by Peter Gilboy
I point at her. One of the heads above me seems to understand. He smiles and nods, as if he’s saying she’ll be fine. But how could he know? There are no doctors here. Probably a couple of officers who are trained in first aid is all.
I feel dizzy, but pleasantly calm. Painkillers. I reach to my neck and temple, my side, and feel the bandages.
“Towers,” I say.
The men shake their heads as if they don’t understand. I roll on my side and see Towers lying on a cot just behind me. Maybe he’s okay. I lift my head again to find the pilot. There’s another form on the floor, on some bedding. There aren’t enough cots for everyone.
“A phone,” I say, but they don’t understand.
I raise my hand to my ear and motion a telephone conversation. One of them nods and turns away. He comes back minutes later with a satellite phone. He speaks into it for some time, then nods and hands it to me.
They probably think I’m calling my wife. Or my mother. That I want to tell them that I’m okay. That I made it. That I’ll be home soon.
I hear static at first. Then a voice.
“Washington, DC,” I say into the receiver.
More static as I wait.
“No, I don’t know the number. I want the Post. The Washington Post.”
I wait again; the heads are still above me, observing. After minutes I hear a phone ringing on the other end of the line.
“Washington Post,” a pleasant female voice says. “How may I direct your call?”
“Rogowski,” I say. “Get me Rogowski.”
The cot is hard, and they try to keep me from getting up. I try to lie still. At least no one is shooting at us now. We’re not heading to Japan, I learn. Batangas Bay is closer. The Philippines. There’ll be real medical help there. One of the officers communicated that it’s nine hundred miles to Batangas Bay. I figure the top speed of this ship is thirty knots, about thirty-five miles an hour. I can hear the engines straining as I do the calculations in my head. Twenty-seven point one four hours. A little over a day.
I ask for the phone again. I call Julia. I get the same shrill noise followed by This is no longer a working number. I haven’t called Ma. She doesn’t know where I am. I don’t think Julia would have told her. I don’t want her to know.
I was lucky. Grazes is all. I learn that Towers has a wound to his side and leg. The pilot took two bullets, but he’s conscious and stable. He has to make it. It’s his story too. Rogowski will want him to tell it when he breaks everything wide open.
Lieutenant Pavlik took two bullets, too. She seems to be in and out of consciousness. There’s no morphine on board, no instruments for removing projectiles. She has to make it too. She’s the proof. I want to talk to her. I want to tell her that we’re going home.
Home, I want to say. America.
74
ABOARD THE KENSHIN-MARU
JANUARY 22, 2006
WE DON’T HAVE TO go all the way to Batangas Bay. When we’re within helicopter range—about a hundred and fifty miles out—they send a medical chopper to get us. It’s sleek and bright red as it sweeps in over the ship.
Once the doctors are on board the ship, they rush to us. They speak English. They quickly check each of our vitals and apply pressure bandages where we’re still bleeding. They put each of us on an IV. They explain that more doctors and EMP staff are waiting at the hospital. Full medical treatment, they promise. We’re going to be okay, they say. We’re going to be okay. All of us, they say.
An hour and a half later and the medical helicopter lands on top of St. Patrick’s Hospital in Batangas. In seconds we are whisked from the chopper to gurneys. The IVs come with us, held high by the medical staff. They rush us down a long corridor to an elevator that takes us to the operating rooms. In the hallway nurses are waiting. There’re also two officers in uniform, a lieutenant and a captain, each with side arms. U.S. military. But there’s something wrong about them. That’s the oldest lieutenant I’ve ever seen.
The two U.S. officers focus on Patricia, ignoring Towers and the pilot and me. They talk insistently to one of the nurses. I can’t hear what they’re saying. A doctor comes out then and speaks to them. The doctor shakes his head vehemently, telling them no, no. She has to go right into surgery. The military officers rest their hands on their weapons and insist.
