by Dale A. Dye
He could spot nothing incriminating. Mr. Benjamin would likely conclude that he was the victim of some haphazard power surge or a catastrophic crash. And then Carver had a thought. Would a guy like Benjamin, who makes his living compiling information and making notes, have it all in one place? There had to be some back-ups. He returned to the desk and began to search in drawers and in the credenza behind the work station. That’s where he found three thin boxes full of computer discs. They were all conveniently marked and he quickly found the one marked NaCl. He plugged in the degaussing machine again and ran it over the disc. Then he replaced it in the box and headed for the door satisfied that he’d earned his money.
j
Eddie Miller tossed his uniform cap and duty belt on Spike Benjamin’s kitchen table. Willy Pud stood offering a coffee cup in one hand and a beer can in the other. Miller dug around in his patrolman’s portfolio, and nodded at the beer.
“I got that report for Spike. Is he here?”
“Upstairs on the phone…he’s still trying to reach that guy he knows in Paris, the one who is checking on Ledsome for us.”
They stood sipping beer until they heard Spike clumping down the stairs and then met him in the living room. “It’s apparently the wine and cheese hour in Paris,” he said. “I couldn’t reach my contact, but I left a message with an assistant for him to call back.”
“When?” Willy Pud handed him the beer he’d brought from the kitchen.
“Tonight. I made sure his assistant knew it was important. He’ll call.” Spike looked across the room where Eddie Miller stood flipping through a stack of paper. “Is that the police report?”
“Yeah…and the guys in burglary said to tell you they got better things to do.”
“Did they find anything?”
“No prints, no sign of forced entry and nothing on the video except for two 30-second stretches of electronic drop-out.”
“You should look into that, Eddie. That sounds damn suspicious to me.”
“The security guy says it happens once in a while. He also says nobody was in the building after the close of business yesterday. You probably just had a crash or there was some kind of electrical surge, you know? You’re just gonna have to buy new equipment.”
“I’m not worried about that, Eddie. What worries me is that we damn near lost everything—all my notes and all the information we compiled. If Julie hadn’t had that second set of back-up discs, we’d be back to square one on this thing.”
“I’m with Spike on this one, Eddie.” Willy Pud had been hearing alarm bells ever since Spike reported that his computer had been wiped out. “If it was a power surge, how come nobody else’s machine was affected? And how is a power surge gonna erase a disc that ain’t even in the machine?”
“Yeah, I’m wondering about that angle myself,” Eddie said. “Burglary is writing it off, but my cop sense tells me you had a clandestine visitor in your office last night, Spike.”
“And if that’s the case,” Will Pud wondered, “it’s gotta be somebody that was looking to see what you had on Salt and Pepper. Somehow he found it and erased it. That’s what I think happened.”
“I ain’t gonna argue,” Eddie said after he retrieved fresh beers from the kitchen. “But who the hell would that be? Nobody knows we’re looking into this thing but the three of us.”
“The three of us and Justin B. Halley.” Spike rose to answer the phone. “Think about that while I see if this is the call from Paris.”
“I really think we need to find a way to confront that asshole, Eddie.”
“Spike keeps trying to wheedle his assistant, but she says he’s firm about not talking to reporters.”
“I ain’t a reporter.”
“And you ain’t likely to get on his appointment calendar either.”
“Well, something is off about this whole thing, Eddie. Everywhere we look, things seem just a half a bubble off plumb, you know? And now this thing with Spike’s computer? I’ve been getting the old funny feelings like I used to get in the bush when gooks were ready to pounce. Somebody is on to us and willing to do whatever’s necessary to keep this whole thing buried.”
“I don’t know, Willy Pud. If that’s the case, what’s the motive? Let’s say for a minute it’s somebody official, somebody from the Army or the Pentagon, right? What’s the motive? Even if we break the story and it causes a shit-storm, so what? They can say they just kept it under wraps to avoid embarrassment or something like that. I mean you had the Pentagon Papers, that fiasco at My Lai, Hamburger Hill, that fucking doggie outfit refusing orders, heroin epidemic, guys shipping smack home in body bags and I don’t know what else. They owned up to all that once the press got hold of the stories. So why get crazy over two stinking assholes that turned traitor out of a half million or so that served in Vietnam?”
“It ain’t official, Eddie, at least I can’t believe it is. It’s something personal, somebody trying to cover his ass and the only one I can think of with that kind of motive would be that guy Halley.”
Spike returned wearing a serious frown. He retrieved his beer, took a long swallow and then flopped into his favorite chair.
Willy Pud shot a glance at Eddie Miller. “I think we’re about to get some more bad news.”
“Booger Ledsome is dead.”
“What?”
“That was my guy in Paris. He had a meeting with Ledsome set up at Calvi. When he arrived and checked in, he was told Ledsome had been killed in a training accident. He couldn’t get many details from the Legion, but it was apparently something to do with a parachute jump. His chute didn’t open and he crashed. They’re investigating but it looks like equipment malfunction.” Spike rolled his empty beer can into a waste basket and stood. “I need a drink. I’ve got a bottle in the kitchen.”
