Fletcher felt warm, despite his wet clothes. If he’d had any misgivings about returning for Lee before, they evaporated with that simple gesture.
Eighty
Back out on the deck, they surveyed the area for any signs of danger. There was still no indication of a patrol. As they prepared to make the short run to the river, Rogan noticed a change on top of the guard tower. The soldier, who’d been sleeping before, was now having a smoke. The tip of his cigarette glowed like a red star pinned against the night sky. “We’re going to have to wait this out. Hopefully he’ll finish his smoke and go back to sleep.”
Sitting with their backs against the bungalow, under the shade of the eave, they watched as the crimson tip alternated between the guard’s lap and his mouth. The more he smoked, the more animated he seemed to become. He would throw up his arms every minute or so, as if remonstrating with himself.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” Fletcher asked.
“He sick up here,” Lee uttered, pointing to his head. “He very angry with everyone. He friend of war. Not happy to end war.”
The man, now finished with the cigarette, flicked the burning stub over the side of the tower. Without warning, he turned on his search lamp and ran it across the bungalow. The light washed over them before they had a chance to react. The guard leaned forward, as if unsure of what the light had uncovered, then hastily reached over to raise the alarm.
“Jesus Christ! We have to go … now!” Rogan said, scrambling to his feet.
“Oh, fuck…” Fletcher spat out, grabbing Lee’s arm.
As they ran, the guard opened fire on them, wildly emptying an entire clip in their direction. Sprinting as hard as they could, they threw themselves into the river and swam for the embankment. Fletcher glanced over his shoulder and watched as soldiers streamed out of their bungalows. In the confusion, they fanned out in all directions. A group of about fifteen men headed toward the river.
“They’re coming! Move!” Rogan insisted, reaching the bank. Together they hurried behind a column of trees and continued into the bowels of the jungle.
“Where we going?”
“There’s a helicopter waiting for us,” Fletcher gasped, sucking in large mouthfuls of air. “Not far from here.”
“We never make it. These soldiers very fast.”
The familiar cackle of AK-47 fire ripped through the branches above them.
“Just fucking run!” Rogan called back.
Eighty-one
Rogan had called back, realizing the soldiers were gaining on them. “Those trees”—he gestured, pointing ahead—“get up them.”
With the soldiers only a hundred or so yards behind, they each scrambled up a tree. As Fletcher hurried to get into a shooting position, his M16 slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. It was a mistake, he knew, that could cost them their lives. There was no time left to climb down and retrieve it; the soldiers would come into view at any moment.
Lee, knowing they had no chance with only one rifle, decided to go after it. He jumped down from his position and hurried toward it. Just as he reached down, the first soldier rounded the corner. Fletcher watched in horror as the man lifted his AK-47 and pointed it at Lee. But before he could pull the trigger, Rogan shot him twice in the chest.
Lee grabbed the rifle and threw it up to Fletcher.
“Down, Lee!” Fletcher shouted as the other soldiers appeared.
The second man tripped over his dead compatriot, bunching up the group.
They never stood a chance.
From their elevated position, Rogan and Fletcher cut down the entire group within seconds. Their automatic fire all but obliterated them; the soldiers did not even manage a single meaningful volley in reply.
As the smoke filtered up through the trees, Lee stood up and walked over to the pile of bodies.
“Lee, wait, it’s not safe … come back!” Rogan yelled.
Ignoring the warning, Lee circled halfway around the back of the group and drew to a halt. He sat down and raised his hands to his mouth.
“What’s he doing?” Rogan asked, climbing down.
“I have no idea.”
As they charged up behind him, it all became clear. Lying under a badly mutilated soldier was Lee’s friend, the man he’d given his bag to.
“He was the only person who was … kind to me.”
“I’m sorry, Lee. We had no way of knowing.”
Lee ran his fingers over the man’s lifeless face, closing his eyes. “It’s not your fault. It’s war. Terrible war.”
Fletcher hunkered down next to Lee. “This is the end. It’s all over now.”
