Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  Minutes later, the ceremony was concluded. After posing for a few photographs, the President was whisked away by the Secret Service. The Secretary and the Chief personally congratulated Ourecky before he was confronted with an onslaught of generals and other senior officers anxious to shake his hand.

  As the crowd eventually filtered out, Ourecky realized that his parents had already been escorted to the reception in another part of the museum. He started to rush out of the auditorium as a captain approached with a polished wooden box. “Your awards, sir,” said the captain. As Ourecky removed the Medal, Bea helped him take off the wings. He handed them to the captain and started to leave, but Wolcott stopped them.

  “Sorry we had to surprise you, son,” said Wolcott. “And I’m even sorrier that your left-seater couldn’t be here. Look, pardner, I ain’t sure that you fully appreciate the ramifications of what just happened, but the folks sitting in that audience are goin’ to be the very ones callin’ the shots on the rest of your career in the Air Force. You may never wear those wings or that Medal in public, but those men know that you earned both, and they ain’t going to forget. So, in short, Major Ourecky, so long as you elect to remain in the Air Force, you can pretty much count on a stellar career. Am I making myself clear, pard?”

  Ourecky nodded.

  “You can do as you wish, but I think you owe it to Carson to make the best of it,” added Wolcott. He turned to Bea and said, “And I have something to say to you, little lady. I know that we ain’t always been on the best of terms, but hear me when I tell you that this man has always kept his promises to you. And he kept his promises even when it would have been much easier to break them. I’m going back to Oklahoma tomorrow, and if I never see you again after this day, I wish the best for you both always.”

  Bea embraced Wolcott tightly and thanked him. Afterwards, Wolcott grinned, loosened his tie, and walked out of the auditorium.

  “Wow,” observed Ourecky. “I would have never imagined that happening. Not in a million years.”

  “That you would someday get the Medal of Honor?” she asked.

  “Well, that too, but I never dreamed I would ever see you hug Virgil Wolcott.” He hugged her and said, “Hey, I’m sorry I could never tell you anything. I hope you understand now.”

  Bea kissed him and said, “I really have no idea what you did to earn that medal, but clearly it was very dangerous but very important. I hope that you never have to do anything like that again, but most of all, I’m happy that you kept your promise and came back to me. So, Scott Ourecky, are you home now?”

  “I am. I am home now.”

  12:45 p.m.

  Bearing a paper plate stacked with sandwiches, chips and hors d’oeuvres, Ourecky escorted Bea to a secluded corner of the conference room where the reception was being held. After almost an hour of shaking hands with generals and other dignitaries, he was famished. He was halfway through inhaling his second tuna fish sandwich when Matt Henson strolled up.

  “Mrs. Ourecky?” asked Henson.

  “That’s me, but call me Bea. Please,” replied Bea, using the corner of a white cloth napkin to dab a fragment of pimento cheese from her lower lip.

  “I don’t know if you remember, but we’ve already met. It was a few years ago, on a Delta flight from Atlanta to Dayton.”

  “Really? Honestly, I don’t recall,” replied Bea. “Your memory must be a lot better than mine, but to be frank, I’ve met so many people on planes that there’s no possible way that I could remember every one of them.”

  “Well, I apologize for not being more memorable,” said Henson. “Bea, would you mind if I borrowed your husband for a moment? We need to catch up on some unfinished business. I promise that I’ll bring him back unharmed.”

  “Unharmed? If that’s the case, how could I possibly refuse?”

  Curious as to what Henson might reveal, Ourecky grabbed a couple of sandwiches and followed the pararescueman to another corner of the room, where an Army master sergeant—the one who had received the Soldiers Medal during the ceremony—waited.

  “Major Ourecky, this is Nestor Glades,” said Henson. “You might not remember him, but he was with me that night in Haiti.” Ourecky shook Glades’s hand, and said, “You know, it’s funny, but I do vaguely remember you, but it sure seems like you were a black man, like Henson here.”

