by Peter Gilboy
I do some warm-ups first, fifty pushups, though I only make it to nine. Then a hundred jumping jacks. I make it to thirty. Still, it’s better than before. Then I stretch against a lamppost.
From somewhere I hear Eddie: It’s a fucking parade.
He can only mean one thing. Smith. Or Greene, or whoever he is now. I don’t see him yet, but he’s here somewhere. Eddie can sense these things.
I continue stretching. After a time, Smith enters.
He’s wearing his blue cold-weather running vest and street shoes. There’s a knit cap covering his head and the place where his ear used to be. Without a word he chooses a nearby lamppost and begins his own stretching.
I start around the track. It takes me three minutes for the first lap. Not real good, but I’m moving, aren’t I? I look back. Eddie is in the bleachers watching. Smith is still warming up.
On the second lap, Smith falls in beside me. “I can’t get rid of you,” I manage between breaths.
We run in silence for a time, him running easily even in his street clothes. I’m sure he can hear me huffing.
“I saw your 201 file, Ames. You were quite the soldier back then. Sergeant E-5. Pleiku. Ban me Thuot. Then Yen Bai. Lots of action.” He laughs. “Now you’re a government flunky. Fat and happy, is that it? Such a pity.”
I ignore his taunts. “What do you want?”
“I told you. I need you to find that pearl. Pavlik. I need you to find out where she went after she made the ROWBEC letters.”
“She could be anywhere now.”
“You can track the valleys and ravines going east, can’t you? That’s obviously her direction. Use your thermal imaging.”
“You heard Hoffman and the general. I’m not authorized.”
“But you still have the access.”
“Yeah, and it would be my ass, not to mention my job. Alec’s too, if they ever found out.”
I feel him stiffen as he runs. “I guess you like being fat and happy.”
“Fuck you, Smith. Even if I was authorized, it’d take days just to scan the area.”
“I’ll take care of Hoffman and the general. Don’t worry about him.”
“You should have thought of that before you two tried to get Alec and me fired.”
“That was Hoffman. Gotta do what the boss wants. But I can handle him, Ames, if I have to. He’s just another government paper pusher, like you.”
We run for a time in silence, side by side.
“Tell me how many, Smith.”
“How many what?”
“How many pearls? How many pearls in all?”
More silence from Smith.
“I asked how many.”
“You mean then, or now?”
“Then,” I say.
“Okay. Two hundred and four,” he answers bluntly.
“Jesus. I thought there were less, far less.”
“Two hundred and four we know of. There were probably a couple more. Dead now for sure.”
“What about the ‘walking K’ soldiers?”
“Dead.”
“And the ones on that road gang near Nhommarath?”
“Same.”
“Fuck. There were thirty of them.”
“That’s right. And there’s eleven left. Still there, Ames.”
“Bullshit.”
We round the back side of the track.
“Not including her,” he adds. “She’s the twelfth.”
“Then where are they?” I demand. “Where are they holding them?”
“In ’81, the Vietnamese consolidated all two hundred and four in Savannakhet, just across the border in Laos. The Vietnamese call it Camp Hòa Bình, which means ‘peace.’”
“Jesus. Why? Why the fuck didn’t we do something back then?”
“Right,” he answers with a sneer. “Who’s going to admit that they knew they were there all along, and just left them? The cowardly politicians? Or maybe the generals who want another promotion?”
I’m huffing, and he can hear it. Even in street shoes he’s moving easily. I slow to an even walk. I feel myself tensing.
“You know who they are?” I manage. “The eleven still there, still alive. You have their names?”
He scoffs. “Of course I have their names.”
“And how many have you gotten out?”
Smith’s eyes narrow as if weighing the pros and cons of answering. He steps ahead of me now. He turns and jogs backward in his street shoes, facing me as I walk.
“How many?” I demand.
“Thirty-four,” he answers proudly. “Took us more than ten years, Ames. But we did it. We got thirty-four of them out, so far. I did. They’re safe now.”
“So it’s your operation?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it matters!”
He grins. “No, it’s not mine alone. We call ourselves the Salvation Army. Get it?”
“Yeah, funny. How many of you are there?”
“Active, like me? Probably twenty or so. More than a hundred in all, though.”
“Who are they?”
“Regular people,” he answers. “Private citizens. Some are veterans, some not. We stay underground and compartmentalized, so even I don’t know all of them. Some are older and not even able to get around now. But they know the facts and have been supporting us in the ways that they can. Mostly with money. It takes money to get them out.”
“Then why don’t you get the others out?”
“No way, even if we tried. The place is guarded, mined, and shielded from the sky. The ones still there, they’d be killed in a minute. The place is a real hole, as you might imagine. Clean water, though. That’s the only reason some of them have been able to survive this long.”
It starts snowing again. The wind picks up.
“How long have you known?” I demand.
He thinks a moment. “About eleven years.”
