“Well, they aren’t sure that it is; they admit that. They say this whole village was relocated during the latter part of the war…moved east a couple of klicks to a strategic hamlet…at least until sometime in early 1971 when they began filtering back. So nobody lived here for a couple of years, but some of the older men continued to work the rice paddies near here and they would make occasional short visits to the old homestead. Checking up on things, you know?”
“And? The body could still be a Vietmanese.” Like a lot of the soldiers on his team, he transposed the m and the n in the word.
“Doesn’t sound like it…Mr. Slim and Mr. Jim here say that they used to see several ARVN officers and an American soldier meeting here frequently. They don’t know what for, or who they were, but they were here regularly.”
“And?”
“And so, when the folks moved back home in ’71, there was a new grave in the village cemetery.” He turned back to the two men and quietly clucked something completely unintelligible to Milligan.
The older-looking of the two men responded in kind. The other man and Than Chu nodded like cork bobbers in the middle of a pond.
Stephenson also nodded his understanding and looked back at Milligan. “Yeah. Ahh…well, there was no name on the grave marker—not even a marker really—but it definitely was a grave, and it definitely had been dug between late June of ’70 when they made their last check-up on the place and February 1971 when the village all began moving back.”
“Okay. But what makes them think it’s an American? Hell, it’s not like there was a shortage of Viets getting killed around here in 1970 and 1971. Could be anybody.”
“True, but they say the only ones around the village, besides the occasional VC patrol, were those South Vietnamese officers and that American soldier that they saw here frequently. They met regularly. They also say that neither the People’s Army nor the VC would bury their dead in the village cemetery, and the ARVN probably wouldn’t either and if they did, they’d put a name on the marker. So, if you eliminate all the other suspects, they figure it must be an American. Either way, they can take us to the spot if we want.”
Milligan squinted, then pulled a blue folder from his rucksack. He began speaking as he thumbed into the folder. “Time frame’s about right. Tenkiller disappeared in mid-September 1970—but it doesn’t make any sense. Who buried him? Why here? If it were South Vietmanese Army—ARVN—they were on our side, they should have reported it to someone. Right? And if it was bad guys—VC or PAVN—they wouldn’t have put him in a cemetery…would they? I can see hiding the body in a ditch or hole somewhere—I mean, there’s like shittin’ bomb craters out the wazoo—but I can’t see advertising an American body by putting it in a cemetery…”
“Your call.” Stephenson shrugged. “You’re the team leader. They say it’s a short walk from here…less than five minutes or so.”
“Shit, we’re here, ain’t we?” he said as he tucked the folder back in his rucksack and picked up his water bottle. “Nothing to lose but some inches off the ol’ gut. Short walk? Might as well check it out. Let’s see what Swingin’ Dich says.” Milligan looked up at the senior colonel, expecting to receive a nod of approval.
Instead, the senior colonel was standing in the doorway, motioning to the helicopter pilots to get the rotor spun up.
Milligan and Stephenson looked at each other in dismay. It was a short walk, and they’d come all this way.
Sixty seconds later the big motor began to whine.
CHAPTER 7
U.S. Army Central Identification Laboratory, Hawaii
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2008
Leslie Neep, the CILHI deputy commander, walked into Kel’s office with purpose. He always walked that way, whether he really had a purpose or not. It was an unfortunate side effect of being raised in the heart of Texas. He looked around at the scientific director’s cluttered office with an admixture of humor and disbelief. It never failed to remind him of a bird’s nest, everything being interwoven the way it was. How Kel could find anything always amazed him. But he could—almost always—or so he always claimed.
There was an unfortunate resemblance between the man and his office. Robert Dean McKelvey was approaching middle age with more speed than planning, and lately, the cumulative effect of too little sleep and even less exercise was starting to show—not to mention the strain of having to work around a dysfunctional and incompetent commander. Kel increasingly was arriving at work looking as if he’d fallen off a box of Dixie firecrackers.