I pull the IV out of my arm. I struggle to my feet. A nurse tries to stop me. I shove her away and come toward the two officers.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“We’re from the embassy,” the captain says.
I push toward Patricia, but now the other one steps in front of me. “We’re from the embassy,” he repeats. “We’re taking her to a better hospital. We think she’ll be fine. It’s been quite an ordeal. We’ve been looking for her.”
“What?”
“Valerie Thompson,” he says. “We’ve been looking for her.”
“That’s Patricia Pavlik!” I yell, pointing to her. “And yes, it’s been an incredible ordeal.”
“The mountains can be treacherous,” the officer says in a calm voice, making a point of looking me in the eye. “She’s lucky to have made it. We’ve been searching for her for weeks.”
“What are you talking about?” I shout.
“Mount Kitlanglad,” he says, still standing in my way. “She was hiking it with others, you see. She got lost, and they reported it when they came back. She’s one lucky woman, I’ll tell you that.”
“That’s Patricia Pavlik!” I shout. “She’s an officer in the U.S. Army. She’s been a prisoner of war for decades.”
He puts up his hands. “Sir, please. We know how to take care of this.”
“Get out of my way!” I shout, and I shove him aside. I go to Patricia. She’s conscious. Her eyes are wide open. I can see that she doesn’t understand what’s happening.
“Tell them who you are!” I shout. “Tell them!”
She looks at them, trying to mouth something. It doesn’t come out.
“She’s in shock,” the officer says, sympathetically. “I would be too. She’s lucky to have made it,” he says again.
I see the pilot then, struggling to sit up. He pulls out his IV and swings his feet off the gurney. He’s in pain but trying to say something. “Wait,” he manages, as he comes toward us. “Wait.”
“Tell them,” I say. “Tell them who she is!”
The pilot nods. “She’s Valerie Thompson,” he says.
“What? You know who she is!”
“Valerie Thompson,” the pilot repeats. “We just rescued her from Mount Kitlanglad. I was the pilot who brought her in.”
I understand then. These aren’t military officers at all. They’re part of the Program. They’re going to whisk her away.
“You’re Magellan,” I say.
He nods solemnly. “One of them, anyway,” he says.
“But she has to come out! She’s the proof! She’s the proof! Without her, there’s nothing!”
He shakes his head. “Let them take her, Ames. She’ll be okay. Better than okay. We’ll take very good care of her,” he says. “We promise.”
“I can’t let that happen!”
He shakes his head at me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Nobody comes out, Ames. Not ’til the others are safe. Only then. We have to protect them too. There’s simply no other way.”
75
WASHINGTON, DC
JANUARY 28, 2006, 10:00 A.M.
“I DON’T KNOW WHY they’re saying those things, Quintyn.”
“None of it’s true, Ma.”
“But I don’t understand. How can they say that? It’s not right. It’s just not right.”
I’m at Ma’s house. I’m healing but still have the bandages. I told Ma there was an accident and that I’m okay. She didn’t believe me and just didn’t want to ask further.
Ma has the newspaper in front of her, and the TV is on. Continuing news flashes on every channel. The phone kept ringing, so I had to take it off the
hook.
“Quintyn, they’re saying you’re a drunk. An alcoholic. They’re saying you got your men killed over there. That you’ve been seeing a psychiatrist. That you’ve failed lie detector exams. That you’ve falsified reports—”
“I know what they’re saying, Ma.”
“But it’s not true!”
“I know it’s not true!”
“Then how can they say that?”
“They can say anything they want,” I tell her.
On the screen a reporter is interviewing a White House aide. I recognize him. It’s Hoffman, from General Finders’s office.
“Mr. Hoffman, the nation is trying to understand. Rogowski of the Post reported a soldier was being held over there all these years. A woman, Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik. What does the White House know?”
“Some people have no conscience, is what I know. I’m thinking about all the good families who lost a loved one fighting for freedom over there, in Vietnam. It’s unconscionable to pretend there’s still hope. Or to pretend that we would have left someone there in the first place. I don’t have words to say how despicable that is. Rogowski will have to account for his misrepresentation. My understanding is that he’s no longer with the Post.”
