by Mike Jenne
Looking out the window, Smith nodded. “So I suppose that this place probably brings back a lot of memories for you.”
“How so?” asked Ourecky.
“Well, I just assumed that you spent some time here during the war, sir,” replied Smith.
“No, I never set foot here.” Ourecky grinned, shrugged his narrow shoulders, and added, “Passed over several times, maybe, but that’s another story.”
In the front passenger seat, a gruff-looking Secret Service agent cupped his ear, apparently listening to a radio through an earpiece. He pointed toward a blue Toyota carry-all van parked beside the operations building. “Sir, that’s the Vietnamese colonel who wants to talk to you.”
Glades watched an elderly man step out from the passenger side; the man looked to be in his seventies and was dressed in the distinctive camouflage uniform of the Vietnam People’s Army ground forces. Even from a distance, the man looked vaguely familiar. Seeing that the man’s withered left arm hung loosely at his side, his suspicions were confirmed.
Their own van pulled to a stop and the small party disembarked. The DIA analyst consulted a PDA and spoke quickly as they approached the building. “General, I just received more detailed information. This guy’s name is Colonel Bao Trung. He was initially assigned as a Lieutenant in the 22nd NVA Infantry Regiment. Seriously wounded in Quang Nam province in August of 1970. They evacuated him north. After medical treatment and rehabilitation, he was assigned to another infantry regiment in training in Quang Ninh province up north, but was wounded again in December 1972. After recuperating from that, he was assigned to a POW camp as a guard force commander and then later became the camp administrator.”
Ourecky nodded. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Sir, our records indicate he’s a dyed-in-the-wool, Communist hardliner. He fought against our guys in South Vietnam, and there’s substantial evidence that he was personally involved in interrogating a few of our pilots at the tail end of the war. I would be cautious with this guy, General. Abundantly so.”
“Duly noted.”
As they approached, the Vietnamese officer faced Glades and Ourecky, drew himself to attention, saluted, and bowed slightly at the waist. Years seemed to fade away as he straightened his spine and became like a younger image of himself. “I am Colonel Bao Trung,” he announced proudly.
His name had barely departed his lips when Glades staggered forward and threw his arms around Bao Trung, and the elderly Vietnamese man reciprocated. No words passed, but they gripped each other tightly, as if they were long lost brothers. Tears streamed from their eyes. Ourecky watched without emotion, obviously not knowing what bond connected the two.
Taken aback by her husband’s tears, Deirdre crumpled against Ourecky and began to sob.
“Are you going to be all right, Deirdre?” asked Ourecky, putting an arm around her shoulders to comfort her. “Is there something I can do?”
Stammering through her tears, Deirdre replied, “I’m sorry. I’ll be okay. It’s just that…it’s just that after being married fifty years, burying two children, and even with this damned death sentence hanging over him, I’ve never once seen that man shed a tear.”
29
THE NAME ON THE WALL
Tan Son Nhat International Airport
Ho Chi Minh City, Democratic Republic of Vietnam
Present Day
With tears flooding their eyes, Bao Trung and Glades embraced in silence for well over a minute. Taken aback at the sight of her husband’s uncharacteristic display of emotion, Deirdre Glades leaned against Ourecky and sobbed. The others stood to the side and watched without speaking, obviously not knowing what to make of the strange reunion between two former enemies.
In the background, the tsunami recovery effort was still in full swing. Like squadrons of worker bees busily tending to their hive, a constant stream of military and civilian cargo planes landed and departed, delivering a steady flow of humanitarian supplies.
The hulking C-17 was quickly being unloaded. Trucks and forklifts bustled about, ferrying consignments of relief supplies to staging areas marked by color-coded pennants. A Soviet-built “Hip” helicopter hovered low over a depot, hoisting a cargo net swelling with drab-painted fuel drums. Wearing matching jumpsuits and accompanied by burgeoning heaps of rescue gear, squads of international disaster specialists lolled in the scarce shade available as they awaited transportation to outlying areas. The harsh sun glared down as if in stern judgment.
