“It’s that damned Colonel Slocum! This is the best run hospital in the world and in one week he’s turned it into a tavern!”
She stalks around the room, small, shapely and vibrant in her indignation. Her words are directed at’me again.
“I’m surprised at you. A man of your position! Must I ask General Mallory to post a guard on your door?”
I notice the gold band on her finger and decide to go on to the attack. Sternly I ask, “Do you talk this way to your husband?”
“My husband died five years ago.”
I mumble contritely, “Sorry.”
“So was I. He was a wonderful man . . . but time passes and life goes on.”
She draws a breath. Expecting another whiplashing I point at the television in the corner.
“He’ll be at the White House now. I’d like to watch.”
She snorts. “No doubt he’s got a hip flask in his pocket!”
But she turns on the television and pulls up a chair.
It’s a moving ceremony. The President’s natural charm is entwined with obvious emotion. First he pins the medals on Slocum’s men. God, they’re a fearsome bunch! Then it’s Slocum’s turn. He ducks his head and the President carefully lowers the blue ribbon and adjusts it around his neck. The camera lights reflect sharply from the metal of the nation’s highest award for valour. It nestles at the base of his neck clearly delineated against his ebony skin. The camera zooms in on it. His head and shoulders fill the screen and his face glistens with the sweat of discomfort. I have the definite impression that he would rather be in Wyoming. The President makes a short but emotional speech. He talks of democracy and sacrifices for freedom. Finally in husky tones he invokes my name and talks of my suffering. He urges the nation to pray for my swift recovery. Nurse Clay gives me an admiring look and I’m absurdly conscious of the half-full bottle of whisky under my pillow. The broadcast is live and at the end there’s a little confusion. Obviously Slocum is expected to say a few words and very firmly he does not. The microphone, held in front of his face, looks forlorn. Cut to the studio where a smooth, effete broadcaster gibbers on about masculine modesty. Nurse Clay turns the TV off and says positively, “He’s a lonely man.”
“Who?”
“Colonel Slocum.”
“You think so?” “Yes.”
She’s bustling again. Pulling and patting the sheets into place. I keep my head firmly on the pillow.
“I’ve seen others like him in this hospital. Tough as rawhide on the outside and desperately lonely underneath. I can bully them because they want me to. They invite it because sometimes they get sick of being tough. They pretend to be scared of me because the pretence gives them comfort in their loneliness. Colonel Slocum is like that.”
She is standing at the end of the bed, her hands gripping the footrail, her face infinitely sad and ethereal in its introspection. I’m intrigued and trying to formulate a question when she says, almost defiantly, “I’m glad he was the one who rescued you and the others. It’s right that it was a man like him. Right that he didn’t say anything just now. Others would have had glory poured on their heads. It was right.”
It’s late afternoon when General Mallory comes into my room. He’s short and stout with a plump, worried face. We exchange pleasantries and then he tells me, “I had a call from the White House. The President would like to visit you at seven o’clock this evening.”
Immediately I feel nervous. I know the confrontation has to come and I’ve tried to rehearse it. The scenario scares me. I say, “That’s okay, General. But no media. I’d like it to be a private visit.”
He nods briskly. “So would the President. We’ll serve you coffee.”
I have an hour to think. I try to compose words and clarify thoughts, but when the tap comes on the door my mind is still in turmoil.
The start is melodramatic. General Mallory enters, stands to one side and says portentously, “Mr Ambassador . . . the President of the United States of America.”
It makes me even more nervous but then the President strides in, grins and says, “Hi, Jason. How are you?”
I know what I’m going to say but I’m no longer nervous. I’m propped up against a pile of pillows. I take his outstretched hand and shake it firmly. The General is pushing a chair up to the bed but the President waves it and him away and perches on the foot of the bed. As the door closes he says, “They looking after you?”
It should be mundane but there’s genuine concern in his eyes. I nod.
“Very well, Mr President, thank you.”
He’s carrying a paper bag. He reaches out and puts it on the bedside table.
“Grapes. I don’t know why but hospital visitors always bring grapes. When I was in here I got enough to start a winery!”
