A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

  I saw it then. Garber had been a fighter pilot in Vietnam, not an FAC.

  “I don’t see a date,” I said. “Was he in ’Nam in ’70?”

  “There’s no date listed.” She looked up at me. “But even if Garber was in Vietnam then, I don’t think it matters. The guy was a fighter jock. Flew F-105s. He wouldn’t be crawling around with the grunts.”

  I said, “He could have been shot down.”

  “And that would be the basis of a thirty-year grudge because—”

  She was right; I was reaching for something that wasn’t there. I said, “I don’t understand why Sessler would try and link Garber to something that occurred during the war, when it’s not true. He had to know we’d check.”

  She shrugged. “All I can tell you is that if there was a battle, Garber wasn’t there, unless maybe he was flying over. Dropping bombs or firing rockets—”

  She stopped. Her eyes slowly went to the photograph.

  She grabbed it and held it close. She murmured, “Could it…”

  I said, “Could what? What do you see?”

  But she was in a zone, lost in the image. She was so still she didn’t appear to be breathing. I said, “Amanda…”

  There was response. Her hand began to shake. I touched her, and she turned to me with a look somewhere between revulsion and horror. She said dully, “The hillside, Marty. It’s burned. All of it.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “The bodies, too.”

  “I know. I saw—”

  And then I understood. My eyes darted to the photo in her hand. What she was suggesting was unthinkable. And yet…

  The realization sank in. It was true. It had to be true. Before I was aware of it, I heard myself speaking, saying what we both now knew. “Enemy artillery…it couldn’t do that. Burn that much ground.”

  “Nothing could, Marty. Nothing except napalm.”

  And only America had employed napalm during the war.

  Dropped by fighter pilots.

  • • •

  Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked. We heard the distant sound of a ringing phone. Amanda and I continued to stare at the photograph, imagining what must have happened. How a fighter pilot in the heat of battle had gotten confused and dropped the napalm on the wrong coordinates.

  And incinerated American soldiers.

  “It might not have been Garber,” Amanda said. “It could have been someone else.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  But we couldn’t get around the hate.

  Amanda set down the picture and looked at me. “General Sessler. He told you the truth. They all had motive.”

  “Including Stefanski. His burns…he must have been at the battle. Only, I don’t recall seeing his name.” I snatched up the file and checked the passenger list. “Not there, but this explains why he threatened Mrs. Garber. The last thing he’d want is for us to find Garber’s killer.”

  “Especially if it’s his buddy Markel.”

  I nodded, tossing the file to the desk.

  Amanda’s eyes searched my face. “How could this have been kept quiet, Marty? All these years? It couldn’t be just because of the influence of Senator Garber. He was only a congressman back then. He wouldn’t have that kind of pull.”

  I gave her a long look. “I think you know the answer.”

  She slowly nodded, a flicker of understanding in her eyes.

  Even though this was before her time, Amanda knew what America was like in 1970. She knew about the riots and turmoil and the public’s anger over the war. With the country on the brink of rupturing, she knew the government couldn’t risk fueling the antiwar flames by revealing that dozens of young men had been killed not by the enemy, but by one of their own.

  So a decision was made to keep the friendly-fire incident quiet. Tie it up in a bright red top-secret ribbon to prevent the survivors from revealing what they knew.

  And for thirty-three years the cover-up had apparently succeeded.

  Until now.

  Suspicion was one thing, but we had to know. I picked up the desk phone and thumbed in the number. This time Simon answered.

  Simon rarely sounded down, but he did so now. He said he’d meant to return my calls, but had been tied up in a meeting with Senator Garber. As he spoke, I could hear voices in the background. A man and a woman were discussing an upcoming vote. The woman said, “I’ll pass on your concerns to the senator, but he hasn’t decided on whether to support—”

  “But he has to vote for the bill, Joan,” the man said. “Senator Carson is threatening a filibuster. He thinks we’re acting to hastily on this attack on Iraq. Senator Houck is relying upon—”

  Simon sighed loudly. “He lied to me, Martin. He knew of the motive from the beginning, but never told me.”