“In the article, he cites a Quintyn Ames?”
“Ames has a troubled past. Mental issues, a lot of them.”
“He served in Vietnam, didn’t he?”
“He did. Got his whole squad killed. He was a renegade over there, from what I understand. Probably did a lot of other things that will now come out. He wasn’t the military’s finest, that’s for sure.”
“But he continued to work for the government.”
“He worked for a private company, Direct Resources, on a government contract. He did weather research for us. No more than a glorified clerk. And now he’s betrayed us. He’s an embarrassment to this country, if you ask me.”
“Will he face any kind of charges?”
“We’re looking into that. But there’s no law that protects families who have already suffered enough. He’ll have to live with what he did. That’s on him.”
“What about his claims that others were left behind too, not just Lieutenant Pavlik.”
“All I can say is that we don’t leave anyone behind. We’re proud of our record of protecting our soldiers. To claim otherwise is to dishonor our fine military. What he said, it’s reprehensible. That’s what it is.”
“Thank you for your time.”
I think of Mr. and Mrs. Rowland watching this at home. Brian Pavlik too, with the TV on at the dealership. What are they thinking? Did I cause them even more suffering? Even Jodee Towers, now at home with his parents. What is he thinking?
Ma gets up and changes the channel.
“—that Rogowski has been fired from the Post for drug use and stealing electronic equipment. And now, new reports are coming in about Mr. Quintyn Ames and his cohort, Corporal Jodee Towers. We have learned that together the three of them conspired—.”
Ma turns the TV off.
“That Mr. Rogowski and the corporal,” she says, “they’re saying bad things about them too.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like that they’re saying things about my boy, Quintyn. We must be able to do something. I won’t stand for that!”
“Ma. It’ll go away.”
“It’s not fair, Quintyn. I’ll call my congressman, you know, what’s-his-name. That’s what I’ll do.”
“I don’t think that will help, Ma.”
“And Julia, where is she in all this?”
I have no answer for that.
“And what are you going to do about a job now?”
“Alec is helping me retire early. And I have some money. Don’t worry, Ma, please.”
“But you can’t have saved up that much money, son.”
“Then I’ll drive a cab,” I tell her.
“No, you won’t! I won’t let you. It’s too dangerous, Quintyn.”
I expect a guffaw from the corner, from Eddie. But I don’t hear him. I look around. He’s not here. I don’t feel him here either.
The doorbell rings.
“Jesus,” I say.
“Don’t you take the Lord thy God’s name in vain!”
“Sorry, Ma. I guess they found us. Or me, anyway. Let me take care of it.”
I go to the door. The bell rings again.
“Who’s there?” I call out gruffly.
The bell rings again. “What do you want?” I shout.
From the other side of the door, I hear, “I think they should throw the ball slower.”
I open the door. Julia stands there in her winter coat, a scarf around her neck. There are tears in her eyes. “Or make the ball bigger, don’t you think?” she says.
I don’t know what to say.
“Are we having our first fight?” she asks.
“No more fighting,” I tell her.
“I agree, Quincy.”
“It’s Quintyn.”
Julia touches my cheek “I know who you are,” she says.
I pull her toward me and wrap her tightly in my arms. She’s crying. Ma comes toward us. She’s crying too, but also smiling at me.
“My boy,” Ma says, and I wrap her in my arms too.
EPILOGUE
WINTHROP, WASHINGTON
APRIL 23, 2015
ELAINE MCCANN PULLS OUT of her driveway in Winthrop, Washington. It’s noon on Saturday. The air is warm and the sky is clear. She’s driving a 2012 Forester. Elaine is sixty-six, a little stooped, with long hair that is defiantly gray. The kids are in the back.
