Phantom Leader Part 29

The man who had put Flak in the ropes two days ago came forward. He had small oval eyes like those of a pig. He spoke Vietnamese words soothingly and in a comforting tone to Flak as he approached. He began placing inch-wide green straps flat and even along his arms. Flak roared in anger and pain when Pigeye stood on the small of his back, pulling on the straps to get them tighter on his arms, and to get his arms parallel with each other all the way to his shoulders. He felt like his chest would split down the middle and his shoulders dislocate.

Then Pigeye pa.s.sed a rope from Flak's bound wrists under his b.u.t.tocks, up through his crotch and around the back of his neck. From behind, Pigeye jerked and tugged the rope until Flak's face was pressed into his own crotch.

Flak's pain was electric and hot and streaming from every nerve end.

What little water his dehydrated body possessed was flowing from his nose and eyes and every pore. There was no counting, no mantra. Nothing but overwhelming, shocking pain and agony. He felt sobs and screams pushing against his larynx from the inside, trying to get out, but unable to because his throat was so constricted from his bent-over and contorted position. He couldn't talk and soon he couldn't breathe. He lunged and bucked against the pressure of Pigeye's body. In seconds he saw red in front of his eyes, then blackness.

Moments later, when he came to, he saw Pigeye standing over him with an empty bucket dripping water. The pain was still there, but the rope pulling his face into his crotch had been loosened. His face was level with his knees.

"Now," he heard Rabbit, or someone, say into his ear, "will you agree to meet with your countrymen?"

"Untie me ... and I'll . . . talk ... about it," Flak gasped.

There was no answer. Twenty minutes pa.s.sed. He was not set loose. The pain went on and on. It was excruciating. Flak just knew his chest was splitting down the middle and his arms were slipping from their sockets.

"Yes, YES," Flak screamed. "YES.

"Yes, what?" Rabbit asked close to his ear.

"Yes, yes. I'll see them," Flak groaned. In the back of his mind, a little voice said, "See them doesn't mean talk to them."

Pigeye undid the straps. Flak rolled over and tried to ma.s.sage his arms. They were at first without feeling, just wooden blocks. Then new pain started as the denied blood circulation began. Pins, needles, fire, vises, boiled alive. But not as bad as the ropes and straps.

They gave him ten minutes to compose himself, then Pigeye brought him to the small table.

"Drink," he said, giving Flak a large thick gla.s.s full of water. Flak gulped it down. "More," he croaked.

"Oh, no. First we must talk about what you say, how you perform with your countrymen. They will ask you questions.

You will say you are happy and well, and you are being treated well. You will say you are sorry for your crimes against the peace-loving people of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam." Rabbit examined Flak's arms and hands. They were without scars where the ropes had been. Yet his left arm was twisted and bent inward where the bone had been broken and healed without a cast. "We will give you clothes.

You will leave your sleeves rolled down," Rabbit said in a voice thick with menace. "You will see them tomorrow."

They took Flak back to his cell. This time no one locked his ankles in the stocks. Before the sun was at its zenith, Crazy Face came in, threw a clean rag at Flak, then prodded him outside to an old shed where there was a shower head.

Crazy Face gave him a sliver of soap and pointed at the shower.

Flak didn't need any encouragement. This was his first bath or shower since he had been shot down. Not knowing how much time he had, he did a hasty overall wash. Then he used the rag to scrub and grind away at the acc.u.mulated scabs and dried waste between his legs, and his b.u.t.tocks, and down his legs. The water was cold, and the soap yellow with naphtha and lye. Soon his skin was raw and tingling. He decided not to sc.r.a.pe too hard. It might break the skin and cause a rash that would soon infect. Then he scrubbed his head and the rest of his body once more.

Back in his room, two covered metal dishes rested on folded cloth on his concrete slab. Crazy Face pushed him in and went out without putting him in the stocks. Flak examined the metal dishes. They were full of hot rice and steaming vegetables. A large spoonful of sugar had been spread over one portion. He tried not to wolf it down. He ate slowly, savoring every bite. When he was done, he carefully felt with his tongue around his mouth for the last morsels and grains.

Then he unfolded the treasures awaiting him on the concrete slab. There was a mosquito net, a thin cotton blanket, a woven straw mat filthy with dried effluvia, and a pair of pajama-style shirt and pants made of a rough material with purple and gray stripes. He tapped a call to Ted Frederick but got no reply. Rabbit appeared at his cell in midafternoon. He had with him a man who wielded a pair of scissors and set about to cut Flak's hair. Afterward Rabbit handed Flak a wooden handle with half of a razor blade attached to one end. The barber put a small folding mirror on the slab.