“And the military? The agencies?”
“Some of them must have known. At least back then, in the late ’70s people knew. And probably into the ’80s. It was T-4 classified, which you probably never heard of. Over the years the few people who did know, retired or died. Not much of an institutional memory after that.”
“The ones you say you got out,” I say between breaths, “where are they now?”
He stops backpedaling and comes to a halt in front of me. He smiles. “You already know the answer to that one, Ames.”
He’s right. I’ve heard the stories. But they were too outrageous, too unconscionable to be true: A dead soldier’s mother wheels her cart out of Walmart and her son pulls up in a car, puts the window down, and nods to her, a Hello, Mom. I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me. Then he drives away. Or the wife who gets a call from her dead husband, I just wanted to hear your voice.
“No contact,” I say, “isn’t that right?”
“They’re in the Program. That’s what we call it.”
“New location, too. That’s the condition, isn’t it? Like witness protection.”
“Wrong there, Ames. The point is they can’t be witnesses. If the facts got out the Vietnamese leaders could be tried for war crimes. But before that, they’d kill the American’s still left. They’d simply disappear. And then we’d have betrayed them twice.”
“What do the Vietnamese get out of it?”
“The gooks? Our money, that’s what. Just like they got for the French pearls. Except when we got good intel and could move on it. One time we learned that two of ours were being moved, and we hit the transport. Freed them and got them out of there and into the Program.”
I shake my head. “What about the families? You owe them, too!”
“They already had their loss, a long time ago.”
“You’re a fucking bastard, Smith.”
Smith puts a finger to my chest. “Look, Ames, the soldiers we’ve gotten out so far understand all of this, even if you don’t.”
“But she’s different, isn’t she?” I
say. “Why?”
Smith is silent.
“Because she’s a woman, is that it?”
He won’t answer.
“Or because she’s escaped on her own. Because she’s not going into your program? Yeah, that’s your problem, Smith, isn’t it?”
“You might say that.”
“So, if she gets out by herself, and the public finds out—”
“The public can’t find out,” he interrupts. “That’s why we have to find her before she gets out.”
“And what?”
“And reason with her, of course. She’ll understand that the others would be killed. That’s why we need your access, just one more time. We have to find her, and you can help us. Don’t worry about Hoffman. I’ll take care of him.”
“There must be another way.”
“Horse shit or horse manure,” he says. “Those are our choices.”
I shake my head. “The answer is still no.”
Smith faces me, his eyes narrowing in anger. “Okay, if you want to stay fat and happy even with lives at stake, then that’s on you, Ames. But you’re our missing piece. We need you! We need your satellites to find where she is. You’re the only one who can do it.”
“You’re wrong there, Smith,” I snap. “I’m not the missing piece.”
“Yeah, what then?”
“It’s something else,” I say, holding his eyes. “It’s something you’re not telling me. Maybe you’re not trying to save Patricia Pavlik at all.”
44
A JUNGLE VILLAGE
DAY 305
IT WAS TWO DAYS later. Patricia had slept well each of those nights. She dreamed in Vietnamese, even speaking the language well. The dreams were the same; images of Vang from the other village—seventy or a hundred Vangs in all—for he was each of the villagers with a hand balled up in a fist and the other hand consoling her, saying in a chorus of Vangs—“Một cây đứng cao cho đến khi nó chết.” She was not afraid.
Before she awakened she told the many Vangs that she would be going home soon. They looked at her kindly, and in a chorus said: “Yes, Phatri, soon.”
Her body ached as usual in the early morning. Her back itched terribly from a fungal infection that had never completely healed. The medicine was gone and the fungus seemed to be growing in all directions again.
Patricia Pavlik was standing outside the doghouse in the drizzle cooking mushy rice in a pot when her liberator arrived. He said nothing, just pointed up the path in the direction of the hut where she had been questioned by the Leniency Team. Still tense and anxious over her possible release, she followed him to the hut.
The same three officials were waiting in their chairs in front of the same narrow table. Her liberator took his place behind the officials. The leader, Ông giải phóng Hiep, took charge, pointing for her to sit on the wooden box on the other side of the table. She nodded to them all and bid them good morning in their language. Then she sat, shivering with excitement.
Ông giải phóng Hiep spoke triumphantly. “The American forces have been smashed. They are fleeing back home by sea and air!”
She strained to keep her voice calm. “Then it’s over,” she said.
“Coming here was a hopeless venture for you Americans,” he went on proudly. “It is also hopeless for the puppets of the government to continue to resist us.” He suddenly turned angry and raised his fist. “But the lackey government forces continue to use your American weapons! They are still fed by your American food!”
“But the Americans are leaving,” she said. “We’re going home.”
“The Americans go, yes, but now the struggle continues against the puppets in the South.”
She waited.
