“Ayiaah, Jake,” she said reprovingly, “always thinking of spring.”
It was one of those gradually-sloping Asian beaches. We’d have to wade out a ways to reach worthwhile waves, but the water was clean and refreshing. Should be fun. “Hey, Jake,” I heard from behind me. “I thought you say you want bodysurf me. You all talking, no doing, or what? ‘Bodysurfing’,” she mused. “American one crazy language, you bet!” I turned. She’d spread her clothes out in the shade of an overhanging palm tree. She was laying there on her back, propped up on her elbows, knees demurely together, smiling at me from under her bangs, and twiddling her toes in the sand. Looking like that, she’d have every guy at Malibu hanging around her blanket, even if she were wearing a bikini, which she wasn’t.
“No, that’s not what…” Never mind. Some points just aren’t worth arguing.
The surfing was in fact okay. Soh Soon swam well, and she picked up the idea quickly, catching several good rides. We let the warm breeze dry us off, then got our stuff together and trudged off to find a trail across the island. We’d thought keeping the pistol was a good precaution, just in case the situation in Cambodia had unsettled things along the boarder. Driffter knew his ordnance—the Israeli Desert Eagle.357 magnum automatic is a nasty piece of work. Turned out we didn’t need it, and grateful for that. Rarely do people have occasion to shoot other people, even during combat. But after what we’d come through, it would have been a shame to be stopped now simply for lack of firepower.
We followed a trail through the trees and brush that took us over the ridge and down to the fishing village we’d spotted from the air—actually, just a few huts up on stilts. No sign of Khmer Rouge, or any other kind of trouble. There were longtail boats in the village—long, narrow, open wood canoes with propellers hanging out behind on ten-foot shafts driven by car engines. The natives were friendly. One of Sarge’s five gram pieces bought us a ride over to the mainland coast of Thailand. The boatman’s family fixed us a nice seafood dinner, included in the fare. The monsoon had temporarily quieted down, so we slept out by the beach. The next morning we piled our gear in the boat and set out.
You’d never use a longtail boat for a sneak attack. They throw out an ear-splitting racket, but putting a muffler on the engine would spoil the fun, I suppose. The sea still carried a little chop from the monsoon, so we took some spray and got tossed around. The driver landed us up on the beach, the nose of the boat high and dry. Nobody in sight had any interest in immigration formalities. He offered to stand us for lunch, no charge, included in the service. Afterwards big smiles all around, and then he headed over to finish off his fee at the nearest bar. He’d have some ride back home.
From there it was a matter of getting ferried from one point to the next. Expensive, when the smallest change you’re carrying is five grams of gold. We sure did leave some smiling faces in our wake. The next day we reached the town of Trat, where a Chinese shop owner was happy to swap us a fistful of bhat for a twenty gram gold piece. I gathered from him that we weren’t the first folks passing through from Cambodia. As daylight faded, we climbed aboard the overnight bus for the 200 mile ride to Bangkok.
It was only after the bus pulled out of Trat that I finally could relax and put Cambodia and its dangers safely behind me. Lovely, tragic, poor little country—on that overcast May evening, while my troubles had ended, theirs were only beginning. As bad as I’d seen it, it was doomed to get worse. Saloth Sar, after changing his name to Pol Pot, emerged from a power struggle as the undisputed leader of the Khmer Rouge. They re-named the country Democratic Kampuchea, suggesting a sense of humor I hadn’t noticed they had. Pol Pot claimed it was a Marxist government, which must have had old Karl spinning in his grave. Or maybe he had the Brothers in mind.
The bad blood between Vietnam and Cambodia soon erupted into war, as Mr. Poon had predicted. But once in power, the Khmer Rouge proved to be paper tigers. Hopelessly corrupt and incompetent, they were capable only of defeating Lon Nol’s even worse regime, and of terrorizing a nation of starving, docile peasants. On Christmas Day, 1978, the Vietnamese launched a dry season blitzkrieg. With all their captured American hardware, it was a pushover. They brushed right by the government’s defenses and rolled into Phnom Penh on January 7, 1979. Their arrival almost certainly saved the Cambodian people from wholesale genocide.
