Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  “Then I’m going home!” exclaimed Carson.

  Bao Trung shook his head. “If only it were that simple.”

  “It is. I’m an American POW. If what you’re saying is actually true, then your government must send me home.”

  “That would be true if your government was asking for your return,” explained Bao Trung. “But they’re not.”

  “They’re not? How could that be?”

  Bao Trung squatted down next to the mat. “Here,” he said, handing several mimeographed pages to Carson. “That is the reconciliation list that your government gave to us. They want an accounting of every single name on that list. So far, a few hundred of those men have been identified as POWs, and they are being repatriated. Drew, there are 1925 names on this list, but the name of Lieutenant Commander Andrew Scott is not on it.”

  Slowly flipping through the pages, Carson glimpsed his name—Major Andrew M. Carson, USAF—and swallowed deeply. He regained his composure and continued to the end of the document. As the Vietnamese officer had asserted, his Navy pseudonym—Lieutenant Commander Andrew C. Scott—was not on the list.

  “You saw something?” asked Bao Trung, carefully watching his reaction. “Your real name, perhaps?”

  Carson handed the list back. “How do I know that this is not some sort of scheme?” he asked. “I’m obviously being isolated from other Americans. How do I know that your government is actually releasing POWs? How do I know that the war is over?”

  “Here,” replied Bao Trung, handing Carson the glossy American news magazine. “The cover story is about something called ‘Operation Homecoming’ back in your country.”

  “How do I know that this is not a trick?” asked Carson. The magazine looked genuine, but it could also be a carefully manufactured fake. He opened it and turned to the article about the POW reparations.

  One of the first pictures he saw almost caused him to gasp. It showed one of his squadron mates from flight school, gaunt-faced and several years older, being greeted by his wife and children in California. Carson knew that the man had been shot down three years ago, and he had personally called his wife to console her, so he knew that the magazine must be genuine.

  He studied the other pictures, hoping to glimpse other familiar faces. But he was confused; what would happen if he deviated from the story he had been given? What if they already knew who he was and had even the faintest notion of what he had been doing for the past five years? Surely, the US government knew that he was a prisoner of the North Vietnamese and would not leave any stone unturned until he was repatriated.

  “Put down that magazine and look me in the eyes, Drew,” ordered Bao Trung, turning to face Carson. “Let me be clear, so there is no confusion in your mind. Although we’ve shared some pleasant conversations and amusing moments together, I am your enemy. I have killed Americans, many Americans, and if we were in different circumstances, I would kill you without the slightest hesitation. But with that said, I’ll tell you something else, and you need to listen.”

  Lowering his voice considerably, Bao Trung continued. “Without going into details, I am alive only because one of your countrymen showed me great mercy. Now, I feel obligated to pass that kindness on to you. Drew, I am not trying to trick you. I sincerely want you to go home, but I can assure you that you will not be released if you do not correctly identify yourself. Do you understand me?”

  Carson nodded weakly.

  “Drew, I am leaving tomorrow morning. I will be gone for two weeks.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Carson.

  “I have been granted a furlough. I’m going home to see my wife and child. But that does not matter. Soon after I return, you will meet with the same interrogation team that questioned you when you first arrived here.”

  “The men who tortured me?” asked Carson.

  “Yes,” replied Bao Trung. “But they are not coming back to torture you. They are returning strictly to determine your true identity. I’m warning you, Drew, you need to tell them your correct name. If you do, there’s a good chance that you will be released back to your country. If you don’t correctly identify yourself, then you will remain here. Forever. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” croaked Carson.

  “Then I will leave you here to reflect on your circumstances. You may keep the magazine, if that helps you to remember who you are.” Bao Trung slipped the reconciliation list back into the folder, stood up, and abruptly departed the cell. The heavy wooden door closed behind him, and Carson heard the lock’s hasp click into place.

