Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  “Yes, sir, it does.” Last-minute doubts ate at her. How is he going to react to what I’m going to say? she wondered. He may be competent, composed, quiet, and good-looking, but he is an unknown quantity. She took a deep breath. “Two items for you, sir,” she began. “One’s relatively minor, the other important.” He said nothing and waited for her to continue. “I overheard the nickname the men have given me and I don’t like it.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” he said. “Do you want me to do something about it?”

  She blushed. “They’re calling me ‘Legs.’ I’m not sure it would do any good for you to get involved. But I wanted you to know.”

  “Let me work on it,” he said. “And the other item?”

  “Major Hester is giving the safety investigation board misleading information.” The look on Pontowski’s face warned her that she was on dangerous ground.

  “Two questions,” he said, his voice very even and measured. “Is he lying to the board?”

  “I wouldn’t call it lying,” she answered. “But he claimed his recommendation to you about Captain Leonard should have been enough to ground Leonard and you should have acted on it.”

  “How were pilots grounded before I got here?”

  “It was my experience that Major Hester always handled it.”

  Pontowski allowed a slight smile. “The SIB will discover the truth,” he told her.

  “Sir, Colonel Tucker hates your guts.” Lori had also relayed the gossip she heard while working with the SIB.

  “Tuck and I go back a long time,” he said. “He hates everybody’s guts. But he’s fair.”

  “I hope so.” Waters stood, ready to leave. “Will there be anything else?”

  “My second question, Captain. How did you learn what Hester told the SIB?”

  “Don’t ask, sir.” He nodded and she left, leaving his office door open.

  Wednesday, January 31

  Washington, D.C.

  The hard shadows of anguish and doubt that darkened Mazie Kamigami’s life faded as she read the report. For the first time in over a year, the faint glimmer of hope that flickered at the back of her existence burned brightly. Are the dark months of this winter finally over? she thought. For a moment, she could hardly breathe as she stood in the corridor outside her office.

  “Finny did say you would be interested in this,” Wentworth Hazelton said, surprised by her reaction. He waited impatiently while she read the report again. He had signed for the secret document and would have to give it back to his secretary for safekeeping and accountability. The safeguarding of classified material was a fact of life on the third floor of the White House Executive Office Building where the staff of the National Security Council spent their days.

  She can’t be more than five feet tall, Hazelton calculated as he looked down on her. He was ten inches taller. Slowly, she lifted her face and looked up at him. “Yes … thank you …” Both her face and her words carried a warmth that amazed him. Until this moment, he had dismissed Mazie as an inscrutable, career-driven woman. Then he saw her tears. Mazie was anything but inscrutable.

  “Ah …” he stammered, “would you rather go into your office?” The open show of emotion embarrassed him. What would people think if they saw him standing with the Frump while she had a good cry?

  “Please … but I don’t want to keep you.”

  An unfamiliar feeling pulled at him. He wanted to help. Was it because Mazie looked so vulnerable? “It’s quite all right.” He nodded encouragingly and followed her into the cluttered office. It astonished him that she could find anything in the stacks of documents and reports that littered her cubicle. She sat down and again read the report, more slowly this time. With it committed to memory, she handed it back to him. “I didn’t know you tracked MIAs,” he said.

  “It’s not part of my job,” Mazie explained. “But my father is listed as missing in action.”

  The simple statement came as a shock to Hazelton. He had never met anyone who had a relative or loved one classified as an MIA. In his circle, that always happened to “others.” His mother would consider it in very bad taste to be listed as an MIA. “After all,” she had repeatedly told him when he was enrolled in Navy ROTC, “Hazeltons are only lost at sea.”