Davis Smart, the deputy lab manager, was also in the office when Les Neep walked in. He and Kel had their feet propped up on the corner of Kel’s desk and were discussing something that they both found enormously funny. Davis was one of the things that kept Kel coming to work. A year earlier, Kel had been offered a professorship at a small university on the Mainland. It was an attractive offer; good money, very good money for a teaching job; plenty of freedom; great location. Kel had been sorely tempted to accept it until he had the sobering realization as he looked around the room at the faculty assembled for a party in his honor that there wasn’t a single one of them that he wanted to have lunch with. For all the spirit-busting aspects of the CILHI job—and Colonel Botch-It—Kel still enjoyed being around his staff. Still wanted to have lunch with them.
“Well, glad to see the two of you so hard at work this morning,” Neep groused before he could check himself. It was the first that he’d seen Kel laughing in over a month, and despite being on the verge of his own bad mood, he didn’t intend to dampen Kel’s spirit. “What’s the occasion for all the levity?”
“Hey, haven’t you heard?” Kel responded. His voice had an almost giddy quality to it. “Leilani told me that Botch-It is supposed to get a call from Branch this mornin’ to talk about his next assignment. Know what that means? Only one thing. It means he’s leavin’ early. Early. He’s about to be history.”
Les Neep’s bad mood quickly returned. “The commander’s secretary shouldn’t be discussing his phone calls with anyone.” His voice took on a serious tone that he made no attempt to check. “And you need to learn to show him some respect.”
There was a pause while the air returned to the room.
“Respect? Botch-It? Are you out of your ten-gallon mind?”
“No, Dr. McKelvey, I’m not. I’m a professional, and he’s the commander. Whether either one of us likes it or not. And the sooner—”
“Botch-It? Commander? Have you got a fever or somethin’?” Kel looked at D.S. “This is one of those pod people, isn’t it? He hatched out of some giant pea pod in the janitor’s closet over the weekend. This isn’t our Les.”
“I’m thinking Roswell,” D.S. responded.
“Crop Circle, Texas.”
“Cut the crap, will you?” Les snapped. “Yeah, the guy’s a friggin’ disaster in uniform, but we’re stuck with him, and you two don’t make it any easier. Always calling him Colonel Botch-It. Hell, to his face even. I’m awful damn tired of getting jammed up between you and him, you know that? Why don’t you try thinking about the rest of us? I’ve got three years until retirement. Can’t you try to get along with him?”
“Ah, c’mon, Les. What’s this Rodney King shit? Just get along? Jesus Christ, we’re about to emerge from the goddamn dark ages here. This guy’s been like the Black Death, and now he’s gettin’ early orders out of here. Lighten up and enjoy the Renaissance.”
Les looked at Kel momentarily and bit back his response. He took a breath and then made a show of looking at his watch. It was eight-ten. “Taking a break already?” He forced a lighthearted tone to freshen the air. “Must be the life.”
“Break? Naw, gotta actually start work in order to take a break,” Kel said. He acknowledged Neep’s attempt to lighten the mood and change the subject.
Neep looked at his watch again.
Kel answered his look. He also made a show of looking at his own watch. So did D.S. “Actually we were just scratc
hin’ our nuts. Kinda like zoo monkeys.”
“I’m so proud to know the two of you, I really am.”
“The honor’s all ours, Les. Now, what can we do you for?”
Neep shook a paper he was holding. “What you can do is tell me if either of you have read this.”
“Havin’ absolutely no idea what it is that you’re referrin’ to, I’ll err on the safe side and say, no. How ’bout you, D.S.?”
“Nope. Never learned to read.”
“That’s true, you know,” Kel replied. “Or write either. He still signs stuff with a big, sloppy X. The man sure can scratch though. Show him, D.S.”
“That’s all right,” Neep replied quickly. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Did I say how proud I was to know you two?”
“Yes, sir, I think you did. Feelin’s mutual.”
“Good. Now, as soon as you two get to a stopping point with what you’re doing, could you take a look at this?” He waved the piece of paper at them again as if he were fanning a fire—which, in fact, given the content, he might have been.
Kel reached up and caught the paper. “What is it?” His Arkansas accent was light this morning. When he was tired or mad, particularly when he was both, his voice took on a soft slur common to the hills of western Arkansas. But it was early and there was little discernible accent.