  “Senator Garber?”

  “Yes. I came here to confront him with what I’d learned. He confirmed there’d been an operation in Vietnam where—Excuse me.” He turned away from the phone and spoke to someone. “She’s arriving at two-thirty?” he said. “All right, tell the senator I’ll attend. Is there somewhere quiet I could…Thank you, Margaret.”

  The sound of a door closing, and the background voices disappeared. Simon came back on the line. “In some respects, I blame myself. I knew there had to be a reason Senator Garber was convinced his son had been killed. I should have pressured him, but I didn’t. Frankly, I don’t know what he was thinking. This is a murder investigation. He should have realized his son’s actions would eventually come to light.” He sounded angry.

  I said, “So Garber’s death is linked to the story that’s coming out in the paper tomorrow?”

  “Of course. It goes to motive. General Garber was a fighter pilot in Vietnam. During a mission, he made a tragic error—”

  “And killed American troops,” I finished.

  “You know?”

  “Amanda put it together,” I said. “We don’t have any details. I assume you’ve read the article—”

  “Yes, yes. The account is rather involved, and I’d rather not go into this twice. Is Amanda with you?”

  “Yeah. Hang on.” I checked the desk phone; it had a speaker. I found the button and cradled the receiver. “Go.”

  Moments later, Simon began detailing the tragic events that occurred three decades earlier. As Amanda and I listened, I don’t think either of us expected to hear anything worse than the horror we’d imagined.

  We did.

  The battle of Hill 114.

  A generic name derived from the map designation for a nondescript mound of earth that served no military purpose other than the fact that a regiment of NVA—North Vietnamese Army regulars—had selected it as an encampment.

  On July 28, 1970, a battalion of American infantry attacked Hill 114 and were bitterly repulsed by the entrenched enemy. Over the ensuing three days, the Americans launched more futile attacks up the steep slopes, sustaining heavy casualties. In the early-morning hours of the fourth day, a battalion of marines arrived to reinforce the army troops. The plan was to make one final overwhelming assault to dislodge the NVA.

  It was during the preparation for this attack, while the exhausted soldiers were sleeping or resting, that First Lieutenant Michael Garber made the mistake of his life.

  “Garber was the lead aircraft of two,” Simon said, “As he initiated his attack, he tried to avoid ground fire and maneuvered his aircraft too violently, tearing loose one of the napalm canisters on his wing. It fell near the base of the hill, where a number of the soldiers were gathered, including the wounded. Those men never had a chance. They were incinerated within moments. A number died later, before they could be evacuated. Apparently napalm canisters are extremely heavy and when carrying them pilots were instructed to never exceed a certain load—”

  “G’s,” Amanda said automatically.

  “Garber’s maneuver,” Simon continued, “far exceeded the restriction. The article alleges that the tragedy wasn’t merely an error on Garber’
s part, but negligence. He should never have been flying. His reflexes were impaired, and that contributed to the excessive force he applied on the flight controls.

  “In fairness to General Garber, he hadn’t been scheduled to fly. But he was one of the more exceptional pilots, and there was pressure from his superiors. Still, Garber should have exercised better judgment. He didn’t, and men died.”

  Simon fell silent. Amanda and I waited for him to continue. After a few seconds, I prompted, “By impaired—”

  “He’d been drinking, Martin.”

  The speaker hissed. I looked to Amanda, and she shook her head grimly. “The dead?” she asked Simon.

  “How many?”

  “Sixty-three.”

  “Lord…” She shut her eyes, visualizing the carnage. I felt sickened. This was a horrific number. I said, “I know the military covered this up, kept this from the public—”

  “Quite effectively. The incident was immediately given the highest security classification. Anyone involved was threatened with prison if they spoke of it.”

