Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam (4 page)

“Yeah,” Noble said, pausing to search his memory, “And if I remember, S1-S7 had it in for Byrnes from then on. His pay was always screwed up. His laundry slashed. They messed with his chow. One of the barbers even purposely screwed up his haircut. Chief Powell and I went down to the barbershop and stood there while the supply chief trimmed Byrnes’s hair to fix the damage. As best as it could be fixed. Took a month to grow out.”

Wolfe smiled. “I remember Rocky used to complain about how long Byrnes’s hair was.”

“There was one crazy son of a bitch. Our beloved V-3 Hangar Deck Division Officer, Rocky the Flying Squirrel. He had wings, but the navy wouldn’t let him near an aircraft, except as a passenger,” Noble laughed. “Every time he’d tell Byrnes to get a haircut, we had to remind him that Byrnes had to see a civilian barber at the next port of call to keep him away from the ship’s barbers.”

After an hour of reminiscing, the two old salts had brought each other up to date since their last pow-wow. Wolfe stood, holding his hand out to Noble, signaling his intention to leave. “Stay for lunch?” Noble asked.

“No thanks, Chief. Got some things I need to do,” Wolfe said.

“You sure? The wife will be home soon. If you’re here, she’ll be less of a bother. If not, I’ll have to leave for a while,” Noble pleaded.

“Why, Chief, don’t you get along with your wife?” Wolfe teased.

“Oh, I love my wife,” Noble said. “Unfortunately, she missed me a lot while I was at sea and working for Volkswagen. Since I retired, she has made
me
her hobby. She wants me to go everywhere with her. She accompanies me to doctor appointments. I can’t take a walk to the library without her wanting to come with me. She’s smothering me!”

“Yoo-hoo, I’m home,” Daloris called. The dogs had known better than to bark at her. She entered the room, wide grin on her face. She wore a red dress and hat, and she peeled off a pair of long white gloves as she walked. “Oh, you have company. Doctor Wolfe. So glad to see you again.”

“Hello, Daloris,” Wolfe said, putting his arm around her shoulders and leaning forward so she could give him a light kiss on the cheek. “You look all dolled up. Fashion show at the church?”

Daloris smiled coyly. “Why, thank you, Addy. Will you stay for lunch?”

“I asked him the same thing,” Noble said, following Wolfe to the front door. The dogs sat, tails wagging, waiting for a chance to bark. One harsh look from Daloris and all three lay their heads down quietly.

“I’m sorry, Daloris. I’ve been gone from home all morning,” Wolfe said. “I’ve got some things to do that I can’t put off.”

“Well, you say hello to Jennifer, Kayla Anne, and Junior for me, Okay?”

“Will do,” Wolfe said.

CHAPTER 4

Vehicles filled the parking lot in front of the Flagler Hospital emergency room and all other lots surrounding the hospital also. Wolfe thought about parking in the physician’s parking lot, but decided having to prove he was a retired doctor to the security guard would take more time than finding a spot in the last row. Besides, he wasn’t there on hospital business and he no longer had an active pass card.

Entering the high-ceilinged foyer that led to the patient tower and the ER, Wolfe strode to the desk manned by an elderly woman wearing a pinkish jacket. She owned a wide smile and white false teeth too large for her mouth. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Does Luther Gundersen still work here?” Wolfe asked. Gundersen had been an ER doc who started
After Hours
urgent care with his partner, Francis Cordiano. There had been some irregularities in the billing by the
After Hours
corporation, ending with Cordiano going to jail for tax evasion, the breakup of the business, and the eventual divorce of Gundersen and his fourth wife. She got one of the clinics, the one Wolfe had worked in. Gundersen eventually lost his license. Flagler hired him as a marketing agent. He knew how to do that, in spades.

The volunteer flipped through the hospital directory on the computer screen. “Oh, here he is,” she said. “He’s in the Anderson Gibbs building in the administration suite. Should I call him? Whom shall I say is looking for him?”

“I’m Dr. Wolfe. I haven’t seen Luther in a long time. I’d like to surprise him. How do I get to his office?”

