by Mike Jenne
The checkpoint guards had just barely opened the gates when a small convoy—two small trucks, a field ambulance and a staff car—raced through the entrance and straight into the courtyard. Aghast at the idiotic behavior of their allies, Bao Trung cringed; the bare ground was still soggy from last night’s intermittent downpours and was slick as a provincial commissar’s political rhetoric.
As the vehicles bore down upon them, frantic prisoners broke ranks and scattered. Some reacted too slowly. The field ambulance swerved as its brakes squealed, skidding on the slippery mire and plowing directly into a row of prisoners. The hapless captives toppled over like human dominoes. Several were killed instantly; screaming and groaning, the others lay broken and bleeding in the stinking muck. In his mind, Bao Trung amended his estimates for the day; they would probably lose fifty or more if this lunacy continued at its present pace.
Bellowing directives, a large Caucasian woman in a starched white dress clambered down from the ambulance. Responding to her instructions, two men in white uniforms jumped from the rear of the vehicle and quickly began unloading boxes and medical equipment.
A pudgy Russian man in civilian clothes walked up and jabbered in faltering Vietnamese. The Russian’s skin was pale, like he lived in an underground bunker, but his eyes were unnaturally bright, like he bore some secret obsession. He fidgeted anxiously with his hands, like a toddler waiting for a long-promised piece of Tet candy.
Understanding little of what the stranger was trying to convey, Bao Trung shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
The man tried Russian, which Bao Trung partially understood, and then English.
“I speak English,” replied Bao Trung. “Fluently.”
“Good,” exclaimed the Russian. “Then we’ll speak English. I am Major Morozov of the Soviet GRU. He waved toward a huge, redheaded man, also dressed in mufti. “That is my boss, General Federov. We’re here to collect our American.”
Collect their American? thought Bao Trung. Yesterday, their message indicated that they wanted to interrogate Carson. Collecting was a far cry from interrogating. “We know. He’s very sick. Weren’t you supposed to bring a doctor with you?”
Morozov pointed at the woman in white. “That’s our doctor. She’s a specialist in treating tropical diseases,” he boasted. “She will cure the American’s malaria. Where is your clinic?”
“That building,” replied Bao Trung, indicating the infirmary.
Morozov shouted at the doctor in Russian. Ignoring the moans and pleas of the badly injured prisoners wallowing in the mud, the aloof doctor and her two orderlies carried the boxes and equipment to the infirmary.
“Where are they going?” asked Bao Trung. “The American is not there.”
“If he’s not in the clinic, then where is he?” demanded the abrasive Russian.
“We keep him in an isolation cell in that next building,” answered Bao Trung. “As I told you, he’s very ill, but sticking him the infirmary would likely only make him sicker. Anyway, it’s early and we weren’t expecting you yet. I’m sure that he’s still asleep.”
Morozov sniffed arrogantly, swiveled around, and walked away from Bao Trung. He then proudly guided Federov and his entourage like he personally owned the camp. They strolled to Carson’s cell, chatting excitedly along the way. Nervously wringing his hands, Morozov waited impatiently as Bao Trung selected the proper key. The Russian officer behaved as though he was a renowned archeologist preparing to unseal a pyramid’s burial vault reputed to be overflowing with fabled treasures.
As he slipped the key into the brass lock, fear gnawed at Bao Trung’s gut; he dreaded that his treasonous acts would soon be discovered. He turned the key, slipped the lock off the hasp and then stepped to the side as Federov, Morozov and two other Russians rushed into the cell.
He heard a collective gasp. Holding his breath, he looked within and saw that the unoccupied cell was exactly as he had left it hours earlier. A small American flag was spread out on Carson’s straw sleeping mat. Beside it, his prisoner’s uniform and threadbare blanket were neatly folded. The deceptive scene was precisely as Bao Trung had staged it; it was like Carson had just miraculously vanished—naked—into thin air. The Russians were obviously taunted by the name on the wall, boldly chalked in white block letters.
