by David Wind
“There’s an all-points bulletin out on him now. Two people died at the motel, nine more were injured. Three of the nine are in critical condition and are not expected to live.”
Grange ran his fingers through his hair. “Our next step was to have a department technician check out the car. It was a rental, and there were no fingerprints. They found a device hooked up to the throttle to make it appear the throttle jammed. The blowout was induced by a small amount of explosive in the wheel rim.”
Steven took a short sip of the scotch. “So you believe me now?”
“Oh, yes,” Grange said in an intense whisper. “We have several of these types of accidents in our files. What happened this morning fits one particular pattern to a T.”
Grange paused. He stared at Steven for several seconds before saying, “There’s a Soviet operative, known to us as Anton. This man’s theater of operation is the Americas—North and South. Anton is a terrorism specialist whom the Soviets use to recruit, train, and finance subversive groups. He has two main specialties, depending on whether the sanction is for propaganda purposes or a quiet hit: Car bombs that explode spectacularly; and, the use of automobiles to make a hit look like an accident.
“What I still don’t understand, and what doesn’t fit in with everything else, is why you were sanctioned,” Grange admitted. “From the outset, everything pointed to you as a spy and a killer. All the real mole had to do was to sit back and wait for the noose to tighten around you. Then, without any apparent reason, the mole changed his plans.”
“It doesn’t make any more sense to me than it does to you. Last night the FBI tried to arrest me; this morning a Soviet agent tried to kill me.” Steven stopped as the recurring vision of the accident came back.
“There’s always a reason,” Grange said. “Did something happen from the time you started running until the accident?”
Steven shook away the mental after-images of that morning, and looked at Carla, who shrugged. “Nothing.” Steven said, still working over everything Grange had told him. “Let’s forget this morning for now. Last night, when I went to my place to change, you’d already left a message. When we spoke, you inferred you had learned some things that changed your mind about me. What?”
“Your army records.”
“What did you find in them?”
Grange leaned back in the wing chair and smiled. “Just what you said I would. Nothing where there should be something. Your files were a duplicate of the original security check. But in going over the originals, I found obvious changes. Obvious at least to me.”
“Then you still have nothing.”
Grange ignored his remark. “So then I went into the medical records from the debriefing. Either they missed those, or they figured no one would bother with them since there was only a brief mention in your jacket, and they exonerated you.” Grange’s voice dropped, his eyes brightened.
Steven remained silent, trying to hold back the sense of anticipation rising with each word Grange spoke. “At first, the psychiatrist’s initial comments matched with all the information. But as his report went on, he expressed the belief you were lying about what had happened in the prison camp and ordered the use of drugs. Which was why you had that second battery of tests—if you’ve ever wondered about it. The shrink was trying to find out how you could produce a drug block. The tests failed.
“Because of that failure, the doctor concluded that under the influences of a powerful mind drug, you had a natural subconscious ability to misdirect the understanding of a question.”
Steven continued to sit still beneath Grange’s hard and probing stare. “Which means what?” Steven asked, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
“It means that when you returned to Saigon, you lied about what happened at the prison camp. It means you never broke when you were a prisoner of war, did you? You were the only one who didn’t tell them what your mission was.”
Steven’s hand trembled. The scotch rippled in the glass. He put the drink down, stood, and walked to the window. He stared out at the peaceful hills, wishing some of its serenity could reach him. Grange was fast and smart, and Steven knew that the Secret Service man would see through anything less than the truth.
“No, I couldn’t break. If I had, I would have given them more than just our mission orders,” Steven said before he turned to face them. Carla was staring at him. Her eyes were wide, her lips compressed. Grange was leaning forward, his expression eager.
“What would you have given them?” he asked. Steven took out Jeremy Raden’s letter. “The truth.” He unfolded the letter slowly. “This was written by Sergeant Jeremy Raden the night before we left on the mission. I’m going to read it to both of you.”
“‘Dear Mom,
If you read this letter, then I never made it home. Today I was assigned a mission. Its code name is WEREWOLF. This is a bad one, Mom. They’re sending us to hell, and I don’t know if we’ll make it back.’”
Steven’s head started to spin. He closed his eyes under the impact of having inadvertently hit a dangerous memory trigger, a trigger he’d been stringently avoiding for so long. But, as he stared at Grange and Carla, all the years of effort he had put into his struggle to keep the war buried within him, were wiped away by Raden’s prophetic phrase.
He shook his head, fighting the memories, and knowing he couldn’t just read Raden’s letter to them, not yet, not until they knew more.
“Steven, what’s wrong?” Carla asked.
He opened his eyes and saw her face was a mask of apprehension. Then he looked at Grange, and saw the question in the man’s eyes.
Steven folded the letter closed. “Before I read Raden’s letter, I’m going to tell you what happened in Vietnam, in nineteen seventy-one. I think it may be the only way that Raden’s letter will make sense to you.”
Steven went back to the couch, sat, and took a long pull of the scotch. While the woody tasting liquor worked its way into his stomach, he mentally prepared himself to accept all the pain that would accompany his return to the past.