They sat around the kitchen table slugging bourbon silently for a while, trying to digest the news and get some perspective. There were just too many roadblocks and suspicious coincidences cropping up in their quest to find Salt and Pepper.
“Look, I’ve been a cop long enough to know when coincidences add up and when they don’t. We got this thing with your computer and now Ledsome buys the farm halfway around the world just when we’re trying to get to him. I don’t like it.”
“Well, whoever the motherfucker is that’s planting the mines, he’s in for a fight.” Willy Pud held out a hand toward Spike Benjamin. “Give me your credit card. I’m going to Washington and find that classified file.”
j
Colonel Halley—as he was once again thinking of himself—neatly arranged his desktop and settled in to reread the printout of Spike Benjamin’s notes on Salt and Pepper. His name appeared prominently, italicized and underscored, as a source of corroboration. No doubt about what the material meant. Benjamin and Pudarski were conducting a thorough investigation of the turncoat story and that could only mean a journalist like Spike Benjamin had plans to publish the story, perhaps even write a book. It was just what he suspected. Their information jibed with his concerning the other patrol members, so they were desperate for supporting witnesses. And beyond the two of them there were now none of them surviving. If they continued, it would eventually boil down to the military version of an urban myth.
That was the cold reality, but Colonel Halley knew the threat ran deeper. A thing like this—unsubstantiated bush myth or no—had serious ramifications for a man in his position. He’d likely be fired from his sweet spot at Emory Technology. There was no way he could blackmail Cleve Emory into keeping him safe. The man would do just as he said he would: Play the offended and outraged parent who had been lied to by the Army.
He was facing potential disaster if Pudarski and Benjamin went public, even with what little solid evidence they had. Pudarski and his Medal of Honor would be a credible accuser. The mood of the country about Vietnam, the angry veterans, the clamor for dirt, the search for scapegoats and excuses would all make the story a juicy sca
ndal. And a thing like that could set influential people to digging at old graves.
This was a stinking can of worms that must be kept tightly sealed, he decided, and the onus for action was on him. Colonel Halley reached for his phone and punched in a number.
“Freddy, I’m assuming you have someone who can handle a little wet work? Someone local and reliable?”
“Yeah…but that kind of thing is expensive.”
“I didn’t ask how much, Freddy. I asked if you had someone trustworthy in your contacts.”
“Give me a day or two. I’ll get back to you.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Willy Pud hailed a cab outside his hotel in Arlington, Virginia and told the driver to take the Key Bridge over the Potomac to his destination. The rumble of Georgetown cobblestones lulled away a bit of his jet-lag, and he watched the familiar scenery through a smudged window. Not much had changed since he wandered these streets on a celebratory pub crawl with the old man after he’d gotten the medal at the White House.
He was on his way to meet the man primarily responsible for that decoration at the Old Ebbitt Grill on 14th Street, Northwest. Major General Clayton Matthews had been delighted to hear from one of his favorite Marines when Willy finally managed to connect with him through a wall of gate-keepers at the National Security Agency. The Deputy Director of the NSA was a busy, influential man. He was also Willy Pud’s former battalion commander and the man who recommended him for the Medal of Honor after the hill fight in Vietnam. And that gave him a little bit of skin in any game Willy Pud played, a bit of pride and reflected glory.
They met for dinner and drinks that night and rehashed war stories, catching up with old friends and post-war activities. As the cab dodged traffic taking him to this second and most crucial meeting with General Matthews, Willy Pud closed his eyes and reviewed the first session during which he’d asked his old battalion commander for a very big and potentially illegal favor.
Before he got down to why he was in Washington, Willy Pud wanted to be sure Matthews knew how much he appreciated his recommendation. It had occurred to him on the flight from St. Louis that he’d never really thanked the man personally in the press of events.
“There’s no need for that,” General Matthews said. “The day you got that medal was one of the high points in my career. I’ve always believed a leader is best judged by the quality and performance of the men he leads. You made me proud to call you one of my own.” That’s the kind of man Clay Matthews was, the kind of Marine he’d always been, which is why Willy Pud felt fairly confident he’d help.
The general told Willy Pud in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t—and he wouldn’t— pilfer a classified file and just turn it over. That was something he just couldn’t do, even for a friend like Willy Pudarski, but he could look into it. And that’s the way they left it until General Matthews called and requested this second meeting.
Will Pud paid the cab fare and strolled into the venerable old Washington watering hole. General Matthews was seated in a back booth and waved him over. The old man looked dapper and comfortable in a tweed blazer and regimental striped tie, but there was no mistaking his military bearing. They shook hands and examined menus for a while until a waiter took their orders.
“I’m sure hoping you’ve got something for me, General.” Willy said when their drinks arrived. “It’s like I told you last night. We just keep hitting brick walls.”
“And it looks like you’ve hit another one, Willy Pud.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“I’ve seen the file…all of it…read everything there is under code name Salt and Pepper.”
“That’s great!”
“No, it isn’t…not for your purposes as you explained them to me.”
“What’s that mean, General?”
“There’s nothing in the file, Willy. No transcript of a post-op interview with you, no photos, nothing like what you described.”