“In America there is no war?”
Rogan sighed. “Not like this.”
Lee folded his friend’s arms over his chest and stood up. “We leave this place?”
“Yes … we leave this place.”
Eighty-two
The flight back to Thailand was an edgy affair. As long as they were over Laos, they were still at risk of being shot down. In spite of the darkness, Will flew at treetop height, swooping down into clearings as often as he could. Twice, the helicopter’s skis clipped small branches, but neither Rogan nor Fletcher said a word; they trusted their pilot implicitly.
As the first signs of morning lifted the gloom, they crossed over into Thailand and put down in a small open area, barely wide enough to house the chopper. They jumped out and quickly hauled a large green and brown tarpaulin over the Huey. Above them, the day’s first birds soared and wheeled across the navy sky, their song inviting the rising sun.
“Over here,” Shayna called out. She was parked in an old jeep under a nearby tree.
“Where we going?” Lee asked.
“Somewhere safe,” Fletcher said.
After a short drive, they pulled up in front of Shayna’s hut. A tall, dark figure was standing casually in the doorway, waiting for them.
It was Mitchell.
“Mitch! You made it!” Fletcher clapped his hands together.
“Of course. I see you did, too.”
Rogan swung his rifle over his shoulder and climbed out of the jeep. “What took you so fucking long, Lord?”
“Stopped to admire the shiny bullet shells on the side of the road, lieutenant.”
As they approached the stairs, Mitchell looked toward Lee and nodded. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. Welcome.”
“Thank you.” He smiled. “I very happy to be here.”
“Fletcher tells us you’re to blame for saving his life.”
Lee missed the joke. “Only after you all save my village. I very grateful for your help.”
As they congregated together, Lee turned to Fletcher and bowed. “I want to thank you for coming to me, Mr. Fletcher. You sacrifice very much to help me, but…”
“What is it, Lee?”
“I sorry … I can’t come away with you,” Lee explained, lowering his head as an apology. “Not until I know for myself. Maybe you right. Maybe my wife got away … maybe she still alive. She mean everything to me. I cannot leave not knowing what happened to her. Please forgive me.”
Mitchell leaned forward and placed his hand on Lee’s shoulder. “We thought you might feel that way.” He stepped away from the doorway, and an attractive, petite young woman appeared behind him. She kept her head down, seemingly afraid to look up.
Lee’s eyes widened in surprise, and he threw his hands over his mouth. “Tay?” he managed.
“Lee,” the woman replied, breathless, still reluctant to look up.
“Tay … Tay!” he repeated, and ran toward her. They embraced and collapsed to their knees, crying. Lee said something to her in Vietnamese, and she sobbed back her reply, repeating her answer over and over.
Fletcher, taken by the moment, glanced across at Shayna, who was fluent in several languages. “What did she say?”
Shayna dabbed the corners of her eyes with her shirtsleeve. “What we all dream our partners would say of us: ‘I never stoppe
d believing in you.’ ”
* * *
After Lee and Tay had finally ended their embrace, Mitchell explained how he had tracked down the coordinates of her village and then paid an old Vietnamese informant of theirs to go in and get her out. After a full day of walking and nearly two days of driving, the man finally delivered her to a small village on the outskirts of Saigon.
Mitchell looked up at Fletcher. “There’s also some good news for you.” He pursed his lips together and whistled loudly.
A moment later, Jack emerged in the open doorway, his tail wagging.
“Jack … you’re walking!”
As if to prove it, he slowly weaved toward Fletcher.
Shayna shook her head in disbelief as the Labrador brushed past her. “This is impossible; I don’t believe it. He shouldn’t be able to stand, let alone walk. The bone density in his leg should not be able to support his weight.”
“Jack has remarkable powers of recovery,” Will said.
“No, you don’t understand. Recovery is one thing—this animal shouldn’t be mobile. I knew he would never walk again; I just didn’t have the heart to tell any of you.”
“He’s really quite something.”