  “I was that night,” replied Glades.

  “Yep,” interjected Henson. “We were definitely soul brothers on that day.”

  “Major Ourecky, there’s something I need to tell you,” confided Glades.

  Ourecky chewed up a mouthful of sandwich, swallowed it, and asked, “About Haiti?”

  “No. It’s about your friend Carson,” stated Glades. “I guess that you’re aware that there was a rescue team sent into North Vietnam after he was shot down.”

  “I am,” answered Ourecky. “General Wolcott told me that, when he called to tell me that Carson had been shot down. He said that a team from the 116th had been dropped in to link up with him. I didn’t get any more details, other than they weren’t successful. Carson had apparently been killed before they could get to him.”

  Glades nodded and quietly said, “Henson and I were on that team.”

  “You?” asked Ourecky. “And you?”

  Both men nodded. “I don’t think that your friend was killed that day,” asserted Glades.

  “Go on.”

  Glades explained, “Before Carson went to Vietnam, General Fels asked me to put together a contingency team to execute a search and rescue mission. That’s how Henson and I, and the others, ended up at Da Nang. As you said, when Carson was shot down, we were inserted to pull him out, but then we were told that he was killed. We came out, and shortly after that, I went back to Eglin.”

  “So that’s it?” asked Ourecky. “That’s your whole story?”

  “Not exactly,” replied Glades. “Before I left Eglin, Fels had made arrangements to where I could get any post or assignment after I got back from Vietnam.”

  “And?”

  “I chose Hawaii.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It was. It is. I’m still there,” said Glades. “After I had hung my hat in Florida for almost six years, swapping back and forth between the Florida Ranger Camp and MACV-SOG, I figured that Deirdre…”

  “Deirdre?”

  “My wife. I figured that Deirdre and my kids were overdue for a change in scenery, maybe someplace tropical and exotic, so I picked Hawaii. It’s turned out well: Deirdre loves it, and so do the kids. They’re even learning to surf.”

  “Well, that’s just great. I’m happy for you.”

  “That’s only part of the story,” declared Glades. “Hawaii is also the location of an intelligence analysis office of the JCRC, the Joint Casualty Resolution Center. The JCRC is the military agency that is responsible for resolving POW and MIA issues. That’s the assignment I asked for, and General Fels personally saw to it that I got it. As you might figure, our main focus is on Southeast Asia: specifically the status of unresolved POWs and MIAs in Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia. Most of the JCRC is in Thailand, so I spend a lot of time travelling between Hawaii and Southeast Asia.”

  “I’m still at a loss here,” stated Ourecky. “If we’re here to talk about Carson, then he was never a POW. He was reported killed by North Vietnamese forces in December 1972.”

  “I don’t think so, Major,” replied Glades. “I think those reports were erroneous. I think he was captured, and I also think he’s not dead.”

  Momentarily incapable of speech, Ourecky closed his eyes. Glades’s assertions reinforced his suspicions that Carson was still out there, in need of assistance. “And why exactly would you think that, Master Sergeant Glades? Why are you so convinced that he’s still alive?”

  “In Hawaii, I’m in a position to review any and all intelligence traffic from Southeast Asia, particularly any messages that pertain to POWs and MIAs. As you might figure, after that SAR operation to gra
b your friend, I paid special attention to any traffic that even remotely looked like it might apply to him.”

  “Did you find anything?” asked Ourecky.

  “I did,” replied Glades. “I found four things. I assume that you know that Carson deployed under an alias, Lieutenant Commander Drew Scott.”

  “I know that.”

  “I discovered one message between Hanoi and a Reeducation Camp that mentioned a US prisoner named Drew Scott, where the North Vietnamese were trying to resolve Scott’s true identity and status. The name Drew Scott had not shown up in the reconciliation list provided by the US, and the NVA apparently were concerned that we were trying to hoodwink them. That message was transmitted in January 1973. I wasn’t able to find a subsequent reply from Hanoi.”