“Nestor Glades?” blurted Morozov, reading the name aloud and then pivoting towards Bao Trung. “The dispatches claimed that you had Carson!”
“We did have Carson.”
“You did?” growled Morozov. “Well, then who the hell is Nestor Glades?”
“A ghost!” snarled Federov furiously. “Glades is a damned specter! A phantom with mystical powers! Uzbekistan, the Congo, Berlin, Cuba and now here!” Flying into a livid rage, he roared vile curses as he repeatedly bashed his massive fist into the wall. The whole building shook as if suddenly jarred by an earthquake. Fragments of chipped concrete fell at his feet.
In his entire life, Bao Trung had never seen a man so angry. He resisted the urge to smile; his ruse had worked far better than he could have ever hoped. The giant Russian hothead obviously had some sort of history with Glades, and it clearly was not a pleasant one. It took minutes for Federov’s tantrum to subside. He had pounded the wall so intensely that bits of flesh were shredded from the knuckles of his right hand. As he stood with his fists at his sides, bright red blood dripped to the floor and spattered his shoes. Cowering, most of the Vietnamese officers slinked towards safety.
“We had this one right in our grasp and the Americans sent their damned ghost soldier! Poof, and he’s gone!” ranted Federov. “How could they possibly know?”
“Comrade General, perhaps there is a simpler explanation,” offered Morozov in Russian, looking furtively towards Bao Trung. “I suspect that the guards here may have assisted the American to escape.”
Ignoring him, the surly Soviet general stepped out into the sunlight and glanced up into the sky. His ire seemed to be gradually dispelled by fear. Speaking to an aide, he looked to the center of the camp and said grimly, “We are extremely vulnerable at this moment. Our vehicles are exposed where they are, out in the open. Move them under tree cover and conceal them under tarps. See if there are camouflage nets available.”
“Da, Comrade General,” replied the aide. He saluted, turned away, and scrambled toward the vehicles in the courtyard.
Federov stepped back into the cell and addressed Bao Trung in English, “You seem to be the only one here with your wits about you. Tell me: did you hear any helicopters last night?”
Bao Trung shook his head, yawned, and solemnly attested, “No, Comrade General.” He polled the other Vietnamese officers; they shook their heads as well.
“As I thought,” replied Federov. Turning toward the heavyset spetsnaz officer who oversaw his security detail, he growled, “Ensure that your goons are on full alert. We must be especially vigilant right now.” He drew his Makarov automatic and racked back its slide to check its chamber. Quaking with a mixture of anger and fear, he scowled at the name written on the wall, and added, “Fetch me an AK, a bandolier of magazines and a sack of grenades. This damned peashooter won’t be worth a tinker’s damn if Glades is still lurking about.”
“But, Comrade General,” said Morozov. “I think we should question the Vietnamese. If there is some sort of plot behind Carson’s disappearance, then maybe we can ferret it out.”
Federov gritted his teeth and frowned. Bao Trung had never seen such a sinister-looking man; it seemed as if evil seeped from his every pore.
Stammering, Morozov spoke again. “Comrade General, I swear to you that Carson was here. Shouldn’t we expend every effort to bring him back under our control? After all, he’s…” Morozov flinched as Federov stepped toward him, nudging him into a corner of the dank cell.
Uncharacteristically, Federov’s demeanor suddenly changed as he spoke softly in Russian: “Anatoly Nikolayevich, listen to me. I believe that you were right that Carson was here, but we must acc
ept that he has been wrested from our grasp. The Americans probably parachuted Glades and a team here last night. If they knew your alleged astronaut was here, then they likely knew that we would be coming as well. I have tracked Glades long enough to know that he would not leave a ripe fruit still dangling on the tree. Believe me, if he is still in the vicinity, all of us are in mortal danger. I am angry, but I don’t blame you. This whole episode might have just been a trick to lure me here.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Morozov. “What can I do now?”