Flak examined the razor, then tried it. It was dull.

"I have skin problems," Flak said. "This is a bad razor.

I don't want to shave." Like many black men Flak Apple had tender skin on his cheeks that required delicate care.

"You shave face or be severely punished," Rabbit snarled.

Flak wet his face and shaved the best he could. Even though he was extra careful, his face felt like he had rubbed sandpaper on it. Rabbit inspected him and gave him a small towel. "You have cuts," he said.

"Put on clothes now. You hurry." Flak put on the striped pajamas.

"We go now," Rabbit said. "Be very careful what you say," he added with steel in his voice. He led Flak out of the compound to a jeep-type vehicle. A driver drove them to an old French colonial residence, faded now and in disrepair.

The whole neighborhood was in disrepair, Flak saw. They were in what had been a prestigious area near the Lake of the Restored Sword. Inside, he was led into a room that had several chairs and a sofa covered with plastic placed around a coffee table. The articles on the low table drew Flak's eyes.

There were apples, and bananas, oranges, and, miracle of miracles, candy and vanilla wafers. His cheek muscles cramped as if he had just bitten into a lemon. He hoped he wouldn't salivate.

A large black man and black female walked into the room.

"h.e.l.lo," he boomed, sticking his hand out. "I'm Robert Williams." He tilted his head toward the woman- "This is my wife." He did not give her name. Flak begrudgingly shook hands with both of them. The man spoke American English.

"Sit down," Williams said as a command. "Eat up." He watched as Flak warily put a cookie in his mouth and chewed. Who is this guy? Flak wondered. The cookie simply melted on his tongue. Nothing had ever tasted as good.

What the h.e.l.l, might as well take advantage of this situation.

He began eating ravenously.

Williams stared at him. "What's the matter? Don't you get cookies where you are?" Flak didn't answer.

"Well, no matter. They'll take care of you. I've been a.s.sured of that.

I'm here in Hanoi with the convention. It's the Peoples of the World against U.S. Imperialist Aggression in Indochina." He eyed Flak. "These people here, they wouldn't hurt anybody. The imperialists who bomb and kill women and children here in Hanoi are the same ones who kill and bomb black babies in Birmingham." Williams watched Flak closely. So far Flak had not looked at him.

"I'm from the States," Williams said. "They call it the land of the free, but there ain't no freedom there. That's why I live in Cuba. I have a radio program there called The Voice of Free Dixie.

Flak awkwardly peeled an orange. His fingers would not do exactly as he wanted. They felt numb and encased in thick mittens.

"Listen, brother," Williams said conspiratorially. "Would you like to make a tape for your loved ones? Wouldn't your wife like to hear from you? I can do it, you know. Let's make a tape together and I'll broadcast it on my program. What do you say, brother?" So far the man's wife had not said a word.

Flak began stuffing apples and oranges into his pockets.

"Well," Williams said, leaning forward. "What do you say?"

Flak looked up at Rabbit. His joints remembered the pain from the ropes. He tilted his head toward Williams.

"You're no American," he hissed, "and sure as h.e.l.l not a brother."

Rabbit bent down to listen to the words.

"I certainly am," Williams insisted. Rabbit turned his head back and forth as the two men spoke.

"You are not an American," Flak repeated. "No American would voluntarily live in Cuba. " He tried to say it in a conventional voice so that Rabbit wouldn't comprehend the insult.

Williams looked at Rabbit. "This man is hopeless," he said to him. "A criminal." Rabbit looked confused. Flak decided not to press his luck.

Besides, his stomach and pockets were full. "I'm tired," he said, looking down. "And sick.

I want to leave."

As Rabbit led him out, Flak watched Williams' eyes.

When he had his attention, he pretended to scratch his jaw and gave him the finger.

Rabbit beat on him for two hours and locked him in the stocks because Williams had said he was a criminal and hopeless.