Ông giải phóng Hiep held up the pages she had written. “We have read your responses,” he said. “We are disappointed that you have been evasive. You do not realize that you must accept the truth of our situation in Vietnam. We hoped you would discard your old understanding and no longer be an aggressor toward us.”
She stared. “I only went where my country sent me. You have to understand that.”
“I understand that you must learn. In time you will no longer be a criminal of war.”
“In time? I don’t understand.”
“It requires effort. Maybe then you will be a peace soldier.”
“I don’t understand,” she said again.
“We wanted you to show us the same courage that the Second Front in your country shows. They protest and resist in the streets. They tell the truth about America. They have courage. If you do not yet have their courage, you must grow the courage.”
“SEND ME HOME!” she screamed.
“NO!” he screamed back. He regained his calm. “The prisoners of war are leaving. You—”
“I am a prisoner of war!” she interrupted.
Ông giải phóng Hiep put up his hand. “You are still a criminal of war. Your defiance against the Front requires you to stay here and work, until your situation improves—”
“What situation?” she shouted.
He grew stern. “Your education. Then you can be promoted to prisoner of war. And then maybe released.”
She jumped to her feet across the table from him.
“Sit!” Ông giải phóng Hiep commanded.
“No! I will not sit!”
“Sit!” he commanded again. “Sit down, criminal!”
“I will speak!”
“No!” he snapped viciously. He jumped to his feet and confronted her. “We have been lenient enough!”
She was taller than Ông giải phóng Hiep, and she looked down at him, enjoying the advantage. “You are not lenient!” she shouted and spat on the table. She looked at the spittle, then into his face.
Hiep stepped slowly around the table to confront her, but she just stood there looking down at him, not backing off. His fist swept through the air, rocking the side of her head and spinning her to the ground. Blood fell from her nose and lips. Guards entered as she tried to get up, and they held her down.
Breathing heavily but in a quiet voice she said, “Why are you really keeping me here? Why can’t I go home?”
Hiep looked at his colleagues, unsure for a moment what to do.
“Please. Tell me why?”
Hiep motioned for the guards to let her up. “Now, sit,” Hiep barked.
Patricia got up and took her seat on the wooden box.
“Please. Tell me.”
Hiep spoke quietly, not looking at her. “It is not ourselves,” he admitted. “The full Committee of the National Front, they have decided about you.”
“What?”
“You will continue to attend revolutionary classes so you can discover your crimes. In time you will be allowed to work with the women in the village. You will learn much from them. If you change soon, you will be one of the first to be released.”
She repeated his words. “One of the first? So you’re keeping others? What about my friend, the dentist?”
“He is dead. The doctor is dead.”
“No! You lie!”
“He was killed by the government forces of the South supported by you Americans.”
“And the man in the cage. I saw him.”
“There is no man in a cage.”
“You lie!”
“You are young, prisoner! Do not waste your life! If you make improvement you will have opportunity to go home.”
“When?”
“But only if you change and do not waste your life.”
“When?” she demanded again.
“The Committee of the National Front knows that you are a misguided daughter of the honest working class.”
“What do you know about my family?”
He smiled. “We know much.”
“Please, what is it you really want? What? Tell me.”
“Peace is what we want, prisoner. That is all. Peace.”
“No! You want to control. You want to destroy every nation.
And every religion and every family.”
The leader’s face tensed with anger. “Ah! What you really think! Your education is far from complete. No, we never destroy religion and family,” he said through tight lips. “But we will educate our people. One day they will understand that their religions and loyalties have no place in the cause.”
Behind them, Patricia saw her liberator stiffen at the leader’s words.
“But how can your cause have no place for families or religion?” she reasoned. “These are your people!”
“Someday they will be tired of religion and family loyalty. They will ask us to destroy them both.” He looked to the other two men. They nodded in agreement.
She saw the shock on her liberator’s face as he listened intently. She spoke coldly to the leaders. “And you will make them tired of it.”
“The people want peace. This will be the greatest peace the world has ever known.”
“Peace without God. Without Buddha?”
“Yes!”
Still standing behind them, her liberator stared at the men as if not comprehending what they were saying.
“Peace in your lifetime?” she demanded.
“Maybe not.”
She laughed. “And meantime you will have war.”
“Soon you will understand. You will continue your education until you do.” The leader moved to the door. He gathered his poncho. The other two men stood. They all waited for her to rise for their departure. Patricia remained in her seat.
“Get up, prisoner!”
She sat, as much out of confusion as defiance, her mind racing. She would try to escape again, any way that she could. She would kill the guards. If they let her live in the village she would get food and a weapon and a boat. It did not matter what they did to her. It did not matter if they killed her.
She realized the room was quiet. They were still waiting for her to stand.
Finally, she stood.
They waited for her to bow.
“May I live in the village?” she asked.
“You are not yet worthy.”
They waited longer. She would not bow to them.
“Chó cái,” Hiep snarled. “Chó cái.”