by Vicki Lane
The man was in his late fifties or early sixties, his weather-beaten face marked with broken veins and the deep wrinkles of an outdoorsman. Thinning hair was pulled back in a short graying ponytail and he wore steel-rimmed glasses. As he slid into the seat beside Phillip, his face split into a wide grin.
“So Del told you he got in touch with me? I guess you guys had figured I was out of things for good.”
“Gabby!” Phillip clapped his old shipmate on the shoulder. “Good to see you, buddy.” He studied the man beside him, looking for traces of the brash young gunner’s mate he had last seen being loaded onto a medevac chopper. God, do I look that old? Of course, he was hit pretty bad and in and out of rehab centers for years. A user, too, Del said. But he’s clean now supposedly. And running a security business of some kind.
“Yeah, I was surprised when Del told me you were flying in and I had to drag my ass out here in the dead of night to talk to you. What’s up?”
“Things are starting to move and Del thought I should be here too.” Gabby grinned wickedly. “I’ve picked up some special skills since the old days and Del knows he can trust me to get the job done. First off, though, I need to bring you up to speed.”
Gabby glanced at his watch. “I’ll be renting a car and staying in Asheville. And this…” He pulled a very small cell phone from his pocket, “…this will be how we communicate from now on. There’s a real possibility that both your cell and your landline are no longer secure.”
“Whoa!” Hawkins held up a hand. “What happened? I talked to Del just a few days back and everything was routine.”
“Maybe so. But you must not have been watching the news. Landrum’s set to make his move. They’re shuffling the Cabinet around and he’s a shoo-in for Defense. With his Medal of Honor and that little show he can put on with his missing arm and legs, there won’t be many hard questions. And he has political ambitions that reach way past a cabinet position. This war we’re in isn’t likely to go away very soon, and come the next election, Landrum’s going to sound more and more like the man for the top job. He has all the money he needs and solid backing from the right wing. With all this at stake, Del figures that Landrum’s people will be desperate to find and destroy the deposition and photos that Red threatened him with. So we have to find those photos first…no matter what the consequences.”
As he drove back to Weaverville along near-deserted roads, Phillip Hawkins was mired deep in memories. Memories he struggled never to revisit in the waking hours—and had prayed to be free of in his dreams.
Early 1970 and the whole SEALORDS operation was winding down. There were just a few days to go before it was all handed over to the Vietnamese and emotions ran high. We’d been in-country so long and most of us had known from the beginning that it was hopeless. But the situation was eating at Landrum. He’d always been moody, driven—but that last day…We should have done something after the thing with the girl on the bicycle.
Images assailed him. Patrol: The PCF—Patrol Craft, Fast, in the military’s inverted language, more commonly known as Swift Boat—chugging down the canal; the crew of six almost stupefied with the hypnotic thrum of the dual diesels and the blazing sun of the Mekong Delta. Sam had been playing with his new camera, a recent acquisition in the marathon poker game that went on back at base. He had been snapping shots, first of water buffalo near the river’s edge and then of his crewmates.
The Lieutenant had the tub, Catch a few rays, he had said, as he pulled off his shirt and leaned back beside the dual .50 caliber machine guns there high atop the little vessel’s pilothouse.
A bird-boned girl in black pajamas pedaling madly down a dirt path beside the canal, a baby in a sling on her back—Her little brother or sister? She had to be too young to have a child of her own—the baby’s dark head bobbing rhythmically with the motion.
And the sudden bark of the .50 caliber machine gun from the tub, the girl’s arms outflung as she and her burden parted company: she, cartwheeling in slow motion into the shallow water at the canal’s edge, while the swaddled infant fell to the path and the ancient bicycle wobbled crazily on for a few feet before teetering and crashing.
The PCF had continued on, the men who were topside looking up at the gun tub in paralyzed silence, watching as the dual guns swung round, coming to bear on the target that was rapidly falling behind them. Hawkins had been aware of the groan that had come from…Was it Sam? Or had he made that sound himself? And then, before anything could be said, before anyone could move, the stuttering thud of multiple rounds hit the swaddled bundle, which jumped and skittered off the path into the murky, blood-dyed water where the girl lay, facedown and still.
