There was something else too, an issue I was trying to avoid thinking about. It was completely out of my cognizance, and I had no power to effect the end result one way or the other. But a wingman never forgets his lead, and I couldn't rub out of my mind the fact that Tombstone was on the ground in Vietnam right now.
I looked up at the clock on the wall ― the minute hand had moved slightly since the last time I'd done it.
Tombstone would be on the ground now, probably still stuck in meetings with the officialdom there. There was no way to reach him, no way sufficiently secure to talk this over with him, to warn him that he might be stepping into the beginnings of an American return to Vietnam. We'd never managed to establish a permanent peace there before, not with a massive military machinery behind it, and I doubted we could do it now.
If ever a man had demons, Tombstone did. When you first meet him, you think there's nothing behind that impassive face but good reflexes and a sharp tactical mind. It takes years of knowing him, mission upon mission in flight, before you know who he really is.
Still waters run deep, they say, and I've never seen it more true than with my buddy Tombstone. Two questions in particular haunted him ― how much effect his uncle had had on his career, and the loss of his father over Vietnam so many years ago. I thought someday he'd learn to live with both of those ― now it looked like he'd have a shot at answering the latter. He'd told me a little bit about the leads, and I'd felt my heart sink as I realized just how little he had to go on. These anonymous reports of evidence ― hell, POW families around the U.S. had been tragically bilked for decades with those. The commission set up in D.C. to track down the rumors was always chasing some bogus report of an American still held captive in Vietnam, or one who'd settled in the countryside with a native wife, or of a mass grave turned up. They never amounted to anything more than a few shreds of metal remains or maybe some bones.
But Tombstone had to go check it out firsthand. In his shoes, I would have done the same thing. But I would have been prepared for what was to follow, and I think that Tombstone probably had no idea at all.
Yes, his uncle had let him go with his blessings, even provided some military assets to aid him in the search, as well as points of contact. Only a few people in the Pentagon knew what was happening. And they were sworn to secrecy.
If Tombstone's mission failed, the details would be lost in the eternal shuffling of paperwork within the Pentagon. But if he succeeded in turning up any trace of his father ― ah, now there was the rub.
Tombstone had spent most of his career at sea, in command of squadrons or battle groups. He'd spent one obligatory tour in Washington early on, but hadn't been back for the extended tutoring in intricate politics that a flag officer generally receives. He couldn't see it coming ― but I could.
If Tombstone turned up evidence that his father had been abandoned in Vietnam, the public outcry and political scurrying for cover was going to be beyond anything he imagined. People would be passing the blame, pointing fingers, and wailing loud and long about how they'd not been the ones to abandon our men in Vietnam.
And that was just if Tombstone turned up remains. But I knew what he was really after, and what he thought he would find ― his father alive.
One of the hardest things about command is pushing aside things like that that eat at your gut and turning your attention back to business. With possible nuclear weapons in the hands of the Vietnamese, either for their own use or for sale to any one of a dozen rogue nations around the world, I had more to worry about than the fate of my best friend.
"Admiral, an update from the SAR helo." The Chief of Staff walked into my compartment carrying a brief summary of their last mission.
I looked at him, my hope evident on my face. "Any possibility?"
He shook his head sorrowfully. "It's been a long time, Admiral."
I'd known it, but even so, the report was a disappointment. Damn it, the U.S. had to take a stand ― had to. Let this pass and every tin-pot dictator around the world with a Stinger missile would be taking potshots at us. It was only the fear of massive, overwhelming retaliation that kept them at the bay now, and it was a threat we were ill prepared to back up at best.
"Keep me posted," I said finally. Not that I needed to ask him to.
The Chief of Staff nodded, hesitating as he started to leave the room.
"I'd like to schedule a memorial service, sir," he said hesitantly. "Nothing formal yet ― just to block out the time this coming Sunday."
"Do it." I stared down at the desk and shook my head.
On any cruise in the last twenty-five years, it could have been me or Tombstone. Only by the grace of whatever higher power looks out for aviators had we made it this far, although we'd both lost men under our command. And now, women.
"COS ― make it a good one. They deserve it."
COS looked relieved that I hadn't bitten his head off. That provoked a momentary shiver of chagrin.
"I will, Admiral." He pulled the door shut on his way out, and left me alone with my thoughts.
4
Admiral "Tombstone" Magruder
24 September
Vietnam
I heard the Tomcat even though I couldn't see it. The faint growl, as familiar to me as my own heartbeat, was barely audible above the constant whine of insects and the heavy harsh thudding of machete against jungle foliage. I would have known the sound anywhere, even if I'd been away from the cockpit for far longer than I had been.
I paused, waving a hand at our small troupe for silence. My command of the Vietnamese language was limited to a few polite phrases, some incredibly vulgar ones, and a few field commands I'd picked up since we left the hotel. Whether it was because of my butchered rendition of their native language or the expression on my face, the Vietnamese accompanying our small party fell silent.