“You’re not hearing me: Him walking is medically impossible!”
“When it comes to Jack, anything’s possible,” Mitchell corrected her.
“He’s barely limping.”
“If you knew his past, you wouldn’t be so surprised.”
“His past?”
“Shot at least four times—twice by us—lost several pints of blood. He’s a survivor,” Mitchell explained.
“Where did he come from?”
Fletcher looked up at Shayna, and a knowing look eased onto his face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Mitchell bent over to pat Jack as he passed. “What do you mean, Fletch? Did you find out which unit he was attached to?”
“No, he was never part of any unit in Vietnam. The past few weeks have made me understand something. Although I’ve no way of proving it and you’re probably going to think I’ve lost my mind, I know it’s true. Jack didn’t come from Vietnam.”
“Then where?” Rogan pressed.
“He came from somewhere … else.”
Will frowned. “You’ve lost us.”
Fletcher knelt down as Jack reached him. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead gently against the side of the Labrador’s neck. “Travis was right. He always said Jack never belonged here, something about the look in his eyes. I believe I now understand why. My daughter, Kelly, died in a plane crash three days before she would have turned seven. She kept begging my wife and I for this one special birthday present. I’ve never known her to be so insistent; she was adamant about it. She wanted a Labrador. She even had a name picked out.”
Will closed his eyes. “Jack?”
Fletcher nodded in return and then raised his head. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life: My daughter sent Jack to me.”
Epilogue
Chicago
Ten years later
More than a decade had slipped by since Fletcher first had cause to pass through Hampton Lane’s front gates, but still the cemetery appeared the same. Many of its tenants lining the roads had been at rest for longer than Fletcher had been alive. Only the trees, now tall and imperious, were evidence of the passing years.
As their cavalcade wound toward the southern end of the cemetery, Fletcher cast his mind back to the war and their last few days in Thailand. Most of his memories of that time had faded badly, like an old photograph worn yellow by the sun. He recalled how, shortly before they left for America, they had all agreed to keep in touch. As it turned out, he had spoken to Will and Mitchell only a handful of times over the years, and just twice to Rogan. Despite all they had been through—everything they had endured—he always knew their friendships could not be sustained on the outside. Their bonds had been forged in another world. In the pale, thin light after the war, their relationships quickly wilted.
Stepping out of his car, Fletcher headed up the grassy embankment toward the large maple tree that still regularly haunted his dreams. As always, he lowered down and gently placed a white rose across each of his girls’ graves.
Every visit still hurt him deeply; the wounds had never quite healed. He knew they never would. They were now just a part of his life that he tried to deal with as best he could. As he waited for the rest of the group to join him, he tried not to look into the hollow darkness of the newly dug grave alongside him. He knew that if he did, it would drain away what little courage he had summoned for the burial.
“You all right?” Marvin asked, joining him at his side.
“No, but thanks for coming. I really appreciate it.”
“Nothing could’ve kept me away.”
Fletcher tried to thank him again, but the words died in his throat. The emotion of the day was already weighing on him. Marvin had been a loyal friend to him over the years, both before the crash and in the wreckage after it. He felt guilty about the one-sided nature of their relationship and had often wondered why Marvin had stood by him so resolutely. Several weeks following his return to America, Marvin persuaded him to return to journalism. He even managed to get him to freelance for the newspaper again and then, after a while, encouraged him to compose letters to his girls. Fletcher was skeptical of the idea at first, but eventually agreed to try it. It was almost impossible in the beginning, but after a few weeks, the words came a little easier. Eventually he was able to write freely. Ultimately, it proved to be an extremely cathartic experience. He told them about the horror of Vietnam—but also how hope can exist in the darkest of places—and of how much he missed them, how deeply he felt their absence. He even wrote about his attempted suicide and confessed that, as much as he tried to deny it, for a long time after the crash, thoughts of taking his own life never strayed far from his mind. But that had slowly changed. A year after returning from the war, Shayna Sykes arrived unannounced on his doorstep. In the months that followed, they became close friends and, eventually, lovers. He had found a safe space in his heart where he could love Shayna without tarnishing Abigail’s memory. He finally accepted that it was okay to give himself to another woman. Just as she had brought him back from the brink of death in Thailand, Shayna gradually taught him how to live again. She loved him dearly. Sometimes, he felt, more than he deserved. She would even accompany him to the graves of his girls sometimes, but decided not to join him on this occasion. This was their day.