“Go to your right, walk past the elevators, through those glass doors,” she said. “Then go through the central building. Cross the patient drop off in front of the cafeteria and Anderson Gibbs is on the left.

“Thanks.”

The door to Anderson Gibbs opened to mild chaos. Workmen moved ladders and sheetrock. A power saw cut steel 2 x 4s. Someone hammered in the background, while a power drill screamed off to Wolfe’s left. Dust floated through the air. Wolfe smelled wood burning and gypsum. Gundersen stood inside the door with his hand out to Wolfe. “Addison,” he said, “good of you to stop by.” He beckoned Wolfe to follow and strode out the door. “Much too noisy in there to talk.”

The door closed slowly, pinching off the racket completely. “Did you know I was coming?” Wolfe asked.

“The volunteers are required to phone us when someone asks about any of the executive staff by name,” Gundersen said. “We haven’t had any violent incidents yet, but you never know when an angry family member or jealous husband might show up. We’ve had security stop several people over the past two years. One psyche patient thought he was a terrorist.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I visit,” Wolfe said smiling. He followed Gundersen to the cafeteria. “Next time I won’t stop at the desk and ask directions.”

Gundersen shrugged. He said, “Won’t matter. Without the proper pass, you won’t be able to get into the executive suite. And if you tailgate someone through the door, you will still have to pass through the metal detector and the scrutiny of the security team. That’s what they are building.”

“Why?”

“Homeland Security suspects all hospitals are potential targets. In general, we are undefended. Vulnerable. Besides they gave us a lot of money to do it. I got a new office out of it,” Gundersen said, wicked grin on his face. “Of course, it went with a promotion.”

“You must be doing well,” Wolfe said.

Gundersen opened a door in the rear of the cafeteria. The two men stepped into the executive dining room, used by the physicians and administrators. “We’ll talk over lunch. I assume that’s why you came at this time of day?”

“I need to get out of the house more often,” Wolfe said. “This is the second invitation to lunch I’ve had today. Thanks. I am hungry. I’ll join you, if I can pay my own way.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Addison, but the meals are free for us, the docs, and the guests we bring.”

Wolfe shrugged, “Guess I can’t fight city hall.”

After working their way through the cafeteria line, and finding a seat at a far table in front of an enormous window, the two men sat. They enjoyed the view of the Matanzas River, Old St. Augustine, and the Flagler Campus. For about thirty minutes they rehashed the demise of
After Hours
, the rise of
Healing Arts
in one of its proposed locations, and the unsolved disappearance of Sarafea Seville. For fifteen of those minutes Gundersen outlined his non-medical career and rise to glory as marketing director, and his most recent promotion.

Wolfe listened with one ear, watching as patrons finished eating and departed, thinning the number of possible eavesdroppers. When at last the two were alone, Gundersen finished eating while Wolfe filled him in on how boring retirement was. Gundersen checked his watch and started to stand as Wolfe finished his monologue with how the older twins and his two younger kids were doing. Gundersen never had a feel for kids, just wives.

“Got to go, Addison. Even a star like me has to earn his living,” Gundersen said as he started to rise.

“Before you go,” Wolfe said. “Tell me about the attempted murder.”

Gundersen sat down again quickly. He looked over his shoulder, and answered curtly, “Can’t discuss it,” he said.

“Do you know who can?”

“Nobody. CEO said it’s a dismissal offense for anyone caught talking to the media.”

“I’m not media,” Wolfe said.

“Do you have a personal interest in the case?” Gundersen asked.

Wolfe explained the possible connection. “I want to find out if this is related to the Jimmy Byrnes I knew.”

“Why? That’s what, forty some years ago?”

“About that long, 1967. He was a good friend. I recently found out he is dead. For me, it’s as if his death recently happened. I’d like to know if he’s the guy in the note. If not, I know all I need to know,” Wolfe said.

“Well, what if he is your buddy from the navy? What then?” Gundersen asked.

“Don’t know. Maybe when the police find their person of interest, they’ll let me talk with him to see what he knows. There’s a chance Jimmy was murdered. I don’t remember him as having a fatalistic or suicidal personality.”