Two Tomcats, I could tell now. High ― ten thousand, maybe fifteen thousand feet. It was a standard tactical altitude, well out of the range of short-range surface-to-air missiles, but still low enough that they could sight significant ground landmarks and navigate by terrain alone if they had to.
But what were they doing so far inland? I listened to the sound of the aircraft fade away into the brilliant blue sky, then motioned to my guide that we could continue. I'd spent the nights at the Downtown Hilton, relaxing in that peculiar combination of American-style facilities and native workers. You could get the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, and the copies of Sports Illustrated were current. The cashier took my American money, charged me an outrageous exchange rate to produce a handful of Vietnamese bills, and smiled politely. The first night I pleaded jet lag and got rid of Than and his entourage early on. Later, after I was sure they'd left the hotel, I ordered room service. This morning, we'd set off early, even as the sun was just making its way over the mountains. The mountains themselves were just black shadows, back-lit by the sun. Dark, mysterious, and unknowable, they cropped up around the country to separate long stretches of fertile wetlands. Than brought along about ten of his countrymen that he said would serve as security and guides. He warned me about the conditions we were headed into, as though I hadn't already researched them. It would be primitive, wet jungle, hard climbing up the mountains and wet going around the rice paddies. He looked at me doubtfully, as though uncertain that I could withstand the rigors of the cross-country hike. "Fifteen miles, maybe more," he warned.
"I work out." From the puzzled expression on his face, I saw that my response hadn't been all that clear. I pantomimed lifting weights, then added, "And run. Every day."
Than nodded, reassured more by my tone of voice and expression than by a complete understanding of what an American means by working out.
He'd chartered us three minivans to hold all the people and gear. We piled in, and I took a seat in the front of the lead vehicle, which Than was driving. We left the city quickly, careening along the crowded highways among native drivers who seemed determined to commit
suicide in their automobiles.
Three hours later, the road degenerated to a roughly paved two-lane highway wending its way up the mountainside. The drop to my right was terrifying ― five hundred, maybe a thousand feet straight down. No guardrails. For the first time, it really came home to me that I was no longer in the United States.
We circled around one mountain range, coming down on the opposite side, then cut off onto a single-lane mud road still damp from the previous night's rainfall. Clouds were filling the sky, billowing and tumbling into immense cumulous shapes. I wouldn't have flown through them, not for any price.
Finally, the road stopped. Simply dead-ended into a wall of green foliage that was already creeping over the cleared space.
Than stopped the vehicle, got out, and began supervising the unloading. The ten men quickly picked up packs, and I asked him if there was one for me. He shook his head. "No, you and I do not carry." He pointed at the men. "That is what they are for."
I nodded, vaguely disturbed at the undemocratic resolution of the issue. Hell, I was an admiral, but I still humped my own bags. When my aide would let me.
There was no particular ceremony to entering the wilderness. It was almost anticlimatic, after the quick flight into the country and the bone-jarring ride to the edge of the wilderness. We simply donned packs ― or at least the men did ― and stepped off the track and into it.
Within a few steps, I could feel the jungle clinging to me. It was alive with the small sounds that forests make, birds, something skittering in the trees overhead, the steady drip of water somewhere in the distance. The sky was replaced by a canopy of green, looped overhead with vines entangled, almost as thick in places as the undergrowth was.
Black fertile soil, so rich you could smell the deep loam of it. Things sprouted, grew, and flourished over every inch of it, only occasionally dislodged by the tramping we made.
The men didn't talk, not for a while. I had the sense that they were reorienting themselves to being in the jungle, shedding away easier, more civilized habits for those that would insure their survival in here. They moved quietly, pausing occasionally to shatter the jungle noises with their machetes, their voices low and even. The sounds barely carried at all, not against the background cacophony of the wilderness.
Than edged closer. He handed me a rifle and an extra clip. I stared at him for a moment, started to wonder what regulations governed giving weapons to a U.S. citizen in his country, then caught myself at the sheer folly of it. "Every man must have a weapon." Than's voice was that same low almost indistinguishable tone I'd heard the other men use. "Just in case."
"In case of what?"
He shook his head, and it seemed to me that he was not going to answer.
"In case of what?" I let my voice rise a little bit higher now, invoking the tone that had intimidated so many junior officers during my last twenty-five years. "In case of what?"
Than sighed, then gave up. "It is not only the wildlife we have to be afraid of," he said. "Cautious of," he corrected himself immediately. "Snakes, the cats…" He made a gesture that encompassed the whole vast expanse of wilderness. "Those, of course. And you may have heard other stories from your intelligence people. The guerillas ― they still claim some parts of the jungle as their own."
"The part we're going to?"
He nodded, his eyes for the first time filled with some dark emotion I could not peg. "It is a matter of history as much as anything," he began, now venturing slowly into the topic he'd avoided before. "The history between your country ― and mine."
"They're not still fighting the Vietnam war?"
"Not exactly that. But the camp we are going to ― the former camp ― was of course deep within their territory. It would be, you know. Away from prying eyes, out of sight of your aircraft. When the war ended, we were not able to arrange for an orderly dissolving of all units. Some merely fell apart, with men picking up their few belongings and returning to their villages. It took years, but they were gradually reabsorbed into their homes. They had wives, families ― all were still waiting for them, not knowing if they were dead or alive."