Lee and Tay were next to reach the gravesite.
For them, their first taste of America had been difficult. There weren’t many people prepared to welcome Asians into their neighborhoods after the war. But like everything, things improved with time. Prejudices softened; hatred dissipated. When the time was right, Fletcher helped them open a small art gallery in the heart of Miami, which after a few difficult years, was now turning a tidy profit. They were both talented artists, and their work was becoming highly sought after. The free life Lee had always dreamt of was now a reality. If that wasn’t enough, they were blessed with two wonderful children: a boy and a girl. As their neighbor, Fletcher was able to watch them grow—little in his life meant more to him.
Fletcher looked back and watched as Mitchell, Will, and Rogan came up the hill. It occurred to him, with some irony, that Mitchell was still walking in front … ever the point man. He still had his thick mane of long black hair and the same look of madness lurking deep within his eyes. After the war, he joined up with an underground government agency. He was not permitted to talk about the details of his job, and Fletcher had no desire to ask. He knew only too well who Mitchell Lord was.
Will Peterson followed with a slight limp—a permanent keepsake from his time as a hostage in Vietnam. During the day, he ran a successful charter airline with over a dozen aircraft under his control. At night, he drank. More than he ought to, Fletcher had heard, a lot more. He married twic
e, but both unions had failed. Vietnam, it appeared, continued to cast its dark shadow over him.
Walking slowly at the back was Rogan. Fletcher had never quite come to terms with what his lieutenant had done for him. From the day on the chopper and the rescue in Thailand to traveling back into the war to save a stranger. They had come a long way together. In the outside world, Rogan lived alone in a small flat in Detroit, working as a night-shift security guard at a chemical factory. Fletcher wondered what kind of dark thoughts plagued his friend’s mind in the small hours of the morning. The hostile reception Rogan received upon returning from Vietnam was too much for him to bear. Most of the soldiers suffered some form of abuse, but for Rogan it was different. He was a patriot who believed wholeheartedly in what they were fighting for. He considered their cause honorable and just. The American public’s lack of appreciation of his and his fellow soldiers’ efforts affected him more than most. It was a betrayal. It stripped away his spirit. That such a courageous man—a powerful leader—should today hold such a menial position seemed a great tragedy to Fletcher. Rogan still gave the appearance of a man who was strong and fit, but there was now a heaviness about him that was troubling. He carried the look of a damaged man.
Yet another casualty of Vietnam.
Fletcher stepped forward and took a deep breath. As he looked at the people around him—with whom he’d been through so much—he struggled to contain his emotions.
“Before we left Thailand all those years ago, we made a pact that regardless of where we were, we would all come together one last time. It means a great deal to me that you’ve each kept your word and made it here today, as I knew you would.
“After we left, I came out to Miami, initially to honor a promise I made to Travis, but as it turned out, I could never find a reason to leave. The city has become not only my home, but home to Lee and Tay and their two children as well. Most days, when the weather is good, Lee and I play chess out on his porch. I haven’t won many games, but in the course of being regularly beaten, I’ve been privileged enough to watch his children grow. His daughter, Mia, started school this year. I can’t tell you the pleasure that brings me. His son, Kim, begins school next fall. He loves baseball and giving high fives when the mood takes him, which is often. Both Lee and Tay are successful artists now with their own thriving gallery: The Fat Lady. Each of you played a role in making their lives here possible. Lee asked me to specially convey his and Tay’s ongoing thanks and appreciation for everything you’ve done for them.”
Finding Jack Page 19