We both smile. I cannot sustain the anger that has been smouldering inside me. But still I’m going to get it off my chest. I take a breath but I’m interrupted by a tap on the door. Nurse Clay bustles in with a tray holding coffee and cups. She is totally at ease. As she pours the coffee she casts a critical eye over my visitor and says sternly, “You’re overdoing it. You look damned tired. You need at least a week at Camp David or on the ranch.”
He smiles affably. “Mary, it won’t be for much longer.”
She puts two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, passes him the cup and says, “Half an hour and no more . . . and I don’t want my patient agitated!”
He nods solemnly, a twinkle in his eye.
She goes out. We sip our coffee and he says,
“A fine woman.”
“Yes, very.”
The tension is mounting now. I wonder if he will broach the subject first. He does.
“Jason, you will know that our agents in San Carlo tried to kill you.”
“Yes.”
He is looking down into his cup as if trying to find an explanation in the black coffee. Harshly he says, “I don’t apologize for it. I turned a blind eye. I’ve had to do that on several occasions over the past years. It was an immoral act but sometimes morality has to be tempered to reality. You were in a situation which affected the security of our nation.”
He has, in that statement, made it easier. I was dreading either a denial or an apology. Before this moment I had respected the man. Now I admire him. The anger has left me, but quietly I state my belief.
“Mr President, I don’t think that an agency of our Government has any business dealing in murder. Reality must never be the master of morality.”
I feel disconcerted. The words sounded good in my head, but pompous as I uttered them. He is nodding solemnly.
“Jason, of course you’re right. Your case has resulted in a general review of the Agency.”
I can’t help but say it.
“Because the operation failed?”
He smiles wanly.
“No. The shrinks said you would crack. We take too many decisions based on theory. You didn’t crack. As a result we’ll bring democracy to San Carlo . . . and maybe later to Cuba. Now I didn’t come to apologize but to try and make restitution. I intend to ask Congress to strike a single and unique medal to mark your courage.”
Slowly I shake my head. I look into his eyes and see the understanding. He murmurs, “You won’t accept it. I guess I realize why. Then what can I do?”
“Allow me to take early retirement.”
He sighs. He really does look tired. He puts down his cup, stands up and stretches, then walks to a window and looks out over the city. There’s a long silence. When he turns, his face is different; his expression determined. No hint of tiredness. He strides to the door, opens it and sternly calls out,
“Tell Colonel Slocum to report here at the double.”
He walks back to the window and stands tall and straight. Without turning he says, “I know of the friendship that’s grown between you and Slocum. During the past days you’ve both had an effect on me and on this country. You may as well hear what I’ve got to say together. The
Colonel is waiting to escort me to visit his wounded men. He will be here directly.”
Another long silence while I wonder what’s coming. My visitor has an air of barely suppressed irritation. He turns at the tap on the door.
“Enter!”
Slocum enters in full dress uniform and snaps off a salute. The President points to a chair.
“Sit down, Colonel. Last month you paced up and down in my office while I sat and listened to a lecture. Now it’s your turn.”
Slocum glances at me, looking bemused, and then meekly sits down.
The President paces and talks.
“Colonel Slocum, this morning at the White House you asked me to allow you to take early retirement so you could go ranching in Wyoming. I told you that I would think on it. Well I have. The answer is no. By your lecture and your recent actions you have caused me to institute a major review of our armed forces. You will be involved. These are your orders: you will take one month’s leave. On returning to duty you will be promoted General and put in command of our rapid deployment force, which as you well know is perhaps the most important unit in our armed forces. You will inculcate, by training and example, your military philosophy and methods. You will do so for four years after which you may retire to your ranch. By that time I too will be retired and will accept an invitation to come to Wyoming and teach you something about cows… is that understood, Colonel?”
“Yessir!”
The President has stopped pacing. He directs a gaze at Slocum that would penetrate steel plate. Slocum is nodding his head energetically.
The gaze sweeps round to fix on me.