Finally, the two elderly men slowly released their clench and stepped back, scrutinizing one another to see how the long decades had passed. Over forty years had elapsed since Glades had left the wounded NVA officer unconscious beside a foot trail. The former American commando looked horrible; his countenance was drawn and gray, and he walked with the stooped posture and demeanor of someone crippled by immense pain.
Bao Trung remembered Glades as robust and vital, fully in command of his circumstances; the frail man he saw before him was more like a faint vestige, like a poorly developed photograph from a long-forgotten roll of film.“Forgive me for being so honest, but you look awful,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Are you not well?”
“No, I am not well,” answered Glades in a faltering voice. Abruptly gripping his stomach, he grimaced as he bent sharply at the waist. Deirdre scurried forward to assist him, but he shook his head as he held out his hand.
“Are you going to be all right, Glades? Do you need to see a physician? I can make arrangements if…”
“Thank you, but there’s nothing a doctor can do for me now. I’m dying.”
“Dying?” said Bao Trung. “We all are. Surely as rust eats iron, death will eventually consume us all, every one.”
“I suppose you’re right,” smirked Glades, struggling to pull himself erect. “Excuse me for not being too philosophical about kicking the can.”
Standing beside Glades, Ourecky cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry, sir,” muttered Glades. “I thought you two might have already met.” Embarrassed, he offered an introduction. “Colonel Bao Trung, this is Major General Ourecky.”
“Scott,” said Ourecky, stepping forward as he extended his hand. “I’m retired now, so we can dispense with the formalities. Like my old boss used to say: the stars fell off when I shed my blue suit.”
Bao Trung reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of faded black silk, the hand-embroidered star map that his wife had made for him decades prior, tightly folded into a small square. He held it out towards Ourecky and asked, “Do you recognize this?”
Ourecky looked as if he was being called to verify a shibboleth. He examined the cluster of carefully sewn points, and then said, “That’s the Pleiades. The Seven Sisters. That’s my favorite group of stars. How could you…”
A faint hint of a smile came to Bao Trung’s otherwise inscrutable face, and a twinkle lit his eyes. He held out his hand and said, “Welcome, Scott Ourecky. I am deeply honored to finally meet you.”
“Bao Trung, I would like to introduce you to my wife, Deirdre,” said Glades.
Bao Trung lightly clasped her hand, bowed cordially, and said, “I am greatly honored to make your acquaintance, madam. Your husband is truly a great and highly respected warrior. I know that you are very proud of him.”
“And this is my better half,” said Ourecky, glancing to his side. “Bea.”
The Vietnamese colonel bowed slightly and said, “I am deeply honored.”
“Bea, Nestor and I will probably be busy for a few hours,” noted Ourecky, turning toward his wife. “Would you and Deirdre like to take a look at the relief operation? I’m sure that we can have one of the security guys escort you around.”
“That sounds fine, Scott,” replied Bea. “I know that you boys have work to do.”
“That sounds good, General, but I need to stay with Nestor,” interjected Deirdre. “I have his medicines and…”
“Just leave the bag with me, dear,” said Glades, adjusting his
sunglasses. “I should be able to take care of myself for an hour or two. I’ll be just fine.”
Bao Trung briefly spoke into a handheld radio and then commented, “We have a field hospital established in the main terminal. I have notified a physician there. He can be here in two minutes if there’s a need.”
“We’ll take good care of him, Deirdre,” said Ourecky, smiling as he shifted a blue nylon satchel from one hand to the other. “I promise. Why don’t you go look around? I’m sure that Bea would appreciate your company.”
“Well, I suppose,” conceded Deirdre. She swung her daypack from her shoulder, unzipped it, removed a plastic shopping bag filled with medicine bottles, and handed it to Glades. “Don’t forget the big white pills, Nestor. Two of them, with plenty of water, every half hour.”
“I won’t forget, ionúin. For once, don’t fret about me. I’ll be fine.”
Ourecky nodded to a Secret Service agent standing close by. The agent shadowed Bea and Deirdre as they boarded the van, and then climbed in after them.