  The logic of it appealed to him. “Lost at sea” tied everything up in a neat package with no loose ends to entangle one’s life. Hazelton’s life had been a series of neat, tightly wrapped bundles, starting with the “proper” day school, then the “proper” prep school, and then Harvard. Maman—he gave the word a French pronunciation—had definite ideas about what was proper. She had always stressed that Hazeltons only became corporate directors, diplomats for the State Department, Episcopalian ministers, or, if they were wildly irresponsible, naval officers. “Proper Navy,” she had said, “not the wretched flying type.” Maman had been very upset when he told her that he wanted to work on the National Security Council for James Finlay.

  “May I ask how it happened?” Hazelton ventured. This was turning into a revelation for him with one surprise piling on top of another.

  “Perhaps,” she began, “you remember the rescue of Senator Courtland’s daughter? Out of the Golden Triangle.”

  He nodded, recalling the time he had met Heather Courtland. The senator had ideas about her marrying into the Hazelton family, but Maman had dismissed Heather as “an unfortunate, poorly adjusted child.” That was her code for “a piece of trash.”

  “My father,” Mazie continued, “was part of the Delta Force team that rescued her.”

  “I do remember reading about that,” Hazelton said. “But the papers only said there were light casualties.”

  “One killed, two wounded, and one missing in action,” Mazie recited.

  “And there was no trace of your father?”

  “There was one unconfirmed report that he had been captured in Laos and turned over to the Vietnamese. Apparently, he was searching for a former Binh Tram commander.”

  “Binh Tram?” Hazelton asked. He had never heard that term.

  “During the Vietnam War, the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos was broken down into operational areas called Binh Trams. A Binh Tram was run like a private fiefdom, and one of the Binh Tram commanders was infamous for hacking up any prisoner of war his people captured. My father was in Special Forces during his third tour in Vietnam. He was leading an insertion team on the trail when they were captured. You can guess by whom. He was the only one to escape. He saw his team executed.”

  “So you think he was settling some old scores?”

  “My father would do that,” Mazie said.

  “And this report about an incident on the SinoVietnamese border?”

  “The description fits my father.”

  Hazelton glanced down at the report that related how a huge American of Oriental descent had strangled a border guard. He briefly wondered if any boys had been brave enough to date Mazie in high school. Probably not, he decided. Then it came to him. Mazie Kamigami was a very lonely person, and this report had given her hope. He could see it on her face and hear it in every word. Was it the same for all the families of MIAs? Could he live with the uncertainty, the not knowing, year after year? It was a type of bravery beyond his experience.

  “Well, you must excuse me.” He stood, ready to leave. “Thank you, Wentworth.” H4 could still hear the warmth and hope in her voice.

  “That was stupid,” Mazie grumbled to herself when she was alone. Her imagination let her hear the clink of glasses, the aimless chatter and the buzz of networking in progress at some late-afternoon cocktail party. And in a corner, she could hear Hazelton’s well-modulated Bostonian accent as he related the incident of the Frump’s tears for the edification and enjoyment of her coworkers.

  Thursday, February 1

  Near Mocun, Guangdong Province

  The driver of the heavy truck coasted to a stop on the wide shoulder of the paved highway two miles east of the town of Mocun, seventy-five miles due west
of Canton. It had taken longer than planned to reach the fertile farming area and he was tired. But the driver had learned from past encounters with farmers that early morning was the best time for their lessons in “patriotic support in the fight against western imperialism.”

  The man in the passenger seat jerked awake and straightened his dirty olive green uniform. Only the distinctive gold shoulder boards of an officer of the People’s Liberation Army were clean and presentable. “Perhaps that village, Lieutenant,” the driver offered. “We missed it last time.” The lieutenant rubbed the early morning sleep from his eyes and tried to see the village through the mist rising off the rice paddies. “It’s nearer to the road than it looks,” the driver said.

  The lieutenant grunted and pulled on his wire-frame glasses. Now he could see the low mud-colored buildings in the distance. “Yes,” he decided, now fully awake, “we will educate those farmers. Get the men ready.” The driver walked around to the rear and dropped the tailgate with a sharp clang. “Be quiet, you fools,” the lieutenant hissed as the four soldiers clambered out.