Gundersen again scanned the room for eavesdroppers. He scooted his chair nearer to Wolfe. Both hands clasped together on the table, he leaned closer to the retired physician and whispered. “A resident from Shands Hospital in Jacksonville was on the ward that night. He’s doing a community medicine rotation here in Flagler this month. The dead man was one of his long-term patients. I’d assume he knows more about the dead man than anyone else in this hospital. And the CEO can’t fire him.”

“Got a name?”

“If anyone asks, we never had this conversation,” Gundersen said.

“Just like the old days,” Wolfe said. “Where can I find this resident?”

“Medical ward, third floor. Name is Gadhavi, Amit Gadhavi.”

“Indian?” Wolfe asked.

“Yep.”

CHAPTER 5

Byrnes landed in the water face first, arms flailing. The force of hitting the water after a fifty-foot drop knocked the air from his lungs. The ocean forced its way into his nose, mouth, and sinuses. He surfaced coughing and spitting. Panic raged in his mind.

A ship making headway through the ocean creates a bow wave that travels down both sides of the ship and becomes its wake. 30,000 plus tons of aircraft carrier, air wing, supplies, and crew makes a huge bow wave and wake, even at slow speeds. Byrnes fairly surfed away from the ship and into the path of one of the trailing destroyer escorts. Though not as large as the carrier’s, the bow wave from the destroyer pushed him farther away from the carrier.

He didn’t wait to see if the ship would stop for him. Training at Annapolis took over, pushing aside the panic. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Byrnes doubled over and untied his shoelaces. Cursing the fact that he double knotted them, Byrnes kicked off one shoe, took a second breath, and untied the second. The steel-toed boondockers sank.

Slipping out of his dungarees the third-class petty officer treaded water in his skivvies and T-shirt, while he tied a knot at the end of each pant leg. He held the dungarees behind his neck. Kicking as hard as he could to gain altitude, he flung the open waist of the dungarees over his head and into the air, holding the waist with both hands. As when he had practiced the maneuver in the Olympic-sized pool at the Naval Academy, the dungarees inflated with air. Now he had a temporary life preserver, and time to search for rescue.

By then a mile distant and lit up by red deck lights, the carrier and two destroyer escorts steamed slowly farther away. Knowing it was useless to yell he did so anyway, “Man overboard! Man overboard!” Spinning in place, he searched for other ships. Large swells lifted him and he could see long distances in the moonlight, over the waves. No other ships appeared.

Close by he could see several objects floating on the water. As the air leaked out of his dungarees, Byrnes retrieved three life jackets that had fallen into the ocean during the fight. Using their straps he tied the three together, and slipped his arms through the center one. He secured it around his waist. Carefully, he tried to unknot his dungarees and pull them on, but they slipped away and sank.
Great
, he thought,
they’ll find my body in my underwear.
If they find it
.

Unable to sleep in the rough water and still hopeful of rescue, Byrnes watched as the sun rose several hours later. He had to pull his T-shirt over his head to keep from being sunburned as the day wore on. Toward evening, dark clouds gathered on the western horizon. As the sun sank in the west, lightning flared all along the horizon in towering black clouds. Thunder boomed; lightning drew near. The wind rose, and with it the amplitude of the waves. Byrnes sank into deep troughs and then found himself flung to the tops of huge waves. He clung to the flotation devices, arms wrapped tightly in front of his chest.

By early the next morning, he was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. Allowing his arms to float at his sides, he leaned back into the center life jacket, white T-shirt covering his face. Depression set in. He was 60-120 miles from shore, depending upon where
Oriskany
was at the time he fell overboard. His only hope was that a ship would cruise by before he died of thirst, went crazy, or a shark found him. He wrapped his fist around the jade pendant that hung from his neck and said aloud a Buddhist prayer his mother had taught him, “Hail to the jewel in the lotus. Help me to overcome all obstacles and hindrances.” How long he slept, he could only guess. The sun shone high in the sky when he woke to the sound of voices.

Three Asian men in a sampan floated nearby on the flat, glass-like, calm sea. Byrnes pulled the shirt from his face. His