“Please come this way,” said Bao Trung, gesturing toward the operations building as the van pulled away. “I think we would all be much more comfortable once we have some shelter from this dreadful sun. Nestor, your friend—Matthew Henson—is waiting inside.”
As they walked toward the single-story metal structure, they compared notes as old men often do, sweeping aside decades of separation to focus on the truly important issues. “I brought you something,” said Glades. He pulled some photographs from an envelope and handed them to the Vietnamese officer. “I have grandchildren.”
Bao Trung examined the photographs. “I do, also,” he said, grinning. He reached into his pocket, extracted a photo of his extended family and held it towards Glades. In the picture, he and his wife were surrounded by their three sons, their daughters-in-law, and ten grandchildren.
Adjusting his bifocals, Glades smiled weakly. “Your wife looks much happier now. As I recall, she didn’t look too happy in the last picture I saw of her.”
“Thank you for allowing me to meet my grandchildren, Glades,” said Bao Trung solemnly. He slipped the cellophane-laminated photograph back into his pocket. “I am indebted.”
“As I am.” Glades twisted the cap from a plastic bottle and took a long drink. He swallowed, obviously with some difficulty, and added in a raspy voice, “I doubt that I would have made it home if I hadn’t followed your advice.”
The three men entered the building, where Matt Henson waited in the foyer. He hugged Glades and asked, “I heard about the diagnosis. I’m really sorry. How are you holding up?”
Grimacing, Glades replied, “Not so good. Ask me again in a few weeks, after I’m dead.”
“Don’t be so negative, Nestor,” said Henson. “Miracles happen all the time. Don’t be so quick to count yourself out.”
“I’m not looking for a miracle,” replied Glades. “I’m just looking for it to be over.”
Henson turned to Ourecky, shook his hand and said, “It’s good to see you again, sir. Thanks for your help with the K-Max’s. They’re worth their weight in gold.”
“I’m just glad that I could of assistance,” replied Ourecky. “Look, Matt, I hate to sound impatient, but I really want to know where Carson is. We’ll have time to catch up later.”
Bao Trung nodded at a stocky Vietnamese officer, who guided the four men into a small conference room. On one wall, a whiteboard displayed a rough sketch of the airport grounds, detailing the locations of different staging areas and loading sites. A wood-bladed ceiling fan spun slowly, hardly stirring the oppressively humid air.
As the four men took their seats at a table, a young Vietnamese soldier passed through the room, bearing a lacquered serving tray heavily laden with soft drinks and bottled water. Slowly shaking his head, Ourecky politely waved him away as he removed a bulky satellite phone from a nylon satchel. Glades took a liter-sized bottle of water from the soldier’s tray. Bao Trung and the soldier spoke briefly in Vietnamese; afterwards, the soldier adjusted the dial of a wall-mounted thermostat.
Ourecky switched on a small voice recorder and said, “Colonel, your message said that you had information about Major Drew Carson, who was shot down northeast of Haiphong in December of 1972. Do you know what happened to him?”
“I do, General. But please be patient with me. I really want to start at the beginning.” Bao Trung looked at Glades and said, “Before I can tell you what happened to Carson, I have a confession for you.”
“A confession?” asked Glades. With trembling hands, he screwed the cap back on the water bottle.
Bao Trung nodded. “I know it’s probably difficult to remember, but just before you left me to be found by our forces, you concealed some of your excess equipment in the swamp, so you could move faster. Do you remember?”
Glades closed his eyes momentarily, frowned, and then replied, “I do. What of it?”
“Although you thought I was unconscious, I overheard you and your men discussing what would be cached and what you would carry with you. The soldier with blonde hair was reluctant to abandon some gold coins, but you ordered him to leave them in the swamp.”
“That’s right. There were gold coins in a bartering kit. Ulf Finn wanted to hang on to them. You have a good memory.”
“Yes, Glades, but if you knew the things that I am compelled to remember, then you would understand that my good memory is not a blessing but a curse.”