“It’s gotta be there, sir!”
“It isn’t. I examined the whole thing and it’s pretty thick. What it boils down to is a bunch of secondhand sighting reports and negative search results. I even looked into reports from a MACV-SOG task force they formed specifically to run down field sightings and go after Salt and Pepper. They gave up after three months of chasing shadows.”
“What the hell happened to the photos we took? And what about a transcript of the interview that I gave with the MACV Colonel…that guy Halley?”
“I’m not saying there weren’t photos or a transcript, Willy Pud. I’m saying they aren’t in the files. I ran a thorough search, had one of my best people on it for hours in case they wound up in some other classified file or something. They aren’t in the official archives files anywhere. I’m fairly certain of that.”
“This whole thing stinks, General.”
“I’d tend to agree given what you told me. But all that exists in that classified file as a bottom line is a summary investigation report signed by this Colonel Halley that you mentioned, and his conclusion is that Salt and Pepper never existed. They were myths perpetuated by grunts because it made a good story. That’s all.”
“General, I didn’t make this whole thing up. Spike Benjamin will back every word I said. There were pictures and a tape of my interview with Colonel Halley.”
“No doubt in my military mind what you say is true, Willy Pud. But in fact none of that stuff is in the classified files. So, it disappeared, somewhere between Saigon and the Pentagon. I think you need to ask this Colonel Halley a number of pointed questions.”
When he got back to his hotel, Willy Pud stopped in the lobby and had the woman at the travel desk book him on an early Amtrak shuttle to New York.
BANGKOK
Sergeant Major Shifty Schaeffer scowled over his reading glasses at the offending phone. It screeched again, and he began to shove a path through the unruly pile of notebooks, maps, and photographs that had accumulated in his room at the Peninsula Hotel on Prabang Street. He’d been trying to organize, screen, reduce, and pack a useful record of his activities and discoveries in the Thailand border camps. He was just about ready to return home and report that it was all just smoke and mirrors. Even after a solid month of frustration, he retained an unsettling feeling that there might be a nugget somewhere in all the dross.
The phone blared again for attention and he grabbed for the handset, upsetting a pile of reports that he’d organized for packing.
“Hey, Shifty; it’s Bob Terranova. You got a minute?”
“Always glad for a break in shoveling shit, Bob. What’s up?”
“You can’t say I didn’t warn you about all this, Shifty.” Bob Terranova, a retired Air Force senior NCO with a lifetime invested in Southeast Asia, was Sergeant Major Schaeffer’s primary contact in Thailand. He worked for USAID and had solid contacts in all the local communities. He had cautioned Schaeffer about profiteering and double-dealing in the refugee camps. There was a thriving cottage industry in selling live-sighting reports to American investigators.
“Yeah, and you were damn sure right about that. You got anything new?”
“Maybe. How’s the bank account these days?”
“Bob, money ain’t the issue. I just don’t know if I can sit and listen to much more bullshit.”
“You might want to make an exception for this one, Shifty. I got a guy fresh into the camps. He’s a People’s Militia deserter. I saw his papers. He swears he was a guard at a camp where they’re keeping a roundeye.”
“Sounds like another version of the same old story.”
“Well, this guy claims he’s got proof. He brought something the roundeye supposedly gave him with orders to show it to the first American he sees. That was me—and I think you’ll want to take a look.”
Schaeffer glanced at the chaos of his hotel room and shuddered. He passed a hand through what was left of his hair and decided he needed to take a look at what would probably turn
out to be another money-grubbing scam.
“If you think it’s worth the time, I’m in. Where and when?”
“I’ll be by in fifteen minutes with a water taxi. Meet at the docks behind the hotel.”
On the way to their appointment, Bob Terranova sat close to Shifty Schaeffer so they could talk over the snarl of a modified VW engine mounted on the aft end of long slender canoe. Water taxis plying the Mekong were the quickest way to reach the border refugee camps and avoid the solid gridlock of Bangkok traffic.
“You need to let them know when you get back stateside, Shifty. It’s the way of life over here now that the war is over. Everybody is on the hustle, trying to make a buck. We’ve got an entire little economy based on making tourist trinkets out of old artillery shell casings, for Christ sake. And the refugee situation is just making things worse for the Thais. We pull out of Vietnam and close the support bases here, right? So the cash flow is gone. The ball-busters on the other side of the Mekong are staging pogroms and building gulags, so all the people who are at risk hit the road headed in this direction. Thais don’t want to piss away money on refugees, so what happens? The refugees come up with schemes to make a little cash and stay alive.
“Now they know we got people coming over here all the time looking for left-behind POWs or MIAs, official and unofficial. You’ve seen it. Wives, girlfriends, and families who won’t believe a guy’s dead unless they see the body, right? And you got all these snake-eaters and SF types on some grieving party’s payroll and planning a rescue mission based on some vague report from a refugee that says there’s a roundeye alive somewhere in Vietnam. It’s a mess and it’s getting worse.”
“Take it easy, Bob. It’s an emotional issue in the states these days. The war in Vietnam ain’t gonna be over for a lot of Americans until we deal with this MIA thing one way or another.”