  “You said that you had four things?” asked Ourecky impatiently.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Glades. “Second, although there’s no further mention of Drew Scott, I found an excerpt from a teletype message from the Soviet Union to Hanoi that directly references an Andrew Carson. The message is from the Soviet GRU headquarters, specifically from the Bureau of Special Cooperation, which coordinated intelligence exploitation of captured equipment and personnel. The teletype stated that a special team would be travelling from Moscow to North Vietnam, where they were supposed to interrogate Carson, and if he proved to be of value, to escort him back to the Soviet Union. That message was intercepted on April 3, 1973.”

  “Wasn’t that after all the POWs had already been released by North Vietnam?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Glades. “The last POW—Navy Lieutenant Commander Alfred Agnew—was released on April 1, 1973. He was the last man released, and also the last man captured: he had been shot down on December 28, four days after Carson.”

  “So you think Carson was taken to the Soviet Union?” asked Ourecky angrily.

  Glades shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure?” demanded Ourecky. “What do you mean?”

  “Bear in mind, sir, that it gets a little strange from this point,” asserted Glades. “I read two more messages after that. One was from the commander of the Reeducation Camp to his bosses in Hanoi. That message implied that the Soviets took Carson. The second was from the commander of the Soviet team to the GRU headquarters in Moscow.”

  “And what did it say?” asked Ourecky.

  “Sir, it said…the message implied that an American commando team somehow infiltrated the camp in the middle of the night…”

  “And?”

  “And the message mentioned me by name, and implied that I took Carson.”

  Ourecky shook his head. None of what Glades was saying made sense. “Well, did you take Carson?” he demanded.

  “No, sir,” answered Glades. “After our headquarters told us that Carson had been killed, they directed us to stand down and begin movement to an extraction site. Less than twenty-four hours after we made it back to Da Nang, I was on an airplane headed back to Florida. So if someone slipped into that camp to rescue Carson, it wasn’t me. I swear.”

  “Then what do you think happened to him? Is he alive? Is he dead? Is he in the Soviet Union?”

  “Honestly, sir,” replied Glades. “I really don’t know where he is, but I think that he’s still alive.”

  27

  TSUNAMI

  Tan Son Nhat International Airport

  Ho Chi Minh City, Democratic Republic of Vietnam

  Present Day

  Less than twenty-four hours after the tsunami had devastated the coastal areas of Vietnam, Doctor Matthew Henson and four members of his disaster relief group—Apex Global Response—were on the scene. Working in collaboration with the Vietnamese government, the United Nations, other PVOs—private volunteer organizations—and several non-governmental humanitarian assistance agencies, Henson and Apex were here to assist with the delivery of crucial relief supplies and medical treatment teams to the most heavily impacted areas.

  Although it was a disaster of almost unprecedented magnitude, with almost a half-million coast-dwelling Vietnamese losing their homes, there had been virtually no immediate loss of life. The new Tsunami Early Warning System, recently established by the Global Physics Institute in Hanoi, had sounded alarms in sufficient time to urge people to safety, even though they were compelled to abandon their homes and belongings as they raced inland. But as Henson well knew from harsh experience, although the initial fatality count had been minimal, widespread sickness and death would soon follow. The displaced populations would pack into crowded refugee camps, adequate sanitation and clean drinking water would be almost nonexistent, and disease would spread rapidly.

  Henson and his wife, Adja, had started Apex Global Response over three decades ago, not long after he graduated from medical school. In their first decade of operations, they quickly discovered that there was almost always an abundance of physicians and other volunteers anxious to rush to the locus of a disaster scene, but there was a shortage of people who were willing to quietly work behind the scenes in support and administrative roles. As Adja progressively became more involved with managing medical response operations for Apex, Henson gravitated toward the role of managing logistics and overall operations. In fact, although he was still frequently addressed as “Doctor” Henson, he had allowed his medical licenses and qualifications to lapse long ago; it had been over ten years since he had even laid hands on a patient in a medical setting.