1745 HOURS LOCAL, TUESDAY 6 FEBRUARY 1968.

UDORN OMCER'S CLUB KINGDOM of THAILAND Court's Pan Am flight landed at Don Muang International outside of Bangkok at noon. He had flown several missions from Tan Son Nhut. When the Bien Hoa F-100s were clear to fly, he was released to return to Udorn. He hired a taxi-a tiny blue j.a.panese car-to take him to the other side of the airfield, where the USAF shared a large base as a courtesy of the Royal Thai Air Force. He had taken the civilian flight instead of the scheduled USAF courier from Saigon, a T-39 known by its call sign of Seatback, not only because he had the ticket as the last part of his Singapore leave, but because it would be some time before he would be in a strictly civilian environment on an airplane and he wanted to savor the last minutes. At the MAC pa.s.senger terminal he changed into a flight suit, and by three he was airborne in a C- 1 30 Khlong Flight that served as courier between all the USAF bases in Thailand.

Khlong, the Thai word for ca.n.a.l, was the word the C- 1 30 crew used for their call sign.

Stupefied by the heat and roar of the four big T56 turboprop engines, Court dozed as he hung forward in the straps that kept him in his webbed nylon pull-down seat. The seats lined the interior walls. In the center, running lengthwise down the cargo deck, were tons of boxes and supplies and engine parts for the bases the Khlong Flights resupplied two and three times a day. Court woke ten minutes after leveloff. Cool air flooded the plane. He readjusted the yellow, waxy, noise-suppressing substance he had put in his ear. The loadmaster had pa.s.sed it out to the pa.s.sengers as protection against the deafening roar of the big engines. As always happened, one man, new to C-130 flying, ate his, thinking it was toffee or some such to keep his ears open during ascent.

Court yawned and pulled from his leg pocket the rumpled copy of the Pacific edition of the Stars and Stripes he had found in the pa.s.senger terminal.

A large picture of Wolf Lochert jumped out at him from the front page.

Stunned, he read the accompanying article.

SPECIAL FORCES COLONEL UP FOR TV MURDER.

Highly decorated Army Special Forces Lieutenant Colonel Wolfgang X.

Lochert was charged under a USARV investigation with murder stemming from a TV news clip showing him knifing a Vietnamese man, then throwing his body against a tree. Mal Hemms, TV broadcaster for ITC, said when Lochert saw him filming the murder he attacked him savagely. The attack, though perhaps not as savage as Hemms claims, is clearly shown in the news clip.

Lochert refused comment when contacted by reporters. His court-appointed lawyer, US Army Major Jay Denroe, said Lochert was acting in self-defense and was innocent of the murder charges.

Unofficial sources say the slain Vietnamese, Huey Dan, was apparently a double agent who had caused the death of many of Lochert's men. It is unknown whether or not Lochert can prove this vital point in his defense.

Court rested the newspaper in his lap and thought of the burly colonel.

Their friendship went back to Court's tour as an F-100 pilot at the Bien Hoa Air Base in South Vietnam, when Wolf Lochert had been with the III Corps Mike Force team. They had spent time together with Toby Parker in Vietnam and in Las Vegas at an impressive party his father had thrown for the returning veterans. He knew he had to try to help Lochert.

After he landed at Udorn, Court caught a ride to his BOQ, unloaded his gear, and walked over to the USAF MARS (Military Affiliate Radio System) and placed a call to his father in Las Vegas. An hour later a ham operator in California put him through on a collect call. Due to the elevenhour time difference, it was five in the morning Las Vegas time.

Because the phone patch was on one frequency, the speakers had to say "over" to allow the radio operators to switch their transmit b.u.t.tons on and off.

_q p "Court, are you all right? Over."

"Dad, I'm fine. Sorry to bother you at such an hour, but I need your help on something. Remember when you threw that party for me in sixty-five after my first tour? I brought Toby Parker and Wolf Lochert with me. Lochert was the Special Forces major, the dark stocky guy. He is in a legal jam with the Army and I want to get a civilian lawyer for him. Will you set it up? He's a lieutenant colonel now, I don't know his serial number, but he's a.s.signed to the Fifth Special Forces with duty at MACSOG in Saigon. Just charge all the fees to my trust fund.

Over."

Sam Bannister laughed. "Yes, I remember your Army friend very well. He was following Charmaine around like a moonstruck teenager. I've certainly been reading about him.

Between the TV and the newspapers, he's getting a lot of s.p.a.ce. I know just the chap to lend a hand, Archie Gant out in San Francisco. He saw combat in the big one, became a lawyer, went back in for a few years as a JAG. Now he's enormously rich handling criminal cases. You're going to need a lot of money if you want me to engage him, more than the five thousand you draw every month. I can loan you whatever you need. Do you want me to get him? Over."