  Wiping away tears, he opened the magazine and studied the picture. It was definitely his friend from flight school. Although the picture and magazine had to be real, he was still wary of being lured into a trap. He was incredibly frustrated and desperately wished that there was a clear-cut answer to his dilemma. Should he accept the potentially dire risk of revealing his true identity to the North Vietnamese interrogators, or should he rely on the US government to deliver him from this debacle?

  As he pondered the question, a mosquito flitted in through one of the cell’s small windows and landed on Carson’s bare arm. When he noticed it, he crushed it under his thumb, but it was too late; in the process of seeking a meal of his plasma, the miniscule insect injected something into Carson’s bloodstream, a microscopic parasite that would alter his fate forever.

  25

  SPETSGRUPPA

  Reeducation Camp # 4

  Lang Hien, Quang Ninh Province, Democratic Republic of Vietnam

  7:15 a.m., Friday, March 30, 1973

  Carson was left to ferment in solitary confinement while Bao Trung went home on furlough. He was not allowed to venture outside, even for his customary exercise periods. Every morning, a guard brought his ration of rice and replenished his water bucket. Every evening, another guard delivered his dinner meal and swapped out his waste bucket.

  Unbeknownst to Carson, as he stewed quietly in seclusion, his body was under attack by a microscopic army of relentless protozoan parasites. A tiny contingent of plasmodium had infiltrated under the cover of the mosquito’s bite, and then subtly established a tactical foothold in his liver. From there, the patient invaders breached his red blood cells in successive waves, pausing for forty-eight hour intervals to feast on his hemoglobin and reproduce, exponentially increasing their numbers as they cascaded through his bloodstream.

  As he contemplated whether to reveal his true identity, Carson fell ill. Initially, he suspected that it was merely the onslaught of a bad cold or the flu. He was first afflicted with a crushing headache, fever, and nausea. In time, he endured cycles of intense chills on every third day. Slightly more than a week after he was bitten by the infected mosquito, he was suffering with full-blown malaria.

  Malaria? The mere word struck fear in most civilized ears, but for a sizeable portion of the world’s inhabitants, malaria was a daily fact of life. Epidemiologists estimated that at any moment, over 300 million humans were infected with malaria, predominately with the most common strain, Plasmodium vivax. In fact, many residents of tropical regions were chronically afflicted with the disease, periodically suffering bouts of alternating chills and fevers throughout their entire lives.

  But of the four types of plasmodium that caused malaria in humans, Carson was stricken with the most virulent—Plasmodium falciparum—which typically killed over half of the people it infected. The strain had a unique trait not shared by the other three variants: when it attacked red blood cells, it also altered the properties of their surface proteins, which caused them to stick to the interior walls of blood vessels like discarded chewing gum on a hot city sidewalk. This tendency, known to scientists as cytoadherence, caused localized obstructions to the blood flow that could be especially detrimental to oxygen-hungry organs like the kidneys, liver and brain.

  Swaddled in his flimsy and undersized blanket, Carson knew he was sick, but no one else did. The two guards who daily attended to his cell were ordinary soldiers.
They had no medical training, so they didn’t notice that something was dreadfully wrong with the American prisoner. After all, he didn’t complain or cause them any undue trouble; he seemed content to sleep all the time. And in the past several weeks, they had witnessed him occasionally sink into similar unresponsive funks, so this state was nothing new. Moreover, the two attendants quickly discovered that the American left most of his prodigiously large meals untouched, although the pails were scraped spotlessly clean by the time they were returned to the kitchen.

  As woefully sick as Carson was, when the chills and fevers periodically subsided, he was clearheaded and coherent. During these intervals, he made up his mind that he would correctly identify himself when questioned by the interrogation team. As luck would have it, he was relatively lucid on the morning when Bao Trung returned from his furlough.

  Slouched in the corner of his cell, forcing himself to eat some plain rice, Carson heard a truck pull into the compound and knew that his day of reckoning had arrived. Minutes later, the cell door swung open and Bao Trung stood in the threshold. He looked appalled at Carson’s dreadful appearance. He sniffed the dank air and announced, ‘You’re sick, Drew. How long?”

