came toward Guy, he had the sudden desire to take her in his arms and kiss her right then and there, in view of the whole village, the whole world. But he couldn’t seem to move. He could only stare down at her smiling face.

  “I found him,” Willy said.

  He shook his head. “What?”

  “My father. He’s here.”

  Guy turned and saw that someone else had emerged from the hut. A man without ears, without eyebrows. The horrifying apparition held out its hand; a fingertip was missing.

  William Maitland smiled. “Welcome to Na Co, Mr. Barnard.”

  Dr. Andersen’s jeep was easy to spot, even through the camouflage. How fortunate the rains had been so heavy the night before; without all that mud, Siang would never have been able to track the jeep to this trail head.

  He threw aside the branches and quickly surveyed the jeep’s interior. On the backseat, beneath a green canvas tarp, was a jug of drinking water, a few old tools and a weathered notebook, obviously a journal, filled with scribbling. The name “Dr. Gunnel Andersen” was written inside the front cover.

  Siang left the jeep, tramped a few paces into the jungle and peered through the shadows. It took only a moment to spot the footprints. Two men. Dr. Andersen and who else? Barnard? He followed the tracks a short way and saw that, just beyond the first few trees, the footprints led to a distinct trail, no doubt an old and established path. The village of Na Co must lie farther ahead.

  He returned to the limousine where the man was waiting. “They have gone into the forest,” Siang said. “There’s a village trail.”

  “Is it the right one?”

  Siang shrugged. “There are many villages in these mountains. But the jeep belongs to Dr. Andersen.”

  “Then it’s the right village.” The man sat back, satisfied. “I want our people here tonight.”

  “So soon?”

  “It’s the way I work. In and out. The men are ready.”

  In fact the mercenary team had been waiting two days for the signal. They’d been assembled in Thailand, fifteen men equipped with the most sophisticated in small arms. As soon as the order went through, they would be on their way, no questions asked.

  “Tell them we need the dogs as well,” said the man. “For mopping up. The whole village goes.”

  Siang paused. “The children?”

  “One mustn’t leave orphans.”

  This troubled Siang a little, but he said nothing. He knew better than to argue with the voice of necessity. Or power.

  “Is there a radio in the jeep?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” said Siang.

  “Rip it out.”

  “Andersen will see—”

  “Andersen will see nothing.”

  Siang nodded in instant understanding.

  The man drove off in the limousine, headed for a rendezvous spot a mile ahead. Siang waited until the car had disappeared, then he trotted back to the jeep, ripped out the wires connecting the radio and smashed the panel for good measure. He found a cool spot beneath a tree and sat down. Closing his eyes, he summoned forth the strength needed for his task.

  Soon he would have assistance. By tonight, the well paid team of mercenaries would stand assembled on this road. He wouldn’t allow himself to think of the victims—the women, the children. It was a consequence of war. In every skirmish, there were the innocent casualties. He’d learned to accept it, to shrug it off as inevitable. The act of pulling a trigger required a clear head swept free of emotions. It was, after all, the way of battle.

  It was the way of success.

  “Does she understand the danger?” asked Maitland.

  “I don’t know.” Guy stood in the doorway and gazed out at the leaf-strewn courtyard where the village kids were mobbing Willy, singing out questions. The wonderful bedlam of children,
he thought wistfully. He turned and looked at the mass of scars that was Bill Maitland’s face. “I’m not sure I understand the danger.”

  “She said things have been happening.”

  “Things? More like dead bodies falling left and right of us. We’ve been followed every—”

  “Who’s been following you?”

  “The local police. Maybe others.”

  “The Company?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t come and introduce themselves.”

  Maitland, suddenly agitated, began to pace the hut. “If they’ve traced you here…”

  “Who’re you hiding from? The Company? The local police?”

  “To name a few.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Everyone.”

  “That narrows it down.”

  Maitland sat down on the sleeping pallet and rested his head in his hands. “I wanted to be left alone. That’s all. Just left alone.”

  Guy gazed at that scarred scalp and wondered why he felt no pity. Surely the man deserved at least a little pity. But at that instant, all Guy felt was irritation that Maitland was thinking only of himself. Willy had a right to a better father, he thought.

  “Your daughter’s already found you,” he said. “You can’t change that. You can’t shove her back into the past.”

  “I don’t want to. I’m glad she found me!”

  “Yet you never bothered to tell her you were alive.”

  “I couldn’t.” Maitland looked up, his eyes full of pain. “There were lives at stake, people I had to protect. Lan, the children—”

  “Who’s going to hurt them?” Guy moved in, confronted him. “It’s been twenty years, and you’re still scared. Why? What kind of business were you in?”

  “I was just a pawn—I flew the planes, that’s all. I never gave a damn about the cargo!”

  “What was the cargo? Drugs? Arms?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Which?”

  “Both.”

  Guy’s voice hardened. “And which side took delivery?”

  Maitland sat up sharply. “I never did business with the enemy! I only followed orders!”

  “What were your orders on that last flight?”

  “To deliver a passenger.”