by Dale A. Dye
“That’s the problem. I was debriefed in Vietnam by this Colonel Halley, tape recorded and everything. He confiscated Spike’s pictures and supposedly made a Top Secret report for MACV. So we’re trying to get hold of that file and the photos but it’s all classified to the max, right? That’s when I pulled in a favor from General Matthews, who was my old battalion commander and now serves as Deputy Director at the DIA. He takes a look at the file and there’s nothing there…no tape and no pictures. The summary signed by Halley just says the whole thing is a myth.”
“So you go after Halley to find out why.”
“Right…and that’s when the shit hit the fan. All of a sudden we find out Halley’s in St. Louis under an alias, and there’s an attack on Spike in which a couple of hired hitters damn near killed him. We’ve got a cop buddy down here that saved the day, but it was a near thing. You want to take a guess who hired those shooters to go after Spike?”
“That would be Colonel Halley if you’re right. But let’s back up a minute here. Why would Halley go after you and Spike? You said the pictures and the tape of your debrief aren’t in the official file. So he lied about that, OK…but what happened to all the proof?”
“Well, we figure he destroyed it all for some reason. Or maybe he’s still got that stuff hidden somewhere. That’s what we want to find out about, Sarn’t Major, but we need somebody who isn’t connected to our investigation to confront him.”
“Well, thanks for that. If he’s willing to hire somebody to kill your reporter buddy, I’m thinking he wouldn’t hesitate to whack me one way or another.”
“Yeah, this was a bad idea. I guess I just didn’t know where else to turn.”
“Hold on a minute and let me think.” Schaeffer re-lit his pipe and puffed for a few moments. “What’s Halley afraid of? He did something with the tape and photos…whatever it was…so he knows he’s covered there. Even if the official report gets declassified and released, it just confirms that the Salt and Pepper story is a myth. It would be your word against his with no proof.”
“There’s one other thing I didn’t mention…”
“Let me hear it.”
“Spike stole one of the negatives from the pictures he shot. He’s got a picture of Salt and Pepper operating with the gooks in the bush. That’s why we wanted all those MIA pictures and documents you got for us. We were trying to match the faces with names.”
“Does this guy Halley know about that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then it still doesn’t explain why he’d be willing to kill somebody over possible release of the story.”
“Well, maybe he just doesn’t want the story exposed at all. He’s a big wheel these days a major exec with Emory Technology. Might be bad for their image or get him fired or something.”
Shaeffer nearly bit through his pipe stem. He spent some time fussing with the briar, trying not to let his mind wander down dark trails.
“You say he works for Emory Technology?”
“Yeah, he’s got offices right there in New York.”
“I know that. I just got back from a meeting in those very offices.”
“You met with Halley?”
“I’ve got no idea who Halley is, but I met with the CEO of the outfit, Mr. Cleveland Emory himself.”
“Think you can get him to turn us on to Halley?”
“I’m not gonna impose on him anymore than I already have. I had to go by there and deliver a ring that belonged to his son who was KIA in Vietnam. Some lying little shit in a Thai refugee camp had it and tried to make me believe it was given to him by a live American who wants to come home. It was a scam obviously since Emory’s kid is dead and buried, but I felt like I should return the ring personally.”
“Oh, my God.”
At the other end of the conversation, in Spike Benjamin’s St. Louis townhouse, Willy Pud looked up from the pad he’d been doodling on while he talked to Sergeant Major Schaeffer. He drew a line under the first letter of a name he’d jotted down earlier: Cleveland Herbert Emory. Then he scribbled the word RING, underlined it and went back to the phone call.
“Can you tell me about that ring, Sarn’t Major?”
“Nice looking piece of gear…all gold…had the kid’s initials carved into it. His Dad had one just like it.”
“Were the initials C-H-E?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you happen to have pictures of it?”
“Yeah, in the file somewhere, why?”
“Sergeant Major, just forget the Halley thing. Please send me everything you’ve got on the ring, where you got it, what the guy in the refugee camp told you, anything else that pertains to the case. I need it all.”