  “Even so,” I said, “I’m not sure I understand how General Garber continued to get promoted. There would be rumors. The pilots in Garber’s squadron, his wingman during the mission, they would know—”

  “Lieutenant Douglas Anderson,” Simon said, “flew the second aircraft. He was shot down and killed during his attack run. Only Garber’s superiors knew what had transpired, and they certainly had no desire to tell what they knew. After all, they were the ones who put Garber in the plane when they knew he wasn’t fit to fly.”

  Amanda said, “But the survivors. At least some would certainly push for—”

  “They were told that the pilot hadn’t been at fault. The military concocted a story about how ground fire had struck the plane’s release mechanism.”

  “Perfect,” Amanda murmured. “Blame it on the Vietnamese.”

  “So who finally talked?” I asked Simon. “Leaked the story?”

  “My newspaper source is trying to find out. The information in the article came from a classified report, which documented the incident. We can assume the report was leaked by one of the generals, since only someone high up in the military could have gained access to the information.”

  Amanda asked him if the battle had ever been called Tranh-binh.

  “Why, yes,” Simon said. “The survivors named it after a Vietnamese general who was killed. How did you know?”

  “General Markel,” Amanda said. “He shot the general.”

  “He told you this?” Simon said.

  Amanda explained about Markel’s photograph and the assumption she’d made. As she began ticking off who else had been involved in the battle, Simon interrupted her. “Andywas there?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No. Senator Garber only mentioned the generals.” Simon was clearly annoyed; he hated being the last one to know. “All right. Tell me everything you’ve learned.”

  Amanda looked to me to pass the ball, since I’d been the one who’d met with the generals. After I filled Simon in, he said, “This missing photograph of General Garber’s. You’re sure it’s from his college years?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  He was quiet, thinking about this. Over the speaker, we heard someone knock on a door. Then a woman’s voice: “Secretary Churchfield is here, Lieutenant.”

  “A moment, Margaret,” Simon said.

  I said to him, “Churchfield’s meeting with Senator Garber?”

  “Yes. I’m puzzled that she’s making this move so soon. Obviously, she’s concerned we might succeed in uncovering the truth. Did you say something that might alarm her, Martin?”

  “I never spoke to her.”

  “You must have saidsomething to the generals.”

  “Only what they already knew. That they were suspects.”

  “Curious.” Simon paused. “Not that it matters. I discussed this eventuality with Senator Garber. He’s assured me he’s determined to find the killer. Ironically, tomorrow’s article made his decision easier. His son’s reputation can’t be damaged much more by the rape charge. This meeting shouldn’t take long. Have you finished at the Pentagon?”

  I explained that we’d been unable to interview any of the remaining passengers. He interrupted me. “They are of little concern. We have more pressing matters. Write this down—”

  I fumbled for my pen, then saw Amanda already had one out. As she jotted down a Fairfax address, I asked Simon whom we were meeting there.

  “Dr. Bowman. At his home. I’ve spoken to his wife, and she’s expecting him to return around four.”

  I frowned. “His wife? Billy doesn’t know we’re coming?”

  “No.”

  Amanda was shaking her head. I shared her sentiment and told Simon that Billy probably wouldn’t cooperate no matter how much money he offered. I said, “The guy’s a lock to get a star. He’s not going to give that up.”

  “We need to know the time of death.”

  “Why? What’s so important about—”

  The woman said impatiently to Simon, “Lieutenant, please. They’re waiting for you.”

  Simon mumbled an apology, then spoke rapidly to Amanda and me. “Don’t interrupt. Do exactly as I say, and Dr. Bowman will cooperate. He will have no choice. When you call for the car, I want you to—”

  He ran through his plan and hung up. As I toggled off the speaker, Amanda eyed me uneasily. “You realize what he’s doing?”

  “Using us for bait.” I picked up the phone to call for the car.

  35

  Before leaving, we had one remaining item to check out. After Amanda printed out the bios on Churchfield and the generals, we perused them and came up empty. None had ever attended the University of Virginia.