  Henson had essentially come full circle, since the lessons long ago conveyed by Abner Grau, his mentor as well as Adja’s father, eventually became the basis for his current actions. In effect, he was acting in virtually the same capacity that he had performed in Gabon, Haiti, and countless other Third World countries, when he worked for Grau in coordinating logistical support for a worldwide rescue and recovery network for a secretive Air Force project.

  In time, Apex had joined in relief missions around the globe, gradually evolving into an organization expressly tailored to function in dangerous places plagued by war and political unrest. Apex gradually established a reputation for slashing through the red tape, graft and greed endemic to the governments of Third World nations. They were also tremendously effective in thwarting thugs and hijackers intent on stealing relief supplies, so that the lifesaving resources could be pushed through to the people desperately in need of them. Apex’s unorthodox methods were sometimes called into question, but there was never any doubt that they achieved consistent results. Henson took pride in knowing that with Apex, virtually every spoonful of rice or high-protein flour found its way into a needy child’s belly instead of a thug’s warehouse.

  Unlike most PVOs, Apex did not actively seek funding, but was financed by private donors with exceptionally deep pockets. Most were entertainment personalities who sought publicity for their altruistic actions; moreover, they craved recognition as being part of a solution that actually worked. More than content to allow the celebrities to be the public face of Apex, Henson and Adja preferred to quietly remain in the background. Drawing only modest salaries, they maintained an unpretentious lifestyle. They owned a small house in Los Angeles, where Apex was based, but rarely spent any time there, since they effectively existed as nomads, migrating from one crisis site to another.

  Besides their extraordinary logistics solutions, Henson and Adja had developed a unique perspective for recruiting medical personnel to staff Apex’s missions. Over time, they had realized that the majority of the physicians and nurses drawn to disaster response volunteered because they sought a personal adventure. They ventured into Third World countries hoping for some form of enlightenment, excitement or both, and rarely lasted more than a year in the field before they grew tired of poor living conditions, danger and uncertainty. Granted, some performed admirably, but a sizeable percentage were high maintenance prima donnas who demanded comfortable accommodations and decent meals even as they worked with destitute patients in the midst of terrible turmoil and suffering. Additionally, it seemed as if e
very relief mission gradually devolved into a soap opera of sorts, replete with serial romances amongst staff members, as well as the jealousy and pettiness that accompanied such affairs.

  To effectively accomplish its mission, Apex strived to field medical workers who wanted a job, not an adventure. Adja, with considerable backing from their donors, aggressively recruited physicians and nurses from Third World countries. Apex’s typical doctor signed on for a five-year commitment, which included at least three years of formal residency training, usually at a prestigious institution, and two years of deployment on medical missions. They received a living stipend, which was usually very generous in comparison to their wages at home, but most were motivated by the opportunity to become better at their craft. After their deployment phase—twenty-four months of practicing “mud medicine” in the bush—they returned home, armed with excellent medical training that they probably could not afford or even receive in their home countries.

  1:35 p.m.

  The massive international relief operation was headquartered in an aircraft hangar at Tan Son Nhat International Airport. Apex had been allocated a remote corner of the vacant hangar. Henson’s advance team of five disaster specialists were busily engaged in setting up an array of computers and communications terminals.

  He looked around, examining his surroundings. The disused building smelled of mildew and aviation fuel. A fine layer of green mold coated the bottom of a brick wall beside him. Approximately a hundred international disaster workers occupied the hangar; that number would likely double by the end of the day. When that happened, the air inside the hangar, now stifling, would be unbearable and—more importantly—decidedly unhealthy. The reason was simple: as a multitude of well-meaning volunteers arrived from other countries, they would bring with them an array of germs. The tight quarters and humid air would provide a perfect petri dish for the exchange and exponential growth of viruses and bacteria. In a day or so, virtually everyone would be ill, at least to a certain extent, with coughs, sore throats and other flu-like symptoms.