“Mr Ambassador, you are a Foreign Service Officer of vast experience. My experts told me that you would crack under mental torture. You did not. Neither did you crack under appalling physical torture. That makes you a very special person. You asked me for early retirement. Now these are your orders: you will take a month’s leave for rest and recuperation. You will then report to Georgetown University as Ambassador in Residence. As you know, that appointment is recognized in the Foreign Service as a special Presidential citation for outstanding Ambassadorial service. You prefer not to accept a medal but you will accept that. At the same time you will serve as a special Presidential advisor on Latin American affairs until the end of my term of office. At that time you may retire. Those are your orders!”
The words jump out of my throat.
“Yes, Mr President!”
He nods in satisfaction and turns to Slocum.
“Right, Colonel. Let’s go and see those men of yours.”
At the door he turns, grins at me and says, “It seems that the only way to deal with heroes is to give them a good kick in the butt!”
I eat some grapes and decide that I like the prospect. The posting to Georgetown is a sinecure. I’ll be able to pick my own subject on which to lecture. It will be good to be surrounded by young people. I realize something. We take pieces from all those who affect our lives. I took a piece from Amparo and a lot from Jorge, and finally from Slocum. I’m sixty-three years old and at last I feel complete. I’m going to be a teacher and I think I have something to teach. I like the idea. I also decide that when I get out of this hospital I’m going to invite nurse out for dinner. It sure is time I had a date again. I drift into a contented sleep.
When I awake evening shadows slant across the room. The door opens and Slocum comes in like the brother I never had. He puts a thick envelope on the bedside table, sits on the foot of the bed and asks, “So what do you think of your orders?”
“I like them. How about you, General?”
He grins. “Me too. It’s a real chance to do something positive. The cows can wait. Now I’m off to Bragg for a couple of days and then to Wyoming for the rest of my leave.”
“Fine. What’s in the envelope?”
He grins. “My address in Wyoming and telephone number . . . and a United Airlines timetable . . . and something for you . . . something I want you to have.”
He gets up and holds out his hand and I grip it warmly. I don’t know what to say. I can’t find the words and here he is giving me presents. He says severely, “If I don’t hear from you in ten days I’m gonna put a call in to Bragg and some of my old buddies are gonna come up here and do a little escort duty. Meanwhile I’ll be fixin’ up the spare room.”
I smile. “You’ll hear from me, Silas . . . bet on it.”
As the door closes behind him I repeat the words in my mind. “Bet on it.”
I doze again for a while and then a nurse brings me dinner followed by Nurse Clay who fusses about straightening the napkins and knives and forks. I remember the envelope and pick it up. It’s surprisingly heavy.
I shake its contents on to the bed: a slip of paper, the airline timetable- and a flat velvet box. Nurse Clay watches curiously as I open it. I catch my breath as I see the blue ribbon and the round gleaming embossed metal.
She murmurs softly, “It’s his Congressional Medal of Honour. My God . . . he gave you that?”
There’s a little card with sloping handwriting. It reads, “I’ve got enough fruit salad. You deserve it a goddam sight more than I do, Silas.”
For a moment I’m speechless. Then I mutter the only words possible.
“Of course I’ll have to send it back.” She nods her head slowly.
“I guess you will . . . but what an honour he did you . . . a soldier like that . . . “
I close the box and smile at her. “I’m not going to send it back.” “No?”
“Definitely not. . . I’m going to take it back . . . real soon.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
PEABODY San Carlo
JORGE Havana
DAY ONE TO NIGHT TWENTY
JORGE San Carlo Day 1
PEABODY San Carlo Day 1
PEABODY San Carlo Day 3
JORGE San Carlo Day 3
SLOCUM Washington Day 3
JORGE San Carlo Day 4
PEABODY San Carlo Day 5
JORGE San Carlo Day 6
PEABODY San Carlo Day 6
SLOCUM Fort Bragg Day 10
JORGE San Carlo Day 9
PEABODY San Carlo Day 10
SLOCUM Fort Bragg Day 14
JORGE San Carlo Day 15
PEABODY San Carlo Night 16
JORGE San Carlo Night 16
SLOCUM Fort Bragg Day 17
PEABODY San Carlo Day 18
SLOCUM USS “Nimitz” Night 20
PEABODY San Carlo Night 19
SLOCUM USS “Nimitz” Midnight 20
PEABODY San Carlo Night 20
Siege of Silence Page 25