“Sometimes they have grenades.” Lieutenant Landrum had been matter-of-fact. “That’s two less gooks in the world. And before we’re out of here, I plan to take out some more.”
It was war, Phillip and Sam had reminded each other later. Girls that young and younger had lobbed grenades, aimed rifles….
Hawkins winced. The girl and the baby had been bad enough—but on that same night, as their Swift Boat made its way back to base…
It didn’t bear thinking of. We should have disarmed him. He’d lost it, big-time. Me and Sam and Del…Would the others have gone along with us? I don’t know….
This time it was a tattered group of farmers, mostly old men and women with children at their sides. They were pulling a dilapidated handcart of some sort—That was his excuse; he said it might have been weapons—and Landrum had ordered the rating at the helm to slow the boat to an idle. There had been no Vietnamese liaison available when they set out on patrol so it was left to Sam, whose command of Vietnamese was generally adequate, to call to the group to stop and turn the cart over so that its contents could be viewed.
The boat rocked gently in the muddy water as Sam tried to make himself heard over the low rumble of the idling diesels and the sudden alarmed chatter of the villagers. The big, lanky redhead had repeated himself over and over, forcing the unfamiliar words across the little strip of water that lay between them and the frightened group of people.
They called back in high, incomprehensible syllables and the handcart remained upright, its contents hidden. Slowly the little crowd began to move away from the canal edge, toward a distant village.
A familiar metallic cranking caught Phillip’s ear as Sam continued to call out to the Vietnamese to stop. He had turned to see the Lieutenant at the mortar on the fantail, his face calm, as he calculated his shot. The sudden puumph of a round had been followed by the explosion of the handcart. At least half of the civilians were down. A second and a third round in swift succession accounted for the rest.
“Hit it!” Landrum had called out to the helmsman. “Let’s get back to base.” He had remained by the mortar, head turning from side to side, scanning both banks of the canal. Phillip remembered feeling that if he had looked into the Lieutenant’s eyes at that moment it would have been like staring into a void.
Sam had started toward Landrum, sputtering and incoherent with rage, but Landrum’s only reaction had been to raise his .45 automatic and level it on his raging subordinate.
“Back off, Red,” Phillip had whispered, hastily pulling his buddy away. “He’s over the edge…look at his eyes. Nothing we can do about those folks. Keep quiet and I’ll back you in reporting this later—hell, we all will.”
At their side Delfino Reyes, the quartermaster, who had just emerged from belowdeck, gave a mutter of assent. “Court-martial time, man,” he told Sam.
But before they reached the floating base in the bay, Nemesis, or something like it, had reached out with a savagely avenging hand. Their boat had come under heavy fire. Two of the six-man crew had been hit. Landrum, while trying to drag the wounded men to safety, was ripped apart by the hail of bullets.
He was still alive when they limped into Sea Float, the base at the mouth of the Delta. But the medics who took him off the Swift Boat shook their heads knowingly.
“He’s lost an arm; both his legs are toast; and he’s gut-shot too. You might as well say good-bye now. Your buddy’s bought the farm.”
And that was the last we saw of Lt. J. G. Laurence Landrum. We figured he’d be dead in a few hours, and besides, we were licking our own wounds. The hell of it was, he’d saved Gabby and Vermin at the risk of his own life—how do you explain someone like that?
Hawkins, Sam, and Delfino had talked it over. What’s the point, Del had argued. What’s the point of reporting this shit when the one guy responsible for it is as good as dead? We gotta go back to the World, not him. And who’s gonna believe he did it all alone?
But it makes me sick. Phillip could still hear the raw agony in Sam’s protest. I thought we were here to help these people. That little girl, that baby…she was trying to get away from us, for Christ’s sake. I even got some photos…if I didn’t screw up and they show what I think they show, there’d be an airtight case….