Pol Pot and his claque fled the mess they’d created, taking refuge in their beloved jungles with a guerilla army. How many of their own people died at their hands through starvation, disease or outright execution on their hideous killing fields? To this day, nobody knows for sure. Estimates range between 500,000 and 2,000,000 (the latter a quarter of Cambodia’s pre-takeover population). Either figure, relative to the number of people under his control, would qualify Pol Pot as one of the bloodiest tyrants of all time. Something like 20,000 Cambodians ultimately were tortured and/or executed at Tuol Sleng school, where I first made the acquaintance of Soh Soon.
As for Vietnam, our evacuation marked one of the lowest points in American history. Frank Snepp was at the CIA station through the whole ordeal, and his book tells the tale well enough, no need for me to repeat it here. John Stockwell had a few words to say about the CIA as well. No, neither author mentions me—during my couple weeks at the Saigon Embassy Sonarr kept me segregated away from all the real CIA people, so I never really got acquainted with anybody.
Thinking back on my adventure, I couldn’t help feeling some regrets. I sure wasn’t proud of leaving those two CIA guys back in the hills, but realistically, what else could I have done? If you like stories about heroism and hard-to-believe rescues, try fiction—I’m just an ordinary guy, not James Bond. And I later came to wish that I’d greased Driffter while he was offloading our stuff. Leaving that bastard alive turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes I ever made.
Sitting there on the bus watching shadowy coconut trees and stands of banana plants roll by in the darkness, I gave some thought to what I’d do when we reached civilization once again. I decided I’d had more than enough of the CIA. I was still an Army officer, and that was where I wanted to be. With this adventure out of the way, I’d better settle down and get serious about career. Reviewing my situation, I realized I was actually in pretty good shape. Making captain at 25 years old put me below zone—that is, promoted earlier than most others at that rank. If I wanted to make major, I’d have to finish up my college degree. I knew guys in part time college degree programs—they weren’t having any problems with it. I could finish that in three or four years. I didn’t know what bearing my recent CIA assignment would have on my army career advancement, but how could it hurt? After all, my specialty was intelligence, and I had completed my mission successfully. I’d not only made contact with DRAGONFLY as per my assignment, but I’d taken out a KGB agent in the process. And I’d rescued Soh Soon and brought her out. And there was that little silk pouch of diamonds… though I wondered if I might have to turn it in, since I’d collected it while on duty. Well, that could be settled later. The important thing was, I’d carried out my mission.
We reached Bangkok the next morning. I was anxious to be present and accounted for again, after two months of living on the run. I consulted the information counter in the bus station. They found the location of the nearest US Army post for me and wrote it in Thai on a piece of paper. I showed it to a cab driver and he drove us over. I was still in my civvies and a little rumpled from the overnight trip on the bus, of course, but I was sure they’d understand.
I announced myself to the MPs at the door: “Captain Jake Fonko, returning and reporting for duty,” I said with a crisp salute. It felt good. I gave my serial number. One of them escorted me and Soh Soon inside and took us to the duty clerk. The duty clerk wrote it all down, told us to take a seat and disappeared. Soh Soon and I waited on a bench in the reception area, our MP escort standing by. A few minutes later I heard a murmur coming from a clutch of people in the back
of the room. More people joined the group and the murmur grew louder. The group came trooping toward me, gaining members and momentum. Clerks and typists scrambled out from behind their desks, streamed out of offices and cubbyholes, left filing cabinet drawers gaping open, everybody joining the throng, all positively beaming. A light colonel led the march, a stiff arm aiming his right hand at me, like a bayonet at charge. “Thank God you made it back, soldier!” he exclaimed, verging on tears, as he earnestly pumped my right arm up and down with one hand and clapped me on the shoulder with the other. “Welcome home, Sergeant Fonko!”
10
It’s always nice to feel wanted, but they gave me a lot warmer welcome than I’d have expected. Two months away is no time at all, and how would these people know what I’d been doing? After all, I’d been on the CIA payroll, not regular army, and it was a Top Secret mission. Nevertheless, you’d think I was Johnny come marching home again. Well, why spoil their fun?
“You look great!”
“Must have been rilly rough!”
“How’d you keep up hope?”
“I heard their prisons are just filthy—rats and everything!”
“Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“What did you miss the most?”
“Did you have the feeling God was there by your side?” Everybody crowded around me. Bottles of bourbon and gin and vodka appeared anonymously from desk drawers and filing cabinets. People toasted me with Styrofoam cups. “For he’s a jolly good fellow…”
The party continued for an hour; good excuse for a morning break, I suppose. I gave them the “Aw shucks, it weren’t nothing” attitude, standard for this sort of occasion, and especially appropriate given that I didn’t have a clue what was happening.
