by Peter Gilboy
But she was stronger. And they had given her more freedom. They let her build a foot-high dike around the doghouse and dig ground gutters to channel the flooding away and toward the canal. She had borrowed a machete so she could hack jungle leaves to stack on the roof and lean against the sides of the doghouse to keep the rain out. Inside the doghouse she had stacked layers of bamboo to keep her off the mud that washed through. Still, she was continuously soaked.
They had given her a cooking pot too. She was permitted to cook rice and make manioc soup from the roots she could find. They even let her fish. She’d made a hook from a wire and attached a string to it. She’d experimented with bait until she was able to catch a few small fish a week, what the guard called bống răng chó. When she fished, there were others farther down the bank with their own fishing lines. They stared at her. Some even waved. She waved back. But they did not come near her, and she was afraid to stray from her spot on the bank. The extra fish nearly doubled her protein, but she was still gaunt. Still, her body was recovering, getting a little stronger. Her mind growing clearer as well.
Even the propaganda classes had become tolerable. She had actually come to see some of her liberator’s points. She could recite the history of the Vietnamese revolution, even the parts about Le Loi and Hung Dao, the two age-old heroes who long ago had developed guerrilla warfare against the Chinese invaders. She saw now that the intrusions of foreigners over the years had robbed this country of its sovereignty, its self-respect, its vital resources. Patricia could also repeat the oversimplified statements of capitalism and many of its exploitations and oppressions, though she still disbelieved them.
But there was something else she considered now, for the first time; how uneven the fighting was. Because of machines. As she lay in the doghouse now and listened to the water storm down around her, she remembered the times she’d heard the firepower of the helicopters and the explosions of their rockets shaking the ground. She remembered feeling the shockwaves on her eardrums even at a distance. For the villagers, whenever the helicopters appeared, it must have been like death itself coming. And this death was brought by men far removed from their destruction; the smooth steel hulls of their crafts, the sterile air-conditioned cockpits with their many gauges measuring the precisions of death. No leeches on the pilots’ backs, no mosquitoes in their hair or torrid heat or torrential rains wearing at their bodies.
Patricia focused again on the noise of the rain. She shifted her weight, rolling to her side to ease the discomfort.
If there had to be struggle, and if there had to be terrible killings—and maybe terrible killings were sometimes necessary—she thought, let people fight each other face to face. Make them perform their duties at eye level and with simple weapons. Let the ones who believed the most win.
Or was their propaganda taking its toll on her? Making her sympathetic to them. Turning her away from her country.
Suddenly the rains picked up even stronger. Her liberator would not come today. There would be no propaganda class. Patricia’s mind traveled back to New England. Somehow, she was able to conjure its deep snows, how they formed drifts that young Pattie and her friends would tunnel through. She remembered hide-and-seek, and how her friends almost never found her, and in the end they had to call out the words to end the game—Ollie, Ollie, come home free.
Was that world still there?
Yes.
Lieutenant Pavlik turned on her stomach and looked out through the doghouse bars. There was nothing like this in New England, rivers falling from the sky. She could not even see the other side of the clearing through the gray rush of water. If she shouted, no one would hear her. But it gave her a peculiar sense of security, even peace, as if she were somehow protected in this cocoon of rain. If she shouted, her liberator wouldn’t come. No one would even be outside.
Maybe this was her chance. Not to escape. That was impossible. Foolish. The jungle was too thick and the surging canal waters would carry her away. But this was her chance. To just get out and wander. Just a bit. That was all. And besides, she mused, she couldn’t get any wetter.
Lieutenant Pavlik pushed open the door of the doghouse and crawled out onto the mud. The heavy rain was a sudden weight on her shoulders. Her black pajamas hung from her body. She laughed, realizing that indeed she could get much wetter.
Patricia’s bare feet slid on the mud as she stepped into the middle of the clearing. She almost fell but caught herself. She headed away from the clearing; not toward the village, but the other way, the way from which hardly anyone came. She stepped awkwardly over protruding roots and slippery stones.