"Yes, Dad, get him. By the way, I don't draw from the account. I try to live on my Air Force pay. The five grand goes directly into savings at around four percent. I think it's up to a couple hundred thousand now. If that isn't enough, I'll take the loan. One thing, you've got to tell Gant that Wolf is not to know who is paying him. He has got to tell Wolf he's doing it because he's interested in the case and won't take any money. Come to think of it, maybe Gant is against the war and won't take the case. What do you think?

Over."

"Against the war? Court, Archie Gant invented Attila the Hun. He should be happy to take the case if he's not all booked up. And if Archie wants the case, don't worry, he'll find Colonel Lochert. I'll get onto it and cable you as soon as I have some news. Speaking of news, Shawn is making some news himself out in California. Seems he's been drafted by the People's Peace and Justice Party to run for a state congressman's slot. You never know where that lad will turn up, do you?

What a guy. No more news from here. I'll get right on the Gant thing.

I hope your missions are going well.

I miss you, son. Take care of yourself. Over."

"Thanks, Dad. Gant it is. As to Shawn, I have no comment. As to me, the missions are fine, all easy ones. That's all I have. I miss you too, Dad. Out."

He hoped that helped Wolf, but that was not all he had to worry about.

That night Court had dinner with Doc Russell. As he walked back to his room afterward through the deepening dusk, he thought about their conversation. He had tried to tell the doc about his ambivalent feelings regarding Susan Boyle and marriage.

He lit a cigarette, slammed the Zippo shut, and jammed it into his pocket. He felt the stored heat from the road radiating on his body.

The first few drops from a pa.s.sing storm made half-dollar splotches on the asphalt.

d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, he thought. He didn't really know what he felt about Susan Boyle. He was caught between his own emotions-flying and settling down. One side wanted to forget Susan Boyle and the entanglement such a relationship would mean. That side just wanted to fly and fight the war the best way he could, regardless of the circ.u.mstances. The other side wanted ... wanted what? Something more stable, he supposed. Whatever that meant. He took a deep drag as he walked in the darkness. Ah, to h.e.l.l with it. Just concentrate on his job and get the night FAC program running.

Just fly combat and not be burdened with emotions. Behind him the noise of the Officer's Club increased as the pilots warmed up in antic.i.p.ation of a floor show.

It had been a good day for Captain Donny Higgens, the aircraft commander of an F-4 Phantom. He and his GIB, navigator Lieutenant Horace "Rail"

Rhoades, had flown a highly successful five-hour mission (they had refueled three times from the Cherry Anchor KC-135 tanker) on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, during which they had uncovered three truck parks (seven trucks destroyed) and won nose-to-nose duels with two separate 37mm gun sites. Donny was flying as a Wolf FAC, a daytime fast-FAC operation designed to stop traffic on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He and Rail led the _q pp pack in finding and destroying trucks and guns. They seemed to have a sixth sense for where the trucks would hide at sunup and the best place for the guns to be concealed.

Now Donny was ready for dinner and some rest and relaxation at the Udorn Officer's Club. After showering in the BOQ he put on a pair of Levi cutoffs, thongs, the red Wolf shirt, stuffed a hunter's duck call in his back pocket, and, humming the lead bars from "Feefin' Groovy," he walked down the screened hall and banged out the screen door.

It was just after seven, dark, and rather cool. There was a hint of rain. In the distance he saw the one-story Officer's Club. Tonight was the night the Hawaiian dancers were due.

He was ready to see some really groovy chicks do those s.e.xy, b.u.t.t-wiggling dances at the all-male O'Club.

Formally, USAF officer's clubs were t.i.tled Officer's Open Mess, with the name of the base preceding the word officer's.

Sometimes the acronym was pleasant, rolled off the tongue nicely, and formed a recognizable and appropriate word such as the Boom Club, the Bien Hoa Officer's Open Mess, at Bien Hoa in III Corps, South Vietnam.

Or the Doom Club at Da Nang. Of course a silly female newsie did pick up on the word doom and write of the brave but fatalistic jocks who flew death missions daily. She had written a particularly dramatic piece about a doom p.u.s.s.y scratching on the canopies of F-4s and B-57s flying night missions over the Trail that had caused a lot of laughter. At Udorn the Uoom Club name never made it for obvious reasons.

Donny met Rail at the long teak bar that sported a genuine bra.s.s rail.

Each man's water table was low. They inhaled three Budweisers as fast as they could. Feeling better, Donny pulled out his duck call and coaxed out the sounds that earned him the nickname Duckcall Donny-a resounding QUACK, Quack, quack, and some contented duck murmurs.

A couple of cheers and a raspberry or two greeted this effort.