Finally things quieted down, and everybody returned to shuffling paper. The lieutenant colonel in charge, Brigham by name, took me into his office and sat me down. “Good to have you back, Sergeant Fonko,” he said heartily. “Must have been harrowing. We’ll have to talk about it later; I’m sure you’ve some real war stories to tell. We’ll be putting you up while we get things straightened out, part of the standard repatriation procedure. It will take several weeks to process you. Sorry we can’t send you straight home, but it’s important that we debrief returning MIAs thoroughly. Five years, my God. Anything I can do for you right now?”
“Meaning no disrespect, sir,” I said, “but my rank is captain.”
He looked puzzled. He buzzed up his clerk-typist and asked for my paperwork. Momentarily, a lady PFC (she’d planted a big smooch on my cheek earlier, drawing, I noticed, a scowl from Soh Soon) brought it in. He read it carefully. “This is the summary Washington telexed us,” he said. “Of course, mistakes can happen, but it does list your rank as sergeant.”
“That’s odd. What else does it say?”
He showed it to me. The gist of it was:
Name: Fonko, Jacob. Rank: E-6. The serial number checked out, ditto my former unit—75th Infantry (Rangers), Company B. Birthday: 10/23/49. Birthplace: Los Angeles, Calif. Missing In Action since incident 8/21/70. On seventh day of reconnaissance patrol in hills vicinity Bu Ghia Map, Military Zone II, unit encountered ambush. One E-4 killed; Lt. James Hannah, Team Leader Henry Wallace and one E-4, wounded. Sgt. Fonko single-handedly suppressed enemy position and in complete disregard for personal safety shielded Sgt. Wallace from enemy fire. Sgt. Fonko assumed command of unit, called in air support and medevac, organized and executed successful retreat to evac LZ 3000 yds distant. Evac vehicles came under hostile attack during extraction. While covering evac despite severe wounds, Sgt. Fonko became separated from unit, which due to heavy mortar and automatic weapons fire was forced to withdraw. No trace of Sgt. Fonko found by subsequent search party. Believed dead or POW. Awarded Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry in combat, and Purple Heart for wounds received. Etc. Etc.
“This is more or less accurate as far as it goes, sir, except that I wasn’t missing in action. I returned to base with my unit. After the end of my tour I went through OCS, was promoted twice, and just three months ago was assigned to Saigon on loan to the CIA. I think something must have happened to the rest of the transmission.”
“That may be,” he allowed, but he was looking at me a little strangely. “We get foul-ups every now and then. Communications have been SNAFU’d royally since that Saigon evac. I’ll request a confirm on that telex, get a full report. Anyhow, for the time being let’s get you squared away. Things must seem a little strange to you. What you need most right now is a good rest, start your readjustment to civilized living. No telling what five years captivity did to your mind. There’s a special facility here in Bangkok where we hold returning POWs for debriefing, quite comfortable. We’ll take good care of you, don’t worry about that.”
“What about my friend, Miss Poon?” I asked. “I brought her out with me.”
“What’s her status?” Colonel Brigham asked.
“She and I escaped from Cambodia together.”
“My God, you escaped through Cambodia?! Well, if she’s a Cambodian refugee, no problem. There’s a refugee camp just outside town.” Before I could stop him, he’d buzzed the MPs and said something into the phone.
“No, sir, she’s not a refugee. She’s…” What was she? “I believe she’s a Hong Kong citizen.”
“We’ll get it straightened out as soon as we can. So many people have come streaming over that border it’s impossible to keep on top of the situation. You just can’t imagine what a screwed-up mess we’ve had to deal with since Saigon… but who am I to be complaining to you? Never mind, we’ll do our best for her. Now, let’s get you to quarters. Relax, cool down, take it easy, knock back a few beers, watch a little TV, and we’ll start your debriefing bright and early tomorrow.” MPs came in and steered me out to the waiting area. Soh Soon and her things were gone. One of them hoisted my duffel, and then they took me away.
