Staff Sergeant Chalmers, an intelligence specialist, started reading through the papers taken from Major Vinh. Everyone else waited for the spooks to get through the papers.
“Where am I?” Grishanov asked in Russian. He tried to reach for his blindfold, but his hands couldn’t move.
“How are you feeling?” a voice answered in the same language.
“Car smashed into something.” The voice stopped. “Where am I?”
“You’re aboard USS Ogden, Colonel,” Ritter told him in English.
The body strapped in the bunk went rigid, and the prisoner immediately said, in Russian, that he didn’t speak English.
“Then why are some of your notes in English?” Ritter asked reasonably.
“I am a Soviet officer. You have no right—”
“We have as much right as you had to interrogate American prisoners of war, and to conspire to kill them, Comrade Colonel.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your friend Major Vinh is dead, but we have his dispatches. I guess you were finished talking to our people, right? And the NVA were trying to figure the most convenient way to eliminate them. Are you telling me you didn’t know that?”
The oath Ritter heard was a particularly vile one, but the voice held genuine surprise that was interesting. This man was too injured to dissimulate well. He looked up at Greer.
“I’ve got some more reading to do. You want to keep this guy company?”
The one good thing that happened to Kelly that night was that Captain Franks hadn’t tossed the aviator rations over the side after all. Finished with his debrief, he found his cabin and downed three stiff ones. With the release from the tension of the night, physical exhaustion assaulted the young man. The three drinks knocked him out, and he collapsed into his bunk without so much as a cleansing shower.
It was decided that Ogden would continue as planned, steaming at twenty knots back towards Subic Bay. The big amphibious ship became a quiet place. The crew, pumped up for an important and dramatic mission, became subdued with its failure. Watches were changed, the ship continued to function as before, but the mess rooms’ only noise was that of the metal trays and utensils. No jokes, no stories. The additional medical personnel took it the hardest of all. With no one to treat and nothing to do, they just wandered about. Before noon the helicopters departed, the Cobras for Danang and the rescue birds back to their carrier. The signal-intelligence people switched over to more regular duties, searching the airways for radio messages, finding a new mission to replace the old.
Kelly didn’t awaken until 1800 hours. After showering, he headed below to find the Marines. He owed them an explanation, he thought. Somebody did. They were in the same space. The sand-table model was still there as well.
“I was right up here,” he said, finding the rubber band with two eyes on it.
“How many bad guys?”
“Four trucks, they came in this road, stopped here,” Kelly explained. “They were digging in crew-served weapons here and here. They sent people up my hill. I saw another team heading this way right before I moved.”
“Jesus,” a squad leader noted. “Right on our approach route.”
“Yeah,” Kelly confirmed. “Anyway, that’s why.”
“How’d they know to send in the reinforcements?” a corporal asked.
“Not my department.”
“Thanks, Snake,” the squad leader said, looking from the model that would soon be tossed over the side. “Tough call, wasn’t it?”
Kelly nodded. “I’m sorry, pal. Jesus God, I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Clark, I got a baby due in two months. ’Cept for you, well ...” The Marine extended his hand across the model.
“Thank you, sir.” Kelly took it.
“Mr. Clark, sir?” A sailor stuck his head into the compartment. “The admirals are looking for you. Up in officer country, sir.”
“Doctor Rosen,” Sam said, lifting the phone.
“Hi, doctor. This is Sergeant Douglas.”
“What can I do for you?”
“We’re trying to track down your friend Kelly. He isn’t answering his phone. Do you have any idea where he is?”
“I haven’t seen him in a long time,” the surgeon said guardedly.
“You know anybody who has?”
“I’ll check around. What’s the story?” Sam added, asking what he knew might be a highly inconvenient question, wondering what sort of answer he might get.
“I, uh, can’t say, sir. I hope you understand.”
“Ummhmm. Yeah, okay, I’ll ask.”
“Feeling better?” Ritter asked first.
“Some,” Kelly allowed. “What’s the story on the Russian?”
“Clark, you just might have done something useful.” Ritter gestured to a table with no fewer than ten piles of documents on them.
“They’re planning to kill the prisoners,” Greer said.
“Who? The Russians?” Kelly asked.
“The Vietnamese. The Russians want them alive. This guy you picked up is trying to take them home,” Ritter said, lifting a sheet of paper. “Here’s his draft of the letter justifying it.”
“Is that good or bad?”
The outside noises were different, Zacharias thought. More of them, too. Shouts with purpose to them, though he didn’t know what purpose. For the first day in a month, Grishanov hadn’t visited him, even for a few minutes. The loneliness he felt became even more acute, and his only company was the realization that he’d given to the Soviet Union a graduate-level course in continental air-defense. He hadn’t meant to do it. He hadn’t even known what he was doing. That was no consolation, however. The Russian had played him for a fool, and Colonel Robin Zacharias, USAF, had just given it all up, outsmarted by some kindness and fellowship from an atheist ... and drink. Stupidity and sin, such a likely combination of human weaknesses, and he’d done it all.