“Make yourself useful,” replied Federov. “Instruct the spetsnaz wireless operator to assemble his kit. Prepare a coded message to immediately request a helicopter from Hanoi, highest emergency priority. Start formulating a contingency plan to get us out of here by road.”
Morozov nodded, pulling topographic maps of the area from his canvas valise. “Should I prepare our spetsnaz soldiers to search outside the camp?” he implored.
“Nyet!” replied Federov in an adamant whisper. “Under no circumstances will our men leave this camp on foot. Our Vietnamese allies have special troops to locate and kill commandos. This is their problem now, so we’ll leave the dirty work and dying to them.”
“And that’s what happened,” said Bao Trung, concluding his recollections of the fateful night when Carson disappeared from Reeducation Camp # 4. “I swear it.”
“They actually believed that I came into that camp and took him that night?” asked Glades incredulously.
“They did,” answered Bao Trung, nodding solemnly. “Without question.”
“What happened to Carson’s body?” demanded Ourecky. “You left him at that farm to rot?”
“He was dead, but I did not abandon him. I was not able to return until a week later. I went to the Buddhists and asked them to care for his body. They wanted to cremate him, in their custom, but I convinced them to bury him in the Western tradition instead. I offered them a gold coin for their services, but they refused to accept it.”
“So you kept the gold for yourself?” asked Henson.
“I did,” admitted Bao Trung. He slid a leather pouch across the table to Ourecky. “But I never spent it. There are ten coins in there, exactly like the day I dug them out of the swamp.”
Ourecky gently shoved the faded pouch back to Bao Trung.
“Thank you, but I cannot accept this. I feel guilty for keeping it so long. I feel guilty for everything that has happened.”
“So where is Carson’s body?” asked Ourecky. “Still at the monastery?”
“No. The monastery closed years ago. Last week, I sent some specialists to recover his remains. They located an old monk who had studied at the monastery. He showed them where Carson was buried. His memory was failing, but he still felt very confident that it was Carson.”
“But you’re not absolutely sure?”
Bao Trung shook his head. “No, I am not. After the monastery closed, some of the villagers also buried their loved ones in the cemetery, but the monk seemed sure that he remembered where Carson was buried.” He looked toward an officer; they spoke briefly in Vietnamese, and then the officer nodded. Standing to his feet, Bao Trung said, “Your friend is in the next room. I’m sorry for the delay, but my specialists were preparing him so he could be viewed.”
The four men walked deliberately into the next room to find a skeleton displayed in an open wooden casket. The scene could have been taken from a page in a medical textbook; the discolored bones were arrayed with meticulous care. Carson’s personal effects, including the items confiscated from him when he was captured, as well as the contents of the rubberized bag that Bao Trung had salvaged from the swamp, were in a pasteboard box next to the casket.
For several minutes, they stood silently and contemplated the skeletal remains. Ourecky closed his eyes and said nothing. After a while, he reached into the box that contained Carson’s belongings and pulled out a tarnished Breitling chronograph. He examined it, smiled, and then replaced the watch in the box.
“There’s no rush, General,” said Bao Trung quietly. “I know that you want to mourn your friend. You can stay here as long as you desire.”
“I guess that I’ve already done all my grieving long before I came here,” replied Ourecky. “I suppose that I’ve long since accepted the notion that he was dead, but I’ve always wanted to know where he died and how it happened. Thank you for answering those questions.”
Glades coughed, cleared his throat and apologized. “I guess I’m ultimately responsible for this. If I hadn’t botched the mission, we would have rescued him. I let him down. I let you down.”
Ourecky shook his head and replied, “Nestor, I’m sure that you did your best. I don’t think that anyone could possibly find fault with you. Please don’t think that you’re responsible.”
“Then I must apologize,” interjected Bao Trung. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. If I had not taken your friend away from the camp, he would have received care from the Soviet doctor. I am sure that he would have survived his malaria. He would probably be alive today.”