They gave me VIP treatment, no denying. The food was first class, my room comfortable, and R and R facilities top-notch—everything but bar girls, and those probably could have been arranged. Of course, I was virtually a prisoner in solitary confinement, which took the edge off the fun. And I’d had no word on Soh Soon’s whereabouts, which worried me. She was a capable gal and could take care of herself, but I’d planned a more hospitable welcome for her. I knew the routine the army put repatriated POWs through—thorough, meticulous debriefing by intelligence specialists, psychological testing, verification of the returnee’s story. As part of my intelligence training, I’d taken part in a few of them myself. We wanted to make sure the guy really had been MIA or POW (rather than AWOL), that he was still on our side, and that he still had all his marbles. Also we tried to learn everything possible about other POWs—who they were, how they’d behaved, who was collaborating, etc.—about conditions of the camps, and locations, and treatment of prisoners, and anything else that might be useful for dealing with captivity situations in the future.
The problem was, none of that applied to me. Not only had I not been a standard issue MIA / POW, but the mission I’d been on for the CIA was Top Secret. If that telex was confirmed, and they went ahead with the debriefing process on that basis, then what was I supposed to tell them?
I didn’t have long to stew about it. After breakfast the next day an MP escorted me to my first debriefing interview. I entered a small office, and who should I find sitting behind the desk but Todd Sonarr in an officer’s uniform! “Major Smith, this is Sergeant Fonko,” the MP announced.
“Please come in and have a seat, Sergeant Fonko,” he said. “Thank you, corporal. Please close the door.” When our privacy was secure, he rose out of his chair with a face-wide grin, came around and clamped what he must have thought was a macho grip on my hand. “Jake, Jake, Jake Fonko!” he cried, giving it a good pumping. “Damn if we didn’t pull it off! Welcome back, buddy. Mission accomplished,
and a helluva fine job you did!”
Why didn’t I feel glad to see him? I should have shared his enthusiasm, but instead I found myself disengaging from the handshake as soon as I decently could. “I’m sure glad to be back, Todd, believe it,” I said, “but what’s going on? They think I’m still a sergeant. The report they got back from Washington had me listed as MIA from a firefight I was in back in 1970. Have they got that straightened out yet?”
Sonarr had the kind of look on his face that you picture in your mind when the guy assures you over the telephone that the check is in the mail. “Trust me, Jake,” he said, “you’re in good hands.” Hadn’t I heard that before? He took cover behind the desk and sat back down. “Now, the first order of business is your debriefing. Colonel Brigham told you it would take several weeks. No sweat. They’ve turned you over to us, and since I already know what happened, we’ll have you sprung by dinnertime. All we have to do is verify the story and take care of a few formalities.”
“How do you already know what happened?”
“When they rescued Driffter I was called here immediately from Langley to personally debrief him, since I was his former case officer. Talked to him two days ago. Amazing story he told me, Jake. According to him, you single-handedly pulled off the greatest POW rescue operation since the Son Tay Assault. Hell, you went ‘em one better—they came away empty handed, and you brought out your man.”
“Well, tell me his story, and I’ll put in my two cents’ worth,” I said.
“He’d disappeared because the Khmer Rouge shot him down and captured him and was holding him prisoner in a secret compound in the jungle in the vicinity of Kratie. He said he’d been treated decently enough, considering—never tortured him, fed him okay, didn’t have any injuries, so no medical problems. Later they captured that crew we sent in there looking for him, trapped them on the ground and forced them to fly their chopper to that camp. Those guys got killed in an escape attempt, which Driffter wasn’t involved in. You’d figured out Driffter’s whereabouts from those inquiries you were making in Phnom Penh. In the aftermath of the Khmer Rouge takeover, you managed to make your way to that secret compound, where under cover of darkness you freed him. That Sea Sprite was still operational. You held the guards off with a captured weapon while he got it going, then the both of you took off amidst heavy ground fire. You reached the coast and were heading north. A round must have hit something vital, because the chopper conked out and went down in the Gulf of Thailand, about a hundred miles south of here. He lost track of you in the crash, shouted for you but didn’t hear anything. He floated around in his lifejacket until morning, when a passing fishing boat saw him and picked him up. They searched around but didn’t find any sign of you. Driffter had the captain radio in to our station in Bangkok, and we picked him up when they came into shore. We sent a crew down to check it out, and our divers found the sunken chopper where he said it’d be. So I figure that you must have gotten ashore some other way and came in a little later. Is that the way it happened?”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 20