Lieutenant Pavlik’s hair slid over her eyes and she pushed it way. With her hand, she shielded her eyes from the rain. She continued around a bend, and then even farther. She was moving, going forward again, away from her doghouse. She was exhilarated by her freedom. She felt giddy.
Patricia came to another small clearing off to the side of the path. Through the gray rain she could see another doghouse. It was like hers, with open bars on the sides. As she approached, she saw the rain driving through the bars and the mud running across the floor of the cage. Through the gray rain the cage looked empty. She crouched down and wiped the water from her eyes. She put her face against the bars to see.
At first she though it was a dead animal whose body had been chained in a crouching position at the back of the cage. Then it moved. She recoiled. She looked again, at the skull-like head that was rammed deep between two upraised shoulders. Enormous eyes stared out at her. Startled, she wanted to run. Anything to get away. But then she heard a strained voice, unintelligible, a kind of braying, coming from inside the cage.
The figure tilted its head, then slowly crawled toward her. Now two eyes stared at her through the bars. The rain blew against the man’s face. Amazed, she touched his hands that gripped the bars. His mouth opened as if in slow motion and she heard that braying noise again; but this time she recognized it as a long drawn-out word. From the shape of his mouth she knew that sound, a deep strung-out word, a question—“Whooo?”
Stunned, she could only shout, “Hello.” But even that was drowned out by the rain. She shouted it louder—Hello! Then she looked around to make sure no one else had heard, that no one was coming. She was alone with him.
Then she saw that the chain around his ankle wasn’t attached to anything at all. She pulled her hands away from his and unlatched the little door. She opened it and motioned for him. At first he didn’t move. Then, ever so slowly he slid toward the door. There was a strange, contorted look to his face, as if he were trying to laugh but his face wouldn’t allow it. His expression was unchanged as he reached the door. Again came that long braying noise—“Whooo?”
At the edge of the door, she held out her hand to him. He reached toward the open door. Then he pulled the door closed again. He slowly retreated to the rear of the cage.
Patricia stood. The torrents continued to drive down on her. She knew that the man was mad. This is what their lenient policy had done; turn a man into this. This.
She stepped back from the cage. If she had a gun, she would kill him. That was mercy. Yes, that’s what she would do. Her foot slipped as she continued to back up. She fell hard on her side in the mud, bruising her elbow and side. She pushed herself up and shook the mud from her hands and arms. In seconds the torrents from the sky washed the mud from her black pajamas.
With her hands out to her sides for balance, Lieutenant Pavlik stepped slowly back down the path. Back at her doghouse, she bent and crawled inside.
She turned and closed the door.
39
JANUARY 18,2006
GENERAL FINDERS’S OFFICE, 9:00 A.M.
THEN EVENING COMES, AND we’re stupid with exhaustion. We hump until it’s almost dark and then stop and settle down. First thing always is to set up the Claymores. These are small directional mines that we keep in our packs. Mostly, they are C4 explosives mixed with steel balls housed in a green p
lastic rectangle that is curved outward, forcing the explosion to spray in the direction of the curve. You just set your Claymore on its little legs, facing out, and run the wire back to where you’re going to sleep. You hear something, you squeeze the hand-trigger and it sends a charge to the mine. Boom. But louder than boom. Louder than you can imagine.
The call came just an hour ago. Julia answered the phone.
“He’s not here,” I heard her say. She listened a moment. “Is it about that woman, Alec? Well, she’s dead! It’s all been a fucking game! For money. That’s all. Now stop calling my fucking house!”
I grab the phone.
Julia marches away to the bedroom and slams the door shut.
“What?” I demand.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing. What’ya want?”
“There’s a meeting,” Alec tells me. “General Finders’s office.”
“When?”
“Now. Right now.”
“What’s it about?”