I hear they’re calling returning vets “baby killers,” Del insisted. Girls spittin’ on ’em and shit like that. Not me, man. I say we forget about it. They can give him all the posthumous medals they want to. I’m not saying a word.
A conspiracy of silence was born. The three—Phillip, Sam, and Delfino—were the only ones left to tell the tale. Of the two men Landrum had saved, the boatswain’s mate, Vernon “Vermin” Monroe, had died the next day and John Hayes, the gunner’s mate known as “Gabby,” had been flown stateside, where he would undergo numerous surgeries and several years of rehab. It was said he remembered nothing of his last day in Nam.
Landrum too had been airlifted out, leaving both legs and most of one arm behind. He had not been expected to survive, and the three who remained simply agreed to forget…if they could.
The horrible grace of the dead girl, cartwheeling in a lazy arc, long black braid streaming behind her—that was the image that Phillip had found impossible to erase. Sam couldn’t either. On the few times the two had met since Nam, they had talked of their shared experiences, at first tentatively, neither wanting to summon up bad memories if the other had somehow managed to outrun them. But then, as they admitted to each other the truth—the reality of the nightmares, the flashbacks—meeting every few years to talk about the past had become a therapy. A burden that could not be acknowledged to any who did not carry it was somehow lightened by their occasional meetings.
And then, that last time, six, seven years ago. Sam…
They had met in DC: Sam, Phillip, and Delfino. Del, to everyone’s surprise, not least his own, had stayed in the navy and had soon been selected for officer’s training. He had excelled; promotion had followed promotion and he was now attached to the Pentagon in some highly classified capacity. When Del’s wife had planned a trip to Florida with their five children to visit her mother and nearby Disney World, Del had seized the opportunity to invite Sam and Phillip for the weekend—to visit once more the great half-sunken Wall that memorialized the dead of the Vietnam War, and “to catch up on things.”
They were settled in his spacious kitchen, well provided with cold beer and Thai takeout, when Del had said quietly, “There’s something we need to talk about. Do you guys know that Landrum is still alive? He’s got more money than God, he’s got the Medal of Honor, and he’s got the President’s ear. Word is, if the administration wins the next election, Landrum will be calling in his markers.”
Del took a long pull at his beer, then clapped the empty bottle down. “I don’t know about you guys, but I think it’s time for us to go public with what happened—before Landrum became a hero. It’ll mean the end of my career, but I can’t see that sick bastard getting away with it any longer.”
He had fixed Sam with a steady gaze. “Red, I hope you still have those pictures.”
IN THE WINTER WOODS
February 1985
ROSIE I’M GOING for a walk. I need for you to stay here with Laurel.
Mum was putting on her heavy blue jacket. Rosemary’s Christmas gift, the knitted hat, the kind the kids at school called a “boggin” was pulled down over her ears, and her boots were already laced up. Dinah frisked clumsily at her feet, alerted by the magic words—going for a walk.
Rosemary laid down her battered copy of The Dark Is Rising. Can we go too? Where are you going? I’ll go get my—
No, sweetie, Laurie’s taking a nap. Plus, she has the sniffles—she shouldn’t be out in the snow. And you played outside with Maythorn all morning. Now it’s my turn.
Where’s Pa? He could watch Laurie.
Her mother’s face took on the look that had become too familiar recently. I’m being patient but don’t push me, the face said.
Your pa is down in his shop working on the kitchen cabinets, Rosie. And all you have to do is stay here and read, just like you’ve been doing. I’m going to take Dinah and walk along the path into the woods. I won’t be gone more than an hour. And when I get back we’ll make popcorn and hot chocolate. If there’s a problem—a real problem—you can go out to the porch and ring the big bell.
You didn’t argue with Mum when her face and voice were so stern. Rosie nodded a brief okay and returned to her book, quickly losing herself in the wonderful adventures of the boy who, all unaware, was born to a special task. She was deep in the story when the scrape of boots at the front door made her look up.