“You said that you had a confession?” interjected Ourecky in an urgent tone. “Does it have to do with Carson?”
“Indirectly, yes.” Ashamed, Bao Trung confided, “Here’s my confession. Four months after we went our separate ways, I was authorized to go on furlough to see my family. As much as I longed to see my wife and son, I did not travel directly home.”
“So you went after that gold?” chided Ourecky. Behind him, a wall-mounted air conditioner screeched loudly as it started running.
“I did, but let me explain. Do you believe in God, General?”
“I do.”
“Do you ever have doubts about God?”
“Of course. That’s the nature of faith. We all have our doubts sometimes.”
“Well, General, when I was a younger man, I fervently believed in Socialism, probably in the same manner that you believe in God. But I also had my doubts, so the prospect of that gold was very alluring. I decided to find it and recover it for myself. I justified my actions by swearing to myself that I would dutifully labor on as a good Socialist, but I would hide the gold away, perhaps bury it somewhere for safekeeping.”
Bao Trung continued. “You must remember that at that point, the war was progressing well for us. Your nation had grown weary of conflict and death, so your imperialist forces were finally leaving. It was only a matter of time before we defeated the South. I was optimistic about the future, but if our fortunes had changed or if you Americans had elected to return to the fight…”
“You wanted to hedge your bets,” interjected Glades. He shivered slightly, zipped up his khaki poplin windbreaker, and then reached out to adjust the air conditioner’s vents to blow away from him.
“Hedge my bets? I’m not familiar with that expression,” said Bao Trung. “But I assume that it accurately describes my actions. Sincerely, I didn’t act out of greed; I just wanted to protect my family if the South prevailed, particularly if we were compelled to escape to another country.”
Bao Trung continued. “So when I departed on furlough, I returned to that swamp. It took me three days of grubbing in the muck, but I found the bag that contained the gold coins. The bag also held a uniform, boots, a compass, a medical kit, an American flag, a rubber ground cloth, and some other things. I can’t explain why, but I kept them. I concealed the bag with the gold and other items not too far from our camp. Afterwards, I hitchhiked to Hanoi and then caught a ride to my hometown with a convoy of engineering equipment.”
“So you kept the gold,” noted Ourecky. “I can a
ppreciate your motivations for doing that, but it doesn’t answer my question. What happened to Drew Carson?”
Without sparing any painful details, Bao Trung described Carson’s ordeal. He told them how Carson was tortured and otherwise mistreated during his first weeks in incarceration, and that he never broke under even the most barbaric treatment and brutal deprivations.
He explained how Carson was kept in the reeducation camp, isolated from other Americans, and the dilemma that the camp commander faced when American prisoners were being processed for repatriation during Operation Homecoming. He described going home on furlough, returning to discover that Carson had fallen deathly ill with malaria.
“The camp commander, Major Thanh, and I sincerely wanted him to go home,” claimed Bao Trung. “But he kept refusing to correctly identify himself. All that we asked of him was to divulge his true name, so we could correlate him to a name on the reconciliation list that the Americans had provided. That’s all.”
“Did he?” implored Ourecky. “Did he give his correct name?
“He did, but then he just would not be quiet,” muttered Bao Trung, slowly shaking his head. “He would have immediately gone home had he not claimed to be an astronaut.”
“An astronaut?! Did you believe him?” asked Ourecky. “Don’t you suppose that it was the malaria that caused him to say that?”
Bao Trung was silent for a moment, and then said, “Did I believe him? Rather than answer that directly, General, I would rather tell you the rest of the story.”
Bao Trung continued. “We were waiting for transportation to take him to Hanoi when the Soviets passed word that they wanted to interrogate him. They were sending a special detachment of spetsgruppa, under the command of a general directly from Moscow, along with a specially qualified doctor to treat his malaria. They were adamant that he not be released back to the Americans, and they demanded that we withhold confirmation that we had captured him. I was concerned that they would almost assuredly take him to the Soviet Union. I felt responsible for causing this unfortunate chain of events, so I decided to take action to thwart the Russians.”