He didn’t even have tears for his shame. He was beyond that, sitting on the floor of his cell, staring at the rough, dirty concrete between his bare feet. He’d broken faith with his God and his country, Zacharias told himself, as his evening meal was pushed through the slot at the bottom of his door. Thin, bodiless pumpkin soup and maggoty rice. He made no move towards it.
Grishanov knew he was a dead man. They wouldn’t give him back. They couldn’t even admit that they had him. He’d disappear, as other Russians in Vietnam had disappeared, some at SAM sites, some doing other things for those ungrateful little bastards. Why were they feeding him so well? It had to be a large ship, but it was also his first time at sea. Even the decent food was hard to get down, but he swore not to disgrace himself by succumbing to motion sickness mixed with fear. He was a fighter pilot, a good one who had faced death before, mainly at the controls of a malfunctioning aircraft. He remembered wondering at the time what they’d tell his Marina. He wondered now. A letter? What? Would his family be looked after by his fellow officers in PVO Strany? Would the pension be sufficient?
“Are you kidding me?”
“Mr. Clark, the world can be a very complicated place. Why did you think the Russians like them?”
“They give them weapons and training, don’t they?”
Ritter stubbed out his Winston. “We give those things to people all over the world. They’re not all nice folks, but we have to work with them. It’s the same for the Russians, maybe less so, but still pretty much the same. Anyway, this Grishanov guy was going to a considerable effort to keep our people alive.” Ritter held up another sheet. “Here’s a request for better food—for a doctor, even.”
“So what do we do with him?” Admiral Podulski asked.
“That, gentlemen, is our department,” Ritter said, looking at Greer, who nodded.
“Wait a minute,” Kelly objected. “He was pumping them for information.”
“So?” Ritter asked. “That was his job.”
“We’re getting away from the real issue here,” Maxwell said.
 
; James Greer poured some coffee for himself. “I know. We have to move fast.”
“And finally ...” Ritter tapped a translation of the Vietnamese message. “We know that somebody burned the mission. We’re going to track that bastard down.”
Kelly was still too drugged from sleep to follow it all, much less see far enough into the future to realize how he had assumed his place in the center of the affair.
“Where’s John?”
Sandy O’Toole looked up from her paperwork. It was close to the end of her shift, and Professor Rosen’s question brought to the fore a worry that she’d managed to suppress for over a week.
“Out of the country. Why?”
“I got a call today from the police. They’re looking for him.”
Oh, God. “Why?”
“He didn’t say.” Rosen looked around. They were alone at the nurses’ station. “Sandy, I know he’s been doing things—I mean, I think I know, but I haven’t—”
“I haven’t heard from him, either. What are we supposed to do?”
Rosen grimaced and looked away before replying. “As good citizens, we’re supposed to cooperate with the police—but we’re not doing that, are we? No idea where he is?”
“He told me, but I’m not supposed to—he’s doing something with the government ... over in ... ” She couldn’t finish, couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “He gave a number I can call. I haven’t used it.”
“I would,” Sam told her. and left.
It wasn’t right. He was off doing something scary and important. only to come back to a police investigation. It seemed to Nurse O’Toole that the unfairness of life had gotten as bad as it could. She was wrong.
“Pittsburgh?”
“That’s what he said,” Henry confirmed.
“It’s cute, by the way, having him as your man on the inside. Very professional,” Piaggi said with respect.
“He said we need to take care of it quick, like. She hasn’t said much yet.”
“She saw it all?” Piaggi didn’t have to add that he didn’t think that very professional at all. “Henry, keeping people in line is one thing. Making them into witnesses is another.”
“Tony, I’m going to take care of that, but we need to handle this problem right quick, y’dig?” It seemed to Henry Tucker that he was in the stretch run, and over the finish line were both safety and prosperity. That five more people had to die to get him across that line was a small matter after the race he’d already run.
“Go on.”
“The family name is Brown. Her name is Doris. Her father’s name is Raymond.”
“You sure of this?”
“The girls talk to each other. I got the street name and everything. You got connections. I need you to use ’em fast.”
Piaggi copied down the information. “Okay. Our Philly connections can handle it. It’s not going to be cheap, Henry.”
“I didn’t expect it would be.”
The flight deck looked very empty. All four of the aircraft briefly assigned to Ogden were gone now, and the deck reassumed its former status as the ship’s unofficial town square. The stars were the same as before, now that the ship was again under clear skies, and a sliver of a waning moon was high in the sky in these early hours. No sailors were out now, however. Those awake at this hour were on duty, but for Kelly and the Marines the day/night cycle was askew, and the gray steel walls of their spaces were too confining for the thoughts they had. The ship’s wake was a curious luminescent green from the photoplankton stirred up by the ship’s screws, and left a long trail showing where she’d been. Half a dozen men stood well aft, staring at it without words.
“It could have been a hell of a lot worse, you know.” Kelly turned. It was Irvin. It had to be.
“Could have been a hell of a lot better, too, Guns.”
“Wasn’t no accident, them showing up like that, was it?”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to say. Is that a good enough answer?”
“Yes, sir. And Lord Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”’
“And what if they do know?”