Hey, Rosebud, her pa called. The shoulders of his jacket were dusted with melting flakes, and little white waffles of snow sprouted on the doormat when he stamped his feet.
Pa, I want to go outside. Mum went for a walk and said I had to watch Laurie, and Laurie’s still asleep—
Sure, run along. I’m done in the shop for the day. Pa sat down on the chair near the door and started pulling off his boots. I’ll take over here. You wrap up warm.
It would be fun, Rosie decided, to track her mother, just like a real Indian would. Maythorn had bragged so often about all the Indian lore she had learned from her uncle and grandmother that Rosemary felt the disadvantage of her own upbringing weigh heavy. She’d show Maythorn that she had skills and powers too.
Snow was falling lightly. As she crossed the icy little branch that flowed beside their road, she could see the indentations her mother’s boots had made, slowly filling up. Nodding wisely to herself, Rosemary pursued the footprints along the road at the top of the pasture. Dinah’s pawprints circled and looped and ran off and came back, while Mum’s headed straight for the woods.
Maythorn sat quietly in the old deer stand. It was little more than a rough platform wedged into the branches of an ancient maple, but it had makeshift sides and the remains of a roof. Spikes had been hammered into the smooth bark to make a ladder, and once inside, she knew she could not be seen from the ground. She had discovered this hiding place, near the path where the wild things walked, and had found that if she sat very still and waited, something would come along. Only yesterday two does, followed by a male yearling, had tiptoed so close beneath her, she could hear the huff of their breathing.
Though she had dressed warmly, she knew she would not be able to remain still for much longer. Her feet already felt like they were asleep; perhaps—A crunching sound alerted her and she leaned forward to peer through the crack between the boards. Dinah, Rosie’s dog, was circling the base of the maple, snuffling loudly. Her quivering nose covered every inch of the whitened ground, and then she began to sniff at the trunk. Suddenly she reared up, put her front paws against the tree trunk, and released a mournful howl.
Maythorn sighed and stretched. Might as well go home and get warm; no wild thing would approach now that Dinah had made all that noise. She started to lower herself through the hole by the trunk, then stopped. Someone was coming—and they were crying.
On the path below her, she saw Rosie’s mom. She had pulled off the bright knit hat from her head and was using it to wipe her eyes. She stood there sobbing for a few minutes, her head bent, then she straightened. Dinah, she said, in a wobbly voice, is there a possum or
something up that tree?
Maythorn stayed just as still as she could, not even breathing. This was interesting. Rosie’s mom crying? Rosie always talked about how happy the Goodweather family was—everyone loving everyone. And that’s how they all acted, at least whenever she’d been around. This was very interesting. She began to wish that she had brought her notebook.
More crunching, more footsteps, but from the other way this time. Dinah stopped scratching at the maple’s trunk and darted toward the approaching figure.
Well, you caught me trespassing, neighbor. Mike smiled that white toothpaste smile at Rosie’s mom, who hastily wiped her nose with the back of her hand and smiled back.
Hey, Mike, this is a pretty place to walk, isn’t it? How’d you happen to be over this way? Rosie’s mom’s eyes were all red and her voice was wobbly, but Mike didn’t seem to notice. He came up closer, still smiling that toothpaste smile.
Like the bear that went over the mountain, I guess—to see what I could see. I was following the trail the girls use and just kept going.
Maythorn wondered if it was worth freezing her butt off to hear any more of this. But then Mike said, Do you mind if I walk with you? and Rosie’s mom said, That would be nice, and they started down the path that led deeper into the woods. Briefly, Maythorn thought about shadowing them for practice, but decided it would be impossible, even for an Indian, to stay hidden from Dinah’s busy nose.
She waited to make sure they were out of sight, and was starting down again when she heard Rosie coming. It had to be Rosie, because she was humming that dumb song she always liked to sing about a frog going courting.
…sword and pistol by his side, uh-huh, uh-huh, warbled Rosie in an off-key undertone, as she came slowly along the path. Her head was bowed and Maythorn saw at once that she was carefully following her mother’s footprints in the snow.