  The echo of the falling tailgate reached through the orchard on the other side of the road and woke Victor Kamigami. For three seconds he didn’t move and only listened. Then he rolled onto his feet and into a crouched position, shedding his blanket. It was a reaction born of countless days spent in combat and again, he listened, his sharp sense of hearing searching for clues. It was the familiar sound of armed men, but they were on the far side of the road and moving away from him. Satisfied that they posed no immediate threat, he woke Zou Rong and the old man. “Soldiers,” he told them and pointed to the vague image of the truck in the morning mist.

  “They are raiding the village for food,” Zou said. “We need to leave before they find us.”

  “I want to see how they work,” Kamigami said. “So far, I’m not impressed.” He rolled up his blanket and moved toward the road.

  Zou said nothing and followed him without hesitation. Zou Rong and the old man had accompanied Kamigami on a reconnaissance of Guangdong Province to observe the PLA. Originally, Zou had intended to keep the big American out of trouble. But shortly after they had started the journey, he and the old man had become eager followers and students. Zou and the old man were careful to move forward using available cover, exactly as Kamigami had taught them.

  “A mistake,” Kamigami said when they reached the road. “They left their transportation unguarded.”

  “Then we should disable it,” Zou said.

  “Go,” Kamigami ordered. Zou moved silently across the road and lifted the hood of the truck. He quickly reversed the two wires on the coil as Kamigami had taught him. It was a fault easily corrected, but it would need a mechanic to find it. He lowered the hood and scampered back across the road.

  “They are stupid,” Zou said. “A single man should guard the truck and protect their rear. If they abandoned the truck, we can have it running in a moment.” Kamigami nodded, pleased with the young man’s progress. He motioned them across the road. The three men were little more than silent, moving shadows as they followed the soldiers down the rutted path into the village. They took cover behind a tomb in the vegetable garden in front of the village and watched as the soldiers forced the villagers to open a storeroom.

  The lieutenant stood in the center of the threshing floor where the villagers winnowed rice and snapped out orders. “Search the village. Bring the truck in from the road.”

  “Now the complications begin,” Zou whispered as the driver ran for the road.

  “What do you see?” Kamigami asked.

  “Five soldiers, one officer. All armed. This is the first time they have raided this village for food,” Zou replied. “They will take all the food in the storerooms because they know the villagers have hidden more away.”

  “Will they search for that too?” Kamigami asked.

  “Not this time. If they come back, they will.”

  “They are taking more than food,” the old man told them. He pointed to a soldier carrying a TV set out of one of the hovels. “These are not soldiers,” he growled contemptuously. “Under Chairman Mao, the PLA protected the people and soldiers moved among them like a fish through water. I wish we could stop them—teach them a lesson.”

  Zou gestured at the old man. “He was born in a village much like this one,” he explained.

  Kamigami’s hands flashed in a series of movements—silent commands for action. Zou moved off to the left while the old man retreated to the road. Kamigami darted forward and crouched behind a low stone wall. He had picked a vantage point from which he could easily see and hear what was going on.

  A soldier flushed a group of children out of a small shed and onto the threshing floor in front of the lieutenant. The children huddled for protection around a slender girl standing in their midst. Her head was held high and her face calm as she stared at the soldiers. Kamigami had a clear view and judged her to bé no more than eighteen years old. Her features were different from the villagers’, more finely drawn, with high cheekbones, a definite bridge to the nose, and wide luminous eyes. Where did she come from? he thought. She’s beautiful.

  “Why were you hiding?” the lieutenant barked, also intrigued by the girl.

  “For safety,” the girl replied calmly.

  “For safety?” the lieutenant repeated, confused. “Do you always hide at night?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Ah,” he said, “then why were you hiding now?”

  “Because you were coming.”

  “You knew we were coming?” The lieutenant smiled as he pushed through the flock of children surrounding the girl. They scattered like leaves before a foul wind. “What else besides the children are you hiding?” His eyes squinted as he looked at her. Only silence answered him. He reached out and pulled the girl’s thin shirt open, exposing her small breasts. She modestly folded her arms across her breasts, not moving.