“He just wants us there,” Alec says.
I’m barely through the general’s office door when I hear his booming voice. “Come in, gentlemen,” he nearly shouts.
His office is on the floor above ours, a prime corner space with wall-to-wall windows, plush carpeting, a dark mahogany desk, an inlaid bookcase and table.
General Martin Finders is sitting on the far side of the table, leaning back in his chair. He’s a beefy man, about sixty, with a large head and a mustache tailored to military specifications. His stars are polished. Two others are with him. One I’ve seen before, but don’t remember where. The other is Smith. Magellan. Or whoever he is.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Ames,” General Finders says in a perfunctory tone. He puts out his hand without getting up. “Someone said you got married.”
“That’s right,” I say, taking his hand.
“Congrats.”
“Thank you.”
“Julianne, isn’t it?”
“Julia.”
“That’s right. Give her my best.”
“Thank you. I will.”
To say that General Finders is just another bureaucrat in a uniform would be unfair. He’s a patriot. He did his part in Desert Storm and spent some time in Afghanistan. He has the ribbons to prove it. But no one makes it to general as fast as he did without friends. Maybe he was a warrior once, maybe even a good one, a soldier’s soldier; maybe he protected his buddies, saw his missions through to the end. Maybe he risked all of himself. But that’s hard to imagine now. These days, I’m sure he gets up in the morning and puts on his uniform, attaches his ribbons and checks each shoulder to make sure that his stars are even; but General Finders has checked out. My take is that he simply retired one day and didn’t tell anyone. Still, he’s personable enough, keeps his desk tidy, signs a lot of papers, and tries to know the names of everyone under his command.
“Thought you were on a honeymoon?” he says to me now.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Can’t stay away?” he says with a smile.
“Sir?”
The smile turns cold. “Why’d you come back, Ames?”
Tell him it’s your mother.
“Oh. We’re only back for a day or so, sir. That’s all. It’s my mother. She’s sick.”
“I see.”
He doesn’t believe me.
The general motions toward the other two men. “This is Bob Hoffman,” he says. “I don’t think you know each other. He’s with the White House.” I recognize him now. From TV. Bob Hoffman is early thirties, baby-faced, and wearing those rectangular glasses that you see on White House aides. He’s photogenic. That’s one of the requirements to work at the White House.
Hoffman and I shake hands across the table.
“And this is Roy Greene,” the general says, pointing to Smith.
“Greene, is it?” I ask.
“That’s right.”
I look to where his ear used to be. Before, it was covered by his winter cap. Now I see it’s just a ragged hole with a pink flap of skin.
“Who are you with?” I ask him.
“I’m part of the team,” he replies. We shake hands.
“You must be with someone,” I say.
He nods, with a tight-lipped smile.
“There’s coffee over there,” the general announces, pointing. “But we need to get started. This is important, or so I’ve been told.”
I settle into the chair across from the general, conscious of the fact that my back is to the windows. No way to avoid it. I look around. On the wall behind the general is a picture of Thomas Jefferson, who seems to be looking in the general’s direction. There’s also a picture of George Washington, who seems to be keeping an eye on all of us. Eddie is behind me. He’s keeping an eye on Smith.
“This is a closed meeting,” the general says. “The White House asked for it. Classification is secret.”
Hoffman, from the White House, interrupts. “If I may correct you, sir, the classification is SAP-11.”
“Why the upgrade?”
“SOP from my bosses. Sir.” He smiles. “We like to overclassify everything, just in case.”
“Anyway, Hoffman says he’ll fill us in. I’m on a tight schedule. Go on, Hoffman.”
“Thank you, sir.” He turns to Alec. “We have information that a reporter for The Post, a Ted Rogowski—you’ve probably heard of him—is investigating a lead regarding an American citizen in Southeast Asia.” Hoffman looks from Alec to me. “You two know anything about it?”
Alec shakes his head. “Not a thing,” he says.