"You said some. What about the others?" An uneasy prickling was making its way across the back of my head, as though eyes were watching me from the jungle. I glanced back, saw nothing move, no trace of any other presence in the jungle save ours.
He started slowly, clearly reluctant to speak further. "There were other units ― I have seen the reports. Ones that did not disband, men who had nothing left to go home to. The army was their only way of life, the only thing they had left. They remained as units, no longer provisioned or paid by our government, but still functioning." He shrugged, an oddly eloquent gesture. "How they have survived, I do not know. Stealing, certainly. There have been raids on our remaining camps for decades. Perhaps some of their former comrades are sympathetic to their cause and allow supplies to filter out from their commands into the depths of the jungle. There is really no way to know." He fell silent, and his eyes were down studying the ground.
"Are you certain of this?" I asked. There were precedents, of course. Reports of Japanese who'd still fought the last world war from remote outposts decades after peace had been declared. Small bands of Korean soldiers who'd never gotten the word that the war was over. Certainly, I could see how a unit could continue to function, could eke out a living in this warm and fertile land.
"They are still here." Than fell silent, clearly disinclined to elaborate.
"You shoot first?" I asked. In the military we have rules of engagement that govern our contact with enemy forces. But here, in his country, under his sponsorship, I would be extremely reluctant to take the first shot against a Vietnamese, even one who might intend me harm.
"We have scouts ahead," he said, motioning to the front of the column. I saw that we were short two men, who'd evidently gone ahead to mark out our path. "If the rebels appear, my men will try to determine whether they are hostile or friendly. Some are indifferent to our presence here, others are openly… territorial."
The terrain had changed slightly, had been rising under my feet steadily, and now abruptly increased in grade. I found myself trying to carry on a conversation with Than while struggling up a mountain, and gave up talking. There was no point in trying to get more information out of him ― he'd tell me what he thought I needed to know.
Soon I noticed that the vegetation was changing, thinning out slightly from the morass of vines and undergrowth we'd run into below. The going was rough, though, and vines and thick bushes still barred our way. I was sweating, water pouring down my back and gluing my shirt to me. Insects swarmed around us, flocking to any bit of exposed skin. I pulled the tube of insect repellent out of my pants pocket and smeared some more around my neck and on my hands. God knows how long it would last with the sweat pouring off me like it was. Were there leeches? I shuddered, and made it a point to check that my jungle pants were bloused over the heavy boots.
The heavy growth of trees stopped abruptly, and we broke out into a clearing. The ground continued on up, and we followed it to the very top.
From the top of the ridge, I could see the ocean in the distance. On the horizon, a dusty, misted-over familiar shape greeted me. Jefferson ― it had to be. There was no other aircraft carrier in the vicinity.
For a moment I felt a sensation of inchoate longing, the absolute conviction that I was in the wrong place. I belonged on the carrier, at sea, surrounded by a clean expanse of water. Not here, cloaked in mosquitoes and insects of every description, blinking to clear the dirty sweat from my eyes and trying to keep up with men born to this country.
Had it been like this for my father? The power of the thought almost stunned me, and all at once I had the uncanny sensation that I was trodding in his steps. Perhaps he'd stopped in this very spot and looked out at the ocean, seeing his ship out there so clearly visible and so far from reach. Maybe he'd had his radio, and it had been broken in the fall, or maybe he'd lost it when he p
unched out. How had he survived out here, alone and without his people?
No. Reality reasserted itself. My father would not have been here ― not immediately after the ejection, at any rate. He'd punched out over the Doumer Bridge in downtown Hanoi, nowhere near here. His wingman had said he'd seen a chute, but despite the best efforts of the U.S., there was never any report of his surviving.
No, if he'd come here, it had been as a prisoner of war, under the escort of armed men. They would have set a faster pace, urging him on perhaps with his hands bound together in front of him as he stumbled over these paths.
"They brought them in in helicopters," Than said as though reading my mind. "Prisoners of war were collected at a central site, then transported by helicopter."
"Not always," I said.
He appeared to consider that for a moment, and then nodded. "Not always."
"How much further is it to this camp?" I asked.
He shrugged. "It depends on the pace. Much of the way is like this, mountainous and jungle. Another ten miles, perhaps a little bit more."
"We're heading north," I noted, observing the position of the sun in the sky.
"Yes. It is to the north."
"Then let's get going."
Than called out softly in his own language, and the men who'd been seated on the ground taking a well-deserved break moved quickly to their feet and gathered up their packs. We continued on for another hour before all hell broke loose. As we progressed through the jungle, I started developing a morbid dread of leeches. I'd heard too many stories about men in country in Vietnam, of the giant bloodsuckers that would affix themselves to any visible part of the skin and burrow in, bloating their vast bodies on human blood. It was an unreasonable fear ― we were far above the small stream that had created the gully we'd first crossed, and probably well out of the reach of leeches.
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