When he had the Sergeant Major’s assurances a copy of photos and the entire case file would be on the way to St. Louis in the next day or two, Willy Pud hung up the phone. He wandered into the den where Spike Benjamin and Eddie Miller sat comparing boot camp photos and mug-shots of Theron Clay with the photo of Salt and Pepper.
“I think I just found Salt.”
There was a stunned silence while Willy Pud flopped onto the couch and scanned the notes he’d made. “I think Salt is Cleveland Herbert Emory, Junior, son of a father by the same name who is CEO of Emory Technology.”
“Which is where Halley works,” Eddie Miller said.
“I think there’s a picture of him in the KIA files,” Spike said jumping to his feet. “I recognize the name. Let me go look.”
“There might be a picture of him in the file,” Willy Pud said, “but I’m betting he’s not dead. I gotta go to Thailand.”
OVER THE PACIFIC
Willy Pud admired the slim figure of the Royal Thai Airlines hostess as she undulated up the aisle and out of sight at the front of the first-class passenger cabin. Sipping the icy bourbon she’d just delivered, Willy stared out the window at the blue-black void below the aircraft’s wings, looking down on the dark velvet of the ocean on a moonless night. He was less than two hours into the journey with 12 more to go before they landed in Bangkok. The last time he’d endured this sort of long flight, he was headed in the opposite direction.
That was aboard a much less well-appointed Flying Tiger aircraft, and he’d slept most of the way until some former fighter jock in the cockpit whistled into the PA and announced that The World was now visible below the right wing. Reaching up for the overhead panel, he twisted the vent to direct air gently over his face as he reclined in the seat. The air was conditioned and stale, but when he closed his eyes, he imagined he could smell Southeast Asia, all the smoke drifting from a camphor wood cook fire, the frangipani blossoms, rice paddy stink, decaying foliage on a dank jungle floor, wet scents of a monsoon rain…and cordite.
Willy Pud pulled down the window shade and decided to sleep away as much of the long trip as he could. There was really nothing much more to do as he droned across the Pacific on the first leg of a hunting trip. The key was to hit the ground running, and he had a solid plan for all that. Sergeant Major Schaeffer made all the necessary arrangements and contacts, so Willy Pud could afford to forget about it for a few thousand miles.
He tossed and turned as much as the cramped seat would allow, then snapped on the overhead light and ordered another drink. Sleep would have to wait until the excitement swelling in his belly died down a bit. There was not a uniform in sight on the flight, but Willy Pud felt like he was back in harness, about to embark on a serious military mission. Which is precisely correct, he thought as he pulled his old day pack from under the seat and retrieved the notes they’d hammered out just a few days ago in Spike’s den.
The key was Bob Terranova. Thanks to the Sergeant Major’s long-distance intercession, he’d meet the USAID man at the Bangkok airport and then they would head up-country to meet Ngo Xa Dinh, who was most recently reported to be share-cropping a piece of land about 25 miles northeast of Bangkok. Once he had the vital information he needed
, Willy Pud planned to cross the Mekong and begin a long trek toward Vietnam. That would require some equipment, and he began to scrutinize the list he’d forwarded to Terranova from St. Louis. There was plenty of left-over war gear in Thailand if you knew where to look and what to pay. Money was no problem right now. He’d cleaned out his personal account and Spike had given him a book of traveler’s checks just before he left. If he played it tight and smart, he’d have plenty to cover expenses.
He needed a reliable compass and a good, current set of topo maps. He had his trusty old lensatic in the pack, and Bob Terranova said the best maps of the area were available in Bangkok, so he made a check next to that item and a few others that had been hanging before he left. Weapons remained a question that could not be answered right away, but Willy Pud was not about to go into Vietnam unarmed. He could be in the bush for quite a while, and no doubt he’d have to spend most of it ducking and dodging. If he’d lost some of his field skills or if the victorious Vietnamese Army had gotten a lot better than they used to be, he wanted a way to fight out of a jam. Sergeant Major Schaeffer told him not to worry. Anything short of field artillery was available for the right price in Thailand.