  The lieutenant turned to one of his soldiers. “What have we found here?”

  “It is said that General Kang pays well for maidens like this one,” came the answer.

  “Yes,” the lieutenant breathed excitedly, “this could be most fortunate. The general does offer certain rewards.” He pushed the girl’s hands away and stroked her breasts.

  Kamigami’s hands moved, ordering Zou to fall back. Zou’s contract when they maneuvered was to keep Kamigami in sight. Together, they moved back to the road. “I wish we had weapons,” Zou said.

  “We will in a moment,” Kamigami assured him.

  Their older companion stepped out of the shadows. “The driver is trying to fix the truck,” he said. Ahead of them, they could see the back of the driver as he bent over the engine.

  “His weapon?” Kamigami asked.

  “A submachine gun,” came the answer. “A Type 85, I think. It’s in the cab.”

  Kamigami walked quickly, never slowing. He motioned the two men to guard his rear while he closed on his victim. He slammed a fist between the driver’s shoulder blades and drove him headfirst into the engine compartment. He grabbed the man’s neck with his right hand and squeezed, cutting off his wind. With his left, he hooked the back of the driver’s belt and lifted. Then he drove the man’s head into the engine block, much like a battering ram. Twice more his arms moved like pile drivers before he dropped the body over the fender, its head still in the engine compartment.

  “What now?” Zou asked.

  “We wait until the lieutenant sends another man to find out why the delay.”

  “Will he only send one?”

  “More than likely. They are not very good. Do you want to take him out?” Zou hesitated. He had never killed a man before. Then he nodded. “Do it there.” Kamigami pointed to a clump of bushes set back from the road next to the path. “Do you know how to use a garrote?” Zou shook his head no and Kamigami quickly demonstrated how to use a length of wire to strangle a man. Zou grunted and moved into the bushes.

  �
��He’s never killed before,” the old man said.

  Kamigami pointed toward the village. “Now’s his chance.” As expected, a lone soldier was coming to check on the truck. Kamigami moved into the shadows near Zou and waited. The soldier had passed the spot where Kamigami was hidden when Zou made his move. He stepped silently up behind the soldier, threw the wire garrote over his head and pulled. But the wire caught on the soldier’s chin and he was only jerked backward. Kamigami stepped out of the shadows and chopped at the man’s Adam’s apple, crushing his larynx. “Do it again,” he commanded.

  Zou slipped the wire down onto the soldier’s neck and twisted. He turned around so they were back to back and pulled the man’s head over his shoulder with the wire. The doomed man’s arms flapped helplessly for a moment. “I’ll do it right next time,” Zou promised.

  They moved fast. Kamigami told Zou to drive the truck to the edge of the village. While Zou ran for the truck, Kamigami and the old man, now armed with two submachine guns, moved back to the stone wall on the edge of the village. The truck was grinding up the path to the village when Kamigami reached his position. Zou stopped the truck fifty meters short of the threshing floor where the villagers had piled bags of rice. The lieutenant, irritated by the delay, strode angrily toward the truck. The three remaining soldiers were watching the lieutenant as Kamigami and the old man stepped out from behind the wall. A sharp command and the soldiers raised their hands. The villagers quickly stripped the soldiers of their weapons.

  The lieutenant looked confused, unable to comprehend the swift turn of events. Moments before, he had been ransacking the village, all-powerful and in command. Now, the villagers were closing in, silent and menacing. “I’m your prisoner!” the lieutenant shouted at Kamigami. “Protect me!” He looked frantically from side to side, searching for a way to run. Panic was etched on his face, and like a frightened rabbit he bolted for the stone wall. Only a woman holding a long-handled flail stood between him and the wall. She swung the flail at his knees and cut him down. The lieutenant’s fall served as a signal for action, and the villagers swept over the soldiers, knocking them to the ground and stomping with their feet.