  “Over a week,” muttered Carson, setting aside his bowl.

  “Chills?” asked Bao Trung, stepping into the cell and kneeling down to touch his forehead.

  Carson nodded.

  Bao Trung sniffed the air again. “It’s malaria.” He gritted his teeth, clearly becoming angry. “I can’t believe those idiots didn’t catch this. How do you feel now?”

  “Better, I suppose,” answered Carson. “I’m probably getting over this.”

  “You will never get over this,” chided Bao Trung.

  10:15 a.m., Saturday, March 31, 1973

  As he waited for the interrogation team to arrive from Hanoi, Bao Trung spent almost every waking moment with Carson, trying to nurse him back into some semblance of health. When the American was relatively lucid, they talked like they used to before Bao Trung went on furlough, but it was obvious that the malaria could readily seize control of his thoughts. To Bao Trung, the conversations were like talking with a drunk or perhaps a precocious child who was prone to teasing. The American could be speaking with absolute clarity in one moment, then suddenly drift into delusional nonsense, and it was up to Bao Trung to sift through what was valid and what was not.

  The humid air was filled with the scent of clay dust, the sounds of tools scraping dry earth, and the shouts of guards. Bao Trung entered the small cell and sat cross-legged on the floor opposite the American pilot. “Here’s some rice, Drew,” he said, holding out a small bowl. “I brought it from home. My wife fixed it especially for you. There are big pieces of chicken in there, along with onions and other vegetables.”

  “I’m not hungry,” replied Carson. “And isn’t your wife in…”

  “I am permanently stationed here now, so I received permission to bring my family to live with me.”

  “I am happy for you,” said Carson.

  “You must eat,” urged Bao Trung, holding a damp clump of rice to Carson’s lips. “You’re very weak. You need to regain your strength for your journey home.”

  Carson grudgingly took the rice and chewed it. He grimaced as he swallowed. “That’s enough,” he said. “Leave the rest here, and I’ll try to eat more later. I promise.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here to keep you company.” Bao Trung studied him; his speech was very coherent, and he didn’t seem to be suffering from chills or fever. Maybe the malaria had finally lapsed. That was good; his final interrogation session would be easier to bear if he was able to regain some strength. Not only that, but the long journey to Hanoi would be more than arduous if he was still sick.

  “Well, if you insist on staying, then maybe we can talk about the stars again, especially since you can’t see fit to actually let me look at them.”

  “I wish that I could, Drew,” answered Bao Trung. He unfolded the silk star map and spread it out between them on the concrete floor.

  “It wouldn’t be that hard to accomplish. All you have to do is leave that door unlocked one night and…”

  “The time is coming soon when you’ll be able to look at the sky again,” claimed Bao Trung. “I promise. All you have to do is reveal your true name, and you’ll be free to gaze at the stars anytime you desire.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “How about this constellation?” asked Bao Trung, attempting to change the subject. He gestured at a tight clump of white points sewn into the black cloth. “The little one near Orion. The Chinese call this group the blossom stars and the flower stars, and it also is called the hairy head of the white tiger of the West. What is the English name for it?”

  “That one?” asked Carson. “That’s the Pleiades. It’s also named the Seven Sisters. It’s not a constellation, it’s a star cluster. Scott taught me that.”

  “Scott?” asked Bao Trung. “Isn’t your name Scott, Drew?”

  “My friend’s first name is Scott,” replied Carson warily.

  “What a coincidence. And does Scott also enjoy astronomy?”

  Carson closed his eyes, smiled, and nodded. “He’s the one who taught me to enjoy it. I’m very grateful to him for that. I’m very grateful to him for a lot of things.”

  “He sounds like a good friend.”

  “He is. He’s my best friend. He taught me a lot, even when I wasn’t so eager to learn. Here’s some trivia: Do you know how many stars are in the Pleiades cluster?”