Before he uttered his first words, the barriers he had so diligently erected when he’d returned from Nam fell against the force of his perfect memory. The very things he had refused to remember, for more years than he wanted to admit, returned with a clarity that brought the past back to life.
He cleared his throat, and said, “I was with Military Intelligence, stationed in Saigon...”
Chapter Nineteen
Vietnam
Steven was at his desk, working over the latest reports from the field intelligence units when his phone rang. He picked up the receiver without taking his eyes from the handwritten report of NVA infiltration movements in the south. “Morrisy.”
“Lieutenant, Colonel Botlin would like to see you in his office. ASAP.”
“On my way.” He put down the report, gathered the other papers he’d been studying, and put them in the steel filing cabinet next to his desk. He locked the cabinet, straightened his uniform, and left to find out what the Assistant Adjutant of Military Intelligence wanted.
He was certain it would be nothing good. It never was. The last time Botlin called Steven into his office, was when the information gathering networks in Cambodia and Laos had been compromised. Botlin ordered he and a dozen other MI logistics officers to work out a new network setup and have it on his desk in seventy-two hours.
He hoped this would not be a similar disaster.
Entering Botlin’s outer office, he walked up to the corporal, at the room’s only desk. “Lieutenant Morrisy to see Colonel Botlin.”
“In there” drawled the blond, crater faced soldier, directing him with a bored flexing of his right thumb. Steven went to the door, knocked, and opened it. When he stepped inside, he froze.
Sitting at the long conference table was Arnie Savak. Their eyes met, and Savak was out of his chair in an instant. Steven, wondering if he was seeing a ghost, started toward him. They closed the distance quickly, and emb
raced warmly. They spoke at the same time, fell silent, and gestured for the other to talk. “You first,” Steven said.
“Christ, you’re the last person I expected to see. What the hell is this all about?”
Steven took in the tired planes of his friend’s face, and the new wrinkles around his eyes. “Damned if I know. I just got a call to report here.”
Savak smiled, shook his head. “Jesus, this is great. How long has it been?”
“Two, two and a half years. Too long.”
They were still holding each other when five foot-nine inch, crew cut and jut jawed Colonel Ted Botlin entered. Botlin, known in Military Intelligence as the “Box”, was partial to straight line military policy, and believed patriotism meant that whatever the army said was right, so long as we won. He was a man who got his assignments accomplished no matter what the risk or odds.
Steven released Savak and turned to face Botlin.
“I take it you two have known each other for a long time. ‘Cause I can’t think of any other reason for two men to be hugging each other when there’s no shrapnel a-flying.”
“We grew up together,” Savak said, laughing.
“Well, gentleman, I don’t mean to put a damper on your reunion, but we have business to discuss.”
“Yes, sir,” they said simultaneously.
The colonel motioned to the side bar and its contents. “Pour yourselves a drink. Make mine bourbon...straight up.”
While Savak fixed the drinks, the colonel seated himself at the head of the table beneath a large topographical map of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.
Steven sat near the center of the table. After handing out the drinks, Savak took the seat next to Steven. When the colonel raised his glass in a silent toast, his West Point ring facing them, Steven and Savak followed suit.
The colonel regarded them silently for so long before speaking that all of Steven’s warning senses came flaring to life.
“The two of you have been chosen for a very special mission. It is strictly voluntary,” Botlin said, his ice blue eyes giving nothing away.
The colonel fingered his Academy ring. “All I’m permitted to say until you accept the assignment is that this mission might possibly enable us to change the currents of this damn war and allow us to regain some of our pride. It may even show the people back home that we aren’t the bad guys. It will be more hazardous than anything either of you have been involved in before.”
Savak laughed. “I don’t think so.”
Botlin thrust his box chin forward, riveting Savak with the stare of a full bird colonel. He spoke through clenched teeth, his words coming in a sharp and precise cadence. “You can bet your ass it will be, Captain. I know all about what happened to you in the delta. And I can tell you this will be even harder. But this mission, if successfully completed, has the potential to become the most pivotal component of the war.”
Steven stole a glance at Savak, who was already looking at him. As if reading each other’s minds, they shrugged simultaneously.
“As curious as it might seem you—matching two friends from back home, and from different divisions—you’ve been chosen for this mission because of your individual talents. Morrisy, you have one of the keenest analytical minds in Saigon. Your ability to pick out the faults in strategy and correct them has proven to be close to infallible. Your covert field experience is more than adequate, and your field competence ranks very high.
“And you, Captain,” Botlin said, locking eyes with Savak, “You rank up there with the best of our young military tacticians. If you weren’t, you’d never have gotten your command out of the delta. We need the combination of both your talents for this mission, gentlemen,” Botlin finished.
Although the colonel’s words were straightforward, Steven couldn’t shake the suspicion that all wasn’t quite right. “May I speak freely, sir?”
A curt nod was Botlin’s go ahead.
“We’ve all heard about these end-the-war missions. Not one has worked so far. I thought we were de-escalating. Isn’t that the reason for the bombing moratorium?”