He flipped a page and looked at the mission profile they’d all agreed on after deciding to send Willy Pud to look for Salt. The plan was for him to make as quick a transit as possible from northern Thailand to a selected crossing point adjacent to Laos, then make a speed run across the Laotian panhandle into Vietnam. If he navigated the trek correctly, he would cross into Vietnam very close to the area where Camp 413 was located according to the information Schaeffer provided. He made a note to check and refine that with Dinh.
Willy Pud had 30 days to get in, find his quarry, and get out. It should be enough, and he really wasn’t prepared to hunt any longer than that. If he didn’t report in within the allotted 30 days, Spike and Eddie would fly to Thailand and begin a search. If he completed the mission, if he actually came out of the jungle with Cleveland Herbert Emory, Junior, alias Salt the penitent turncoat, Spike Benjamin would muster every reporter in the English-speaking world and break the story from Bangkok. Then they’d turn the bastard over the authorities and sit down to help Spike write the book he was planning.
Stuffing his notes back in the pack, Willy Pud sipped his drink and worried about Halley. Eddie Miller had the mission of guarding Spike and the St. Louis police were cooperating to the extent that they could, but they’d been warned that wouldn’t last. In a city like St. Louis, cops were busy dealing with events. Threats took a back-burner. Spike didn’t seem worried, but everyone else was. Halley was a very loose cannon, but there was not much to do about him except minimize the chances he had to get at Spike. Eddie was all over that. And Colonel J.B. Halley would cease to be a threat once they broke the story of the two turncoats and his involvement in covering it up. Once the proof was positive that Salt was Cleveland Herbert Emory, Junior, and Pepper was Theron Clay, Halley was toast and facing a very long stretch in Federal prison.
ST. LOUIS
Former Master Sergeant Freddy Carver braked at the airport toll booth and handed the bored cashier a five. She made change mechanically and punched a button, raising a gate and letting them onto the highway. It was nearly three in the morning with sparse traffic, so they made good time heading for the city.
Carver goosed the gas pedal and glanced at the morose man in the seat next to him. Colonel Halley was in some kind of bind. That was clear from the phone call earlier. Sure, he was pissed off about the missed hit on Spike Benjamin, so he was likely to want someone to take another, better shot at it.
“Where you staying, Colonel?”
“Can you put me up at your place? I’m not gonna be in St. Louis very long.”
“No problem, sir. I pretty much cleared the decks when you called.”
“That’s good, Freddy. We’ve got some business to finish here and then we head for Thailand.”
“Thailand? I could have used a little notice on something like that?”
“You’ll be well compensated. And I’m calling in markers here, Freddy. You blew it on the previous mission. You need to do this one with me and get it right.”
“That first deal wasn’t my fault.”
“You hired those two jamokes, Freddy. If you’d gotten better personnel, the mission would have been accomplished as planned. Now, we’ve got to get it right. You’ve got to earn the money I paid you.”
“OK…but I think you need to brief me on this thing in full, Colonel. It’s tough to do the job right if you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.”
“It’s straightforward, Freddy. We are taking proactive measures to eliminate threats. We will eliminate those threats in the form of Spike Benjamin here and a certain former Marine named Wilhelm Pudarski over in Thailand.”
“That’s the mission; I get that. What I want is the background, Colonel. What’s the story on this thing? How come you’re sweating these two clowns? And what’s it got to do with the Salt and Pepper thing? I figure I got a need to know here.”
Halley spent the remainder of the trip to Freddy Carver’s suburban home explaining the whole story of his involvement with Salt and Pepper and the threat revelations might pose. Carver was correct. He had a need to know. Halley needed experienced help and a partner to get it done right, the way they did things in SOG when they were in Vietnam, quietly and efficiently. He had the money to finance it all and pay Carver a big enough chunk to ensure silence once the threat was eliminated. That accomplished, he’d make plenty more money to replace the huge amounts he spent.