Irvin grunted. “I think you know what my vote is. Whoever it was, they could have killed all of us.”
“You know, Guns, just once, just one time, I’d like to finish something the right way,” Kelly said.
“Yeah.” Irvin took a second before going on, and going back. “Why the hell would anybody do something like that?”
A shape loomed close. It was Newport News, a lovely silhouette only two thousand yards off, and visible in a spectral way despite the absence of lights. She, too, was heading back, the last of the Navy’s big-gun cruisers, creature of a bygone age, returning home after the same failure that Kelly and Irvin knew.
“Seven-one-three-one,” the female voice said.
“Hello, I’m trying to get Admiral James Greer,” Sandy told the secretary.
“He’s not in.”
“Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”
“Sorry, no, I don’t know.”
“But it’s important.”
“Could you tell me who’s calling, please?”
“What is this place?”
“This is Admiral Greer’s office.”
“No, I mean, is it the Pentagon?”
“Don’t you know?”
Sandy didn’t know, and that question led her off in a direction she didn’t understand. “Please, I need your help.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Please, I need to know where you are!”
“I can’t tell you that,” the secretary responded, feeling herself to be one of the fortress walls that protected U.S. National Security.
“Is this the Pentagon?”
Well, she could tell her that. “No, it isn’t.”
What then? Sandy wondered. She took a deep breath. “A friend of mine gave me this number to call. He’s with Admiral Greer. He said I could call here to find out if he’s okay.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, I know he went to Vietnam!”
“Miss, I cannot discuss where Admiral Greer is.” Who violated security! She’d have to make a report on this.
“It’s not about him, it’s about John!” Calm down. You’re not helping anyone this way.
“John who?” the secretary asked.
Deep breath. Swallow. “Please get a message to Admiral Greer. This is Sandy. It’s about John. He will understand. Okay? He will understand. This is most important.” She gave her home and work numbers.
“Thank you. I will do what I can.” The line went dead.
Sandy wanted to scream, and nearly did so. So the Admiral had gone, too. Okay, he’d be close to where John is. The secretary would get the message through. She would have to. People like that. if you said most important, didn’t have the imagination not to do it. Settle down. Anyway, where he was, the police couldn’t get him either. But for the rest of the day, and into the next, the second hand on her watch seemed to stand still.
USS Ogden pulled into Subic Bay Naval Station in the early afternoon. Coming alongside seemed to take forever in the moist tropical heat. Finally lines were tossed and a brow advanced to the ship’s side. A civilian sprinted up first even before it was properly secured. Soon thereafter the Marines filed off to a bus which would take them to Cubi Point. The deck division watched them walk off. A few hands were shaken as everyone tried to leave at least one good memory from the experience, but “good try” just didn’t make it, and “good luck” seemed blasphemous. Their C-141 was waiting there for the flight stateside. Mr. Clark, they saw, wasn’t with them.
“John, it seems you have a lady friend who’s worried about you,” Greer said, handing the message over. It was the friendliest of the dispatches that the junior CIA officer had brought up from Manila. Kelly scanned it while three admirals reviewed the others.
“Do I have time to call her, sir? She’s worried about me.”
>
“You left her my office number?” Greer was slightly vexed.
“Her husband was killed with the First Cav, sir. She worries,” Kelly explained.
“Okay.” Greer put his own troubles aside for the moment. “I’ll have Barbara tell her you’re safe.”
The rest of the messages were less welcome. Admirals Maxwell and Podulski were being summoned back to Washington soonest to report on the failure of BOXWOOD GREEN. Ritter and Greer had similar orders, though they also had an ace in the hole. Their KC-135 was waiting at Clark Air Force Base. A puddle jumper would hop over the mountains. The best news at the moment was their disrupted sleep cycle. The flight back to the American East Coast would bring them back in just the right way.
Colonel Grishanov came into the sunlight along with the admirals. He was wearing clothing borrowed from Captain Franks—they were of approximately the same size—and escorted by Maxwell and Podulski. Kolya was under no illusions of his chance to escape anywhere, not on an American naval base located on the soil of an American ally. Ritter was talking to him quietly, in Russian, as all six men walked down to the waiting cars. Ten minutes later, they climbed into an Air Force C-12 twin-prop Beechcraft. Half an hour later that aircraft taxied right alongside the larger Boeing jet, which got off less than an hour after they’d left Ogden. Kelly found himself a nice wide seat and strapped himself in, asleep before the windowless transport started rolling. The next stop, they’d told him, was Hickam in Hawaii, and he didn’t plan to be awake for any of that.
31
Home Is the Hunter
The flight wasn’t as restful for the others. Greer had managed to get a couple of messages taken care of before the takeoff, but he and Ritter were the busiest. Their aircraft—the Air Force had lent it to them for the mission, no questions asked—was a semi-VIP bird belonging to Andrews Air Force Base, and was often used for Congressional junkets. That meant an ample supply of liquor, and while they drank straight coffee, their Russian guest’s cups were laced with brandy, a little at first, then in increasing doses that his decaffeinated brew didn’t begin to attenuate.