Botlin’s eyes hardened. “You’re damn right the past missions haven’t come off as planned. For many reasons, including our own stupidity. The de-escalation wasn’t exactly our idea. You’re both aware of what’s happening back home. People who have no conception as to why we’re in Southeast Asia, or what we’re trying to do here have divided our country. A lot of pressure is on the administration. But gentlemen, it’s all one-sided. The slants are still killing our people, more and more every day. If we don’t pull this off...”
Steven understood what the man was trying to say. The effects of the old Tet offensive and the ever increasing dissention at home and in the ranks was crippling their every move. Yet, Steven still held hope that somehow they would be able to pull things together and come out of Southeast Asia with their heads held high.
Savak spoke next. “Will this mission really help, or is it another of the bullshit games the brass likes to play to justify their need to keep the war going?”
Botlin met Savak’s biting challenge with an unusual calm for a staff officer. He held Savak’s hawkeyed stare openly as he said, “No bullshit. This one’s for real. The reason the two of you are here is that the statisticians in the war room found that by your working together, there is a seventy-eight percent chance of success. With the right backup.”
“Which is?” Steven asked before Savak could.
“You two will form the nucleus of a five man team. The rest of the team will consist of two Special Forces men and a Ranger. This Ranger scout spent the last ten months in and out of the target area. This’s something the General Staff has been working on for six months. It will save lives. You have my word on that.”
Steven contemplated the colonel’s impassioned promise, and felt his suspicions lessen. He made up his mind abruptly. “All right Colonel, I’m in.”
“Oh, shit. Me too,” Savak added.
Botlin straightened in his chair. His features softened.
“I’d hoped that would be your answer. All right, gentlemen, to put it into a nutshell, you will be the advance scouting team for what will become the largest single combined assault of the war. Your team is going into Laos, near the Vietnamese border. Your objective is to cross back into Nam and chart the course of the invasion.”
“Why?” Savak’s voice was tense. “What the hell is wrong with aerial photographs?”
The colonel picked up several photographs from the table and disdainfully tossed them to Savak. “What do those tell you?”
Savak glanced at the black and white photos before passing them to Steven. “That there are a lot of trees.”
“The thickest fucking jungle you’ve ever seen, gentlemen. And we have to know what in the hell’s under that leaf cover. We can’t drop defoliant. Might as well send a cable to Hanoi with our plans.”
Steven glanced up from the recon photos. “Exactly where are we going in?”
Standing, Botlin went to the large map on the wall. “You’ll be dropped here,” he said, pointing to a spot in Laos a few miles inland from the border. And then you’ll go here,” he added, moving his finger into the Vietnam bottleneck.
Steven felt his insides turn to ice. He cursed himself for following his emotions. His inner warnings had been right, and he’d been a fool to ignore them. His mouth was dry and he had to work up saliva in order to speak normally. “That’s North Vietnam.”
“I know what it is. Your team will have two weeks to get the mapping and charting done, and to return to the extraction point in Laos. You’ll be working in conjunction with a CIA team who’s been in Laos for nine months. Gentlemen, we need that information, desperately. Without it, I don’t think we’ve got one chance in a thousand to get out of this hell we’re stuck in.”
“When do we go?” Savak asked.
“Tomorrow. But now, gentlemen, I’d like you to meet the rest of your team.” Botlin leaned forward and jabbed the b
utton on the intercom. “Send them in.”
The door that Steven had entered through opened. A Green Beret corporal and sergeant came in first. The two men were tall and muscular and, like all the Special Forces men Steven had seen, they carried themselves with an air of confidence that was purely physical. Following the two Green Berets was a sergeant in a Ranger uniform.
Steven took one look at the scout’s face and knew that the army’s high command had sprung the last trap.
Next to him, Savak whispered, “Son-of-a-bitch.”
Still, Steven couldn’t speak. All he was capable of doing, was to stare at Ranger Scout Chuck Latham.
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Steven squatted beneath the cover of a huge tree. Savak was next to him, his index finger hovering above the map, charting the course he wanted Steven to mark out.
Using an indelible pen, Steven plotted the morning’s findings, and the best route through the rain forest. Then he folded the map and put it with the others. He looked at his watch. “Two days and ten hours and we’re out of here.”
Savak grunted in agreement. “The first thing I want when we get back is a hot shower followed by a long soak in an even hotter bath. About two hours’ worth for starters. Then I want to get drunk and laid. In either order. And dry boots. I don’t think I can remember what my feet feel like when they’re dry.”
The insects had feasted on his blood. He’d swallowed as much dirt as he had food. And, although they’d passed any number of streams and ponds, they weren’t able to chance bathing. If someone spotted soap residue, every Charlie in the area would start looking for the source. They couldn’t piss or take a crap without finding a spot to hide the evidence of their presence.
The team was far enough inside North Vietnam not to worry about heavy NVA patrols, since most North Vietnamese troop movement took place on the main routes into the South. However, there was enough enemy movement in the area to keep them on full alert. There were only a few scattered villages in the mountainous jungles, which the five men gave a wide berth. But Steven knew one mistake was all that was necessary for them to be discovered. So far, they hadn’t made a mistake.