They agreed on a price after some brief negotiation in Freddy Carver’s living room. It was exorbitant, enough to set the former Special Operator up in Germany where he wanted to retire and live comfortably in a depressed economy. Freddy Carver had military contacts over there, and Halley agreed it was better if he was out of the country once the mission was accomplished. They spent the rest of the night making plans and airline reservations. They would complete a reconnaissance and move as soon as possible.
j
“Mr. Pudarski? It’s Spike Benjamin calling from St. Louis.” Spike glanced at his watch. Just after midnight. He probably woke the old man up, but the voice on the other end sounded clear and alert. “Sorry if I got you out of bed.”
“No big deal, Spike. You heard from Wilhelm?”
“Yes, sir. He called from Thailand about half an hour ago. Said to say hello and give you his best. He’s fine...drinking beer and chasing women.”
“Both of us know that’s a crock of shit, don’t we?”
“Well, he’s got a big job on his hands.”
“I’m just worried, you know? I don’t want to think about what might happen. He went through enough over there during the war.”
“He’s a capable guy, Mr. Pudarski. He wouldn’t have lived to receive the Medal of Honor if he wasn’t.”
“It’s what he wants to do, I guess…and there never was any stopping him when he’s got his mind set on something. Maybe he gets this thing done and he can finally put it all behind him. That’s what I’m hoping for anyway.”
“Mr. Pudarski, did you take care of that negative like I asked?”
“Yeah. Frank Hovitz has got a safety deposit box down at the bank. We put it in there.”
“But you can get to it whenever you need to?”
“Yeah, Frank put me on the access list.”
“OK, that’s great. Now, I’m gonna mail you a big package of papers. It’s all our notes and the main parts of the story I’m trying to write. Do the same thing with all that when it arrives.”
“OK. Whatever you say, Spike.”
“There will be a letter with the papers. You should read that and keep it handy. It’s instructions on what to do if anything happens to me or Willy Pud.”
“I’ll do it, but you take care now. I don’t want nothing to happen to any of you guys. You been through too much alread
y.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Pudarski. It’s just a precaution.”
“If you talk to Wilhelm, tell him to give me a call when he can.”
After he hung up on the long distance call, Spike sealed the bulky prepaid envelope, printed the address neatly on the outside, and headed for the door. He was faced with another long night at the computer, and the walk around the block to a mailbox would help clear his head. About halfway to the post box on the corner, he was nailed by the spotlight on a police patrol car. He recognized the cops and they waved back at him. Spike felt some of the tension drain as he slipped the bulky envelope into the mailbox and started for home.
j
Two nights later, Justin Bates Halley sat next to Freddy Carver in a panel truck tucked into a dark alley near Spike Benjamin’s residence. They were going over final details of what needed to be done before they could head for Thailand.
“What about that cop who is always hanging around?”
“He’s spending the night with his daughter. He’s always there on Tuesdays and Thursdays…no problem.”
“That leaves the police patrol that runs by his house every hour or so.”
“Wait one…” Carver checked his watch and smiled. Twenty seconds later, Halley jumped at the crack of what sounded like gunfire on the other side of the alley. And then there was what sounded like a full-blown firefight. A police car, lights flashing and siren wailing, roared past them. It was heading up the street, away from their target area.
“What the hell is that? It sounds like gunfire.”
“Diversionary attack,” Carver said, starting the engine. “I got a couple of locals earning some money by setting off cherry bombs and firecrackers. They’ll keep moving and keep lighting them off for about an hour.”
As another cop car roared by chasing more detonations that echoed from the buildings on either side of the street, Freddy Carver pulled out into sparse late-night traffic and headed for a parking spot he’d selected a half-block from Spike Benjamin’s residence. “You don’t need to be here,” he said, looking across the seat where Halley sat fidgeting and staring wide-eyed from left to right. “I can handle it.”