“No,” I say. “But I’ve heard of Rogowski.”
“It’s a national security issue, as you might imagine,” Hoffman says. “If it’s true.”
“How is that national security?” I ask.
Hoffman ignores me. “What’s disturbing,” he continues, “is that there are suggestions that this guy Rogowski is going to claim the individual is an American soldier who didn’t come home after the war.”
The general seems genuinely surprised. “The war?” he says. “You mean the Vietnam War?”
“That sort of talk is disgraceful,” Hoffman continues, “and you can imagine how damaging that would be to the families who lost someone over there.”
“You mean the Vietnam War?” the general asks again, still incredulous.
I ask Hoffman, “How could Rogowski know who it might be?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t. That’s just the case he’s trying to make. It sells newspapers. And it’s reckless. And it’s a lie.”
I look to Alec, then back to the White House aide. “How did Rogowski get the info?” I ask.
“Here’s the point,” he says, ignoring me again. He turns to Alec. “I asked for this meeting because one of Section Three’s satellites was accessed without authorization. Section Three covers part of Asia, as you know. And that access came from your office, Colonel.”
The general looks to Alec. “You know about this?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” Alec says, confidently. He’s already anticipated this. “But the access was a partial error, unrelated to whatever Mr. Hoffman and the White House might be referring to. Completely unrelated. It was simply part of our Middle East discovery.”
“How’s Asia got anything to do with the Middle East?” the general asks. “Explain.”
Alec is ready. “We were tracking one of our al-Qaeda subjects. Abd Al Alim.”
General Finders nods. “The Abdallah Azzam Brigades,” he says.
“That’s right. He was in Beirut, and our listening cones picked up some numbers that suggested some sort of coordinates. We ran the coordinates as a matter of course, then need to checked them. We used one of Section Three’s 74s. Turned out the coordinates were in the middle of some jungle. So what we heard couldn’t have been coordinates at all.”
“Where was it?” the general asks.
“Gia Lai Province, sir.”
Smith, or Greene, hasn’t said a word. He’s watching me.
“And that’s where?” the general asks.
“A remote place, sir. In Vietnam.”
“You’re kidding.” The general sits back. He looks to Hoffman. “Well? Satisfied?”
“No, I’m not satisfied,” Hoffman says. “The access was highly unauthorized.”
“We were in a real crunch,” Alec explains. “We needed to know right away if the coordinates were at all significant. We broke protocol, yes, and I accept full responsibility. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”
“Well,” General Finders says, checking his watch. “There we are. Satisfied?”
“Not yet, sir,” Hoffman says. He turns to Alec. “This reporter, Rogowski, received a call from a veteran named Brian Pavlik. Apparently Pavlik contacted him after getting a visit from your office regarding his wife who was killed over there decades ago.”
“That was my doing,” Alec says, smoothly. “Not related to anything this reporter Rogowski has, or anything else. I asked Ames to go see Mr. Pavlik.”
“And the reason?” the general asks.
“Coincidentally,” he begins, “the coordinates we ran in Gia Lai Province seemed to show an anomaly in the vegetation.”
“How so?”
“They seemed to depict letters, sir. Six of them. Something written on the ground. Crude, if they were letters at all. We’re not sure what they were.”
“What were the letters?” the general asks.
“R-O-W-B-E-C.”
“Huh. A code of some sort.”
“That’s what we figure now too,” Alec continues. “If they’re letters at all. We’ve concluded it was most likely drug-related if anything, probably a signal to some aircraft. Of course we dropped the matter right then. Not within our parameters, as you know. We’re Middle East. We’ve got enough to do.”
Hoffman speaks up. “And what does that have to do with the veteran, Mr. Pavlik.”
“Oh, that was related to our investigation of the letters,” Alec continues. “We were afraid it might actually be U.S. related, so naturally we searched records to see if anyone had traveled in that area recently, or might possibly be missing in that area from the war.”