Elaine has planned this for weeks. No, for months. She’s thought about it for years. She had started out twice before, but backed out each time. The first time she made it as far as the highway. The last time Elaine had gone all the way to Chelan Falls. This time she will do it. She will.
Elaine McCann is heading to the little town of Cashmere. She’s looked up the town a dozen times. It seems like the right kind of place, and it isn’t too far. A hundred miles. Two hours, maybe. Far enough to be safe. She and the kids can make it in an afternoon.
The kids. Alexander is eight, and Ada is three. Elaine inherited them as grandchildren when she married James McCann two years ago, a doctor she met at the Shoreline Rehab Center. Now she spends every hour she can with them. They are her joy.
Heading south on WA-153, Elaine tilts the rearview mirror and checks on them. Studious Alexander is staring down at his latest detective story for kids. That’s what he’s going to be when he grows up. A detective. Ava is wide-eyed out the window and quietly working on her thumb.
An hour later, the road turns into US-97. She continues south, and finally sees a sign for Aplets Way. She knows to turn here and cross the bridge. A pretty area, she thinks. And the little town of Cashmere looks just like the pictures she saw online.
Elaine heads right to the middle of the town. She turns down Cottage Avenue, then suddenly pulls over. Her hands are shaking. Her lungs seem too full of air. It’s not too late to turn around.
But she continues, searching for Clifford’s Hardware. Elaine finds it on the right and pulls into a diagonal spot between two pickup trucks. The front of the store looks just like the Internet photo; rakes and red mowers lined up under the awning. And mounted near the corner of the building is what she’s come for. The payphone.
Elaine gets out of the car, reaches back and takes hold of her cane. “Just a sec,” she says to the kids. “Nanna will be right back.” She closes the car door and makes her way toward the phone. Her limp is noticeable, but not shocking now. She knows that most people think it’s just age. She lets them. Sometimes Elaine’s hands still twitch from the nerve damage, but she’s fine. Fine. That’s what she tells herself as she fights each day to keep the ghost of those years at bay.
Elaine looks back twice to check on the kids. They’re entertaining themselves. Windows cracked. They’re safe. She’s takes a small bag of cha
nge from her purse. She’s still trembling as she lifts out a handful of coins. She glances up and down the street. But no one would have followed her, would they? Would they?
She picks up the phone, then immediately hangs up. She checks the kids again. Elaine readies the coins in her hand. Why is this so hard? How could it seem as hard as the other things she’s done?
Elaine takes a breath. Forces herself to exhale. She stares at the phone, then grabs it and quickly shoves a coin into the slot. She holds her breath as she presses 1, then the area code and the once familiar number. A computerized voice tells her to insert additional change. She has the quarters ready. She quickly inserts them.
It rings. Then a second time, and a third.
“Hello,” she finally hears from the other end.
His voice is much thinner than she remembers.
“Hello? Who is it?” he asks.
She feels faint. “Dad?”
“Who is this?” he demands, angry now.
“Daddy, it’s me. It’s Pattie.”
“What is this, some kind of a joke? I told you people—”
“No, Dad. It’s really me. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. It really is me. I’m…okay.”
“You get off my phone! And don’t call again!”
“Wait, Dad! Wait! The duck. Remember the duck I brought home? Albert. I named him Albert.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“And the brown gutter we put up, Dad. You almost fell. Remember?”
More silence.
“The Dairy Queen, Dad,” she adds hurriedly, afraid he’ll hang up. “By the turnpike, on Sylvia Street? I’d always get the tall vanilla swirl with rainbow sprinkles. And you’d never let me eat it in the car, remember?”
His voice comes to her softly now, nearly a whisper.
“Always with a chocolate dip on top,” he says.
“Yes, Dad, yes! It’s really me!”
“My God, Pattie! My God, where are you? Where are you?”
“Not yet, Dad. Not yet. I can’t. But I’m fine. I’m fine. I wanted to tell you. I wanted you and Mom to know. I’m so sorry. But I’m okay.”