  “Seven, I suppose,” replied Bao Trung. “After all, it is called the Seven Sisters, right?”

  “Good guess, but incorrect. Most people only see the six brighter stars. The seventh star is Merope, which some astronomers call the Lost Pleiade, since the average person can’t see it,” replied Carson authoritatively.

  “So Merope is the seventh sister?”

  “Yes. According to Greek mythology, the seven sisters are the daughters of Pleione and Atlas. Merope is the only sister who didn’t marry a god, so she had to hide her face in shame. She was married to a mortal, Sisyphus.”

  “Sisyphus? I know that name,” said Bao Trung. “He was the king who was forced to push a boulder up a mountain, only to watch it roll down, over and over.”

  “That’s right,” said Carson. He shivered, as if a chill was coming over him, and pulled his blanket over his shoulders. “Anyway, even though most people see only six stars in the Pleiades, there are many more. There are actually over a thousand stars in this cluster, but under the best of conditions, most people—even trained astronomers—can see no more than twenty with their naked eye.”

  “Interesting,” commented Bao Trung. “And so how many have you seen?”

  Carson’s hands trembled as he closed his eyes momentarily. Almost a minute passed before Bao Trung quietly said, “Drew?”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Carson. “A big chill just passed over me. What did you ask?”

  “We were talking about the Pleiades.”

  “Oh, yeah. The Seven Sisters.”

  “Yes,” replied Bao Trung, trying to nudge him back on track. “You said that the average person could only see six stars. I asked you how many you have seen.”

  Carson looked at the gray ceiling, as if looking for a clue in its dullness, and quietly replied, “I’m not sure. I counted one time before it drifted out of view, and I got up to a hundred.”

  “A hundred?” replied Bao Trung. “Well, Drew, I have to admit that I am envious of you. I would give anything to look at the sky through one of those big telescopes that you have in the United States.”

  “When I saw those hundred stars, I wasn’t looking through a telescope,” bragged Carson, almost nonchalantly. He shivered, coughed, and pulled his blanket tighter.

  “Oh, really? Then, pray tell, how did you see them? Perhaps you eat a lot of carrots? I’ve heard rumors that carrots are good for your eyesight.”

  “No carrots,” r
eplied Carson. “And no telescope, either. You have to get very high up to see that many stars. Way up above the atmosphere.”

  “So you saw them from an airplane?” asked Bao Trung. He couldn’t conceive of any planes that flew at that high an altitude, except one, and even the possibility that the American may have flown that craft raised considerable cause for alarm. “Drew, are you implying that you flew the X-15 rocket plane?”

  “No. When I counted those stars, I was flying much higher than the X-15 can go.”

  Bao Trung gulped. Who could possibly know what the Americans had built? After all, he had long heard rumors of a black spy plane that looked like a manta ray, that flew so fast and so high that it could not be shot down, and then recently had seen pictures of it actually flying. If the Americans had built something that amazing, and now it was public knowledge, who could guess what sorts of things that they kept hidden from view? Moreover, there was always the possibility that Drew—in his less than lucid state—was actually telling the truth. Now, it made absolute sense why the Americans had undertaken such an intensive effort to rescue him. Only minutes ago, Bao Trung had been anxious to deliver the American into the hands of the interrogators, so that he could provide the key—his true name—that would allow him to go home, but now he was concerned about what other secrets the fever-addled prisoner might inadvertently reveal.

  “So, you don’t believe me?” asked Carson quietly, like a child innocently trying to explain the mystery of a missing cookie to his parents. His voice was raspy and faint, like he was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. “You don’t believe that I could have flown that high?”

  “Drew, don’t even joke about things like that!” hissed Bao Trung, admonishing his American charge. “If the interrogators catch wind of something like that, you may never go home, even if you do identify yourself correctly.”

  8:43 a.m., Monday, April 2, 1973

  “The interrogation team is here,” announced Bao Trung. Are you well enough to talk to them?”