  “Wright College?” Amanda was scanning Churchfield’s bio. “Never heard of it.” She looked at me.

  “Sorry.”

  She shoved the pages into the file. “Anything else you want to put in here?”

  I checked my jacket pockets and produced General Garber’s itinerary to England. As she placed it inside, she asked, “What about Stefanski? He’s old enough to have been at UVA when Garber was there.”

  “Forget it. He got his degree after his stint in Vietnam.”

  “So what? A lot of guys put in a year or two of college before being drafted.”

  Point taken.

  On our way out we stopped by Markel’s office. His exec, Brigadier General Clay, seemed puzzled by our request, but he made a phone call to somebody in personnel.

  “Indiana State,” he said. “Graduated in ’seventy-five.”

  “Strike two,” Amanda said as we left.

  I nodded. The first strike had been the location of Wright State, Churchfield’s college. Amanda had looked it up on the Net and learned it was a small liberal arts school in Idaho.

  Which was also a long way from Virginia.

  At precisely 3:10, we emerged from the JCS area, turned in our entry badges, and retraced our steps toward the Corridor Two entrance. We walked slowly and made a conscious effort not to turn around. The same female cop was manning the security checkpoint and as before, we saw her pick up a phone.

  As we pushed through the doors into the bright sunlight, my phone rang. It was Thad Fuller, calling to say he’d x-rayed the closet and the main doors, and didn’t detect anything unusual in the lock assemblies. Thad sounded a little disappointed, and I told him not to worry about it. When I hung up, Amanda pointed out the gleaming cherry-red BMW parked at the base of the pedestrian bridge. A man in a dark suit stood beside it, looking our direction. I threw up a hand, and he waved back.

  “Right on time,” Amanda said.

  “They better be, at the prices they charge.”

  “You should have ordered a Rolls.”

  “They didn’t have one in red.” This had been something Simon insisted on, so we would be easier to tail.

  “A Porsche would have been nice.”
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  She had me. “Next time, you call.”

  We crossed the bridge and came down the steps. The man’s name was Enrique. He was late thirties, pretty-boy handsome, and his silk suit probably cost more than I took home in a week. He had a firm handshake, wore a diamond in his left ear, and smelled of flowers.

  As he handed me the paperwork, I gestured to Amanda. “She likes to drive.”

  “Of course,” he said smoothly.

  Once she signed the paperwork, he gave her a million-dollar smile and the keys. On cue, a green Jag pulled up, but before climbing in, Enrique whispered something into my ear. We both laughed, and I tossed him a wave as he drove away.

  As we got in the car, Amanda deposited the file she’d been carrying onto the backseat, then sat back, frowning at me. “You going to tell me what’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. We were playing it cool. Enrique told me about a couple of guys in suits sitting in a car.”

  Her face went blank.

  “Simon,” I said, “owns the rental company. He hires a lot of former cops.”

  “Enrique’s a cop? I thought he was gay.”

  “He is. He was still one helluva cop. Got tossed from the force for almost beating a child killer to death. Two rows up on the left. We should go right by them.” I gave her the description of the car.

  “Maroon? Enrique see the guys inside?”

  “Yeah. Sounds like Mutt and Jeff.”

  Since it was approaching rush hour, the drive to Fairfax would take at least forty-five minutes. As we merged southbound onto I-395 to pick up the King Street exit, Amanda checked the rearview mirror, confirmed the maroon Buick was still following, then clicked on the radio and selected a hip-hop station. I gave her an exasperated look. She sighed and changed to elevator music.

  I said, “You don’t have to be that extreme.”

  “Fine,” she said irritably. “You do it.”

  I punchedscan . Heavy metal. I pressed again and settled for an oldies station.

  It was a mistake.

  Moments later, a Barry Manilow love song came on. As we listened to it, I caught Amanda looking at me. After the third glance, she said, “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to take a chance on something new.”