Ourecky shook his head and said, “Yeah, Bao Trung, you’re right. He probably could be alive today, but I think we both know that there are some fates that are worse than death. I know that if I had been in his shoes that night, and I was conscious of what was taking place, I would have gone with you. If it meant the difference between dying or possibly spending the rest of my days hidden somewhere in Siberia, I would have willingly gone with you.”
“Damned right,” commented Glades, shuddering. “In an instant.”
“Me too,” added Henson.
There was a knock at the door, and the forensic specialist entered. “I don’t mean to interrupt, General, but…”
“I know that you have work to do,” replied Ourecky.
The forensic specialist took a quick glance at the skeleton and noted, “All here.”
“What?” asked Ourecky.
“This is an intact set of remains, General,” asserted the forensic specialist. “It’s a complete skeleton. In fact, I’ve never seen a skeleton this well preserved, at least not a set of remains recovered in the field.”
“You got that from just one look?”
The specialist nodded. “Someone obviously took a lot of care when they buried him, and someone else took just as much care when they disinterred him.”
“Is it Carson?” asked Ourecky.
“General, these remains appear to closely match the physical description in his records, but I have to caution you that a positive identification is still going to take at least a week or so, maybe longer, once we transport the remains back to the States.”
“I requested that you bring equipment for DNA analysis,” said Ourecky. “Did you bring it?”
“I did, General. I have a portable kit.”
Ourecky reached into his bag, pulled out a small plastic vial, and handed it to the forensic specialist. The vial had a white identification label that bore a reference number but no name. “This sample was properly collected, exactly by regulation, and documented,” he explained. “Can you compare it to Carson’s DNA to confirm that they’re related?”
“I can, sir. If you permit me, I’ll need to take a bone to extract a sample of mitochondrial DNA. But there’s still something I’m curious about.”
“What?”
As a quizzical look passed over his face, the forensic specialist referred to the first page in Carson’s records. “Forgive me if it’s not my place to ask, General,” he said, closing the dossier. “This man was classified as missing in action in 1972 and presumed dead back in 1973. That was long before the military started collecting DNA specimens for identification purposes.”
“And your point?”
“Sir, his records indicate that he had no living relatives. If that’s the case, where did that DNA sample come from and why do you want a match?”
“That’s none of your concern,” replied Ourecky. “Just do it.”
The s
pecialist took a bone and left the room. When they were alone, Ourecky turned to Bao Trung and asked quietly, “Let’s go back to something you mentioned earlier. Did you believe Carson when he claimed he was an astronaut?”
Bao Trung swallowed. A nervous expression crossed his face as he somberly replied. “After the last time he was interrogated, when he finally identified himself correctly, I escorted Carson back to his cell. I’ll admit that I was very angry with him, because I knew there would be a delay when the interrogation team rendered their report to Hanoi. Certainly, I also had no idea that Hanoi or Moscow would take his claims seriously.”
Bao Trung continued. “When we returned to his cell, Carson obviously knew that I was disappointed with him, because he kept apologizing to me. He kept trying to explain that he wasn’t lying, and started telling me things. At first I thought he was just rambling, that his mind was addled by the malaria. But…” He looked at the floor and fell silent.
“But what?” asked Ourecky.
“The stories he told me were just too detailed. It was not something that he could have arbitrarily invented. I am confident that it happened exactly as he described it. With that said, I must offer another confession, General.”
“What?”
“At that point, I knew that if the Russians came and discovered even a fragment of what I knew, they would take Carson away and he would never return. I was also certain that if the Soviets ever realized what I knew, then I would have been swept away as well.”
Bao Trung continued. “I was afraid for Carson, but I was afraid for myself as well. So while I took Carson from the camp to protect him, that wasn’t my only motive. I was deathly concerned that the Soviets would eventually find me out. I have lived the past forty years under that fear, and I have lived the past forty years knowing that I was responsible for Carson’s death.”
“Listen to me,” said Ourecky. He looked toward Glades and then toward the skeleton on the table. “All of you. Carson chose to come here. What happened here was tragic, but these circumstances were the result of Carson’s choices, not yours. The three of you are entirely without blame.”