“Daily SITREP from I-T-One in Vietnam,” Neep responded. Each investigation team in the field filed a Situation Report on its activities over the previous twenty-four hours. The recovery teams did the same. Usually the SITREPs were filled with logistical humdrum such as how many bottles of water were consumed, team morale, number of witnesses interviewed, number of blade hours put on the helicopters, or the number of archaeological grid squares excavated. Kel didn’t normally read them unless there was a compelling reason to do so. In this case, Neep asking him to do so seemed to correctly spell out the word “compelling.”
“I-T-One? Which case are they investigating?” D.S. asked.
“Tenkiller,” Kel responded out loud as he quickly read the report. “Remember that one?”
“Tenkiller? The Indian?” D.S. asked.
“Yup.”
“I believe we call them Native Americans,” Neep corrected.
Kel looked up from the paper. “Yeah, like that’s what you said growin’ up in Rock Salt, Texas. Hey, you heard about the Indian that went to visit the whorehouse in Texas?”
“Making progress on your Diversity Awareness Plan, I guess.”
“Diversity Plan?” D.S. perked up. “That sounds like fun.”
“Didn’t the good doctor tell you?” Neep smiled. “Shame on you, Doctor McKelvey.”
“Yeah, lucky me,” Kel replied. “Botch-It tasked me with puttin’ together a Diversity Awareness Plan.”
“A what?”
“You heard me. He wants the scientific staff to be more aware of diversity.”
“The staff is made up of anthropologists,” D.S. replied. “Does he know what an anthropologist is? What we do?”
Kel’s expression answered the question.
“Right. Right,” D.S. said as he shook his head. “Haven’t had my coffee yet. But you? Perversity maybe, but a diversity plan? He out of his mind?”
“Don’t look so smug or I may put you on the committee I’m formin’.” Kel turned back to Neep. “But as I was sayin’, this Indian goes to this Texas whorehouse—”
Les sighed again. “Gentlemen, as much as I really do enjoy your company, can we get back to the Tenkiller case?”
“You bet,” Kel answered. He smiled. “Did I mention that Botch-It will be leavin’ soon?”
“Tenkiller. Do you mind?”
Kel turned his attention back to the paper he was holding. He looked over at D.S. “Sure. Anyhow, D.S., as I was tellin’ you before Mr. Grumpy interrupted, Tenkiller’s a strange case. Real strange. Master sergeant gettin’ ready to leave Vietnam on his way back to the States takes some leave and then disappears. Army says he deserted; family says he didn’t…”
“Family writes congressman, is what the family does,” Neep continued the narration, glad to be back on track. He pushed a stack of file folders aside and sat down on the couch, leaning back against the cushion and putting his hands behind his head. He often sat like that, and it always made Kel think that he looked like a hostage in a liquor store hold-up. “The army finally had to back down and change his official status in the mid-eighties. A review board met and examined the file. He’s presumed Killed In Action now. KIA, Body Not Recovered, to be specific.”
“So what’s to investigate? We have a location for him?” D.S. asked. D.S. had been with the laboratory for over fifteen years and knew the complex mechanics of fieldwork better than anyone. To his disappointment, he had the salty gray hairs in his head and beard to prove it.
“Yeah, maybe. Accordin’ to this, the VNOSMP scared up a couple of witnesses who say they know where an American was buried at about the same time Tenkiller went missin’…But…” Kel looked up from his reading and directed his attention to Les Neep, “is this serious? This can’t be right…”
“Thought the same thing,” Neep answered in his flat, West Texas prairie tones.
Kel looked over at D.S. to lock his attention and then returned his eyes to the report, reclaiming the line where he’d left off. “Seems that the team interviewed two Vietnamese village elders…so on, so on…ahhh…village relocated durin’ the war…ahh, here it is…they told the team they could lead them to the burial site—all of five minutes away—in a marked cemetery, no less. But instead of surveyin’ the site, the team up and left and flew on into Saigon.”
Kel looked back at Neep.
“What I’m hearing is that you can thank your good buddy Nguyen Dich for that,” Neep responded.
“Swingin’ Dich?”
“The same. By your reaction, can I assume that we’re in agreement, Dr. McKelvey?” Neep asked. He stood up and stretched his legs.
“If you mean that we ought to get a team right back in there, we are. But I tell you what, we might think about sendin’ a recovery team in next time rather than another investigation team. That way, if there’s somethin’ there, they can excavate it and save havin’ to send another team in later on to do a recovery. No point pissin’ away any more time than we already have.”
“I thought you’d say that. I just checked with operations. Last word from R-T-Two is that they wrapped up their site today and are packing up to redeploy home; we can turn them around and have them to the cemetery by Friday—Vietnam time. You comfortable with that?”
“Who’s on Recovery Team Two?” Kel looked at D.S. One of his deputy’s primary duties was assigning anthropologists to the recovery teams. Not all anthropologists were created equal. Some were better at excavating crash sites; some were better at burial sites—D.S. had a talent for making the right matches.
D.S. closed his eyes and thought. “Ahh, that’d be Caroline,” D.S. said.
“I can live with that. Should be a quick recovery. She supposed to go anywhere else after this that’ll domino the whole schedule?”
“Nope. We were going to let her sit out the next two missions to get caught up on some reports and make some repairs to her personal life.”
“Good. This’ll be short. She can catch up on the paperwork later.”
“And her personal life?”
Kel sighed. “Occupational hazard. We’ll make it up to her. Somehow. Other than that, you good with it?”
D.S. nodded. “I’m good.”
Kel looked back up at Neep and held out the SITREP for him to take back. He arched his eyebrows as if to say, “It’s okay by us.”
“Doctor Thompson it is, then. Operations needs to start the prep work to make it happen. Don’t wrap them around the axle any more than they already are. You want to tell them, or you want me to do it?”
“We got it. Don’t you, D.S.?”
“That’s the singular form of we, isn’t it? Yeah, I got
it.”
“Good,” Les Neep responded as he began walking to the door.
“Hey, Les,” Kel called after him. He waited for Neep to turn. He paused and shrugged apologetically. “Hey, ahh, I’m sorry about jammin’ you up between me and Botch-It. Okay?”
Les nodded. “I know. Listen, Kel—about Botch-It and his new assignment…” He paused again. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up is all.”
CHAPTER 8
Thanh Lay Hamlet, East of Ho Chi Minh City, Socialist Republic of Vietnam
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 2008
Doctor Caroline Thompson was glad for the promise of a diversion—even if it looked to be a short one. She had finally wrapped up her excavation in Song Be Province, north of Ho Chi Minh City, at the 1965 crash site of an F-105D Thunderchief—a Thud—that had impacted a dry rice field doing somewhere in the vicinity of 550 knots. The wreckage, at least all that hadn’t been carted away during the war by the local villagers, was buried deep in the oily red clay, and it had taken three recovery efforts—almost ninety days’ total digging time over a five-month period—to finish. They’d finally had to stop at almost twenty-two feet deep when the pumps were unable to keep the muddy ground water out and the walls were sloughing off faster than they could excavate. It was probably deep enough; they hadn’t encountered any human remains or pilot-related artifacts since about fifteen feet in depth.
The team was glad to get out of the field and into Ho Chi Minh City—what most of the locals still called Saigon despite the central government’s efforts to mandate the contrary. HCMC had languished in the long postwar stagnation of the trade embargo, but now, with all of the restrictions lifted, life in the city was booming. It might not have the buzz of Bangkok, yet anyhow, but Saigon was definitely a live wire, and after thirty-plus days in the field, clean beds, showers, flush toilets, restaurants, female company, and bars were welcome. The latter two didn’t particularly interest Caroline, but many of the otherwise all-male team had a demonstrably different opinion on the matter. Caroline Thompson was from western Kansas and had grown up—if being five foot two qualified as growing up—hearing the colorful lore of the cattle drive. She occasionally wondered how closely her male team members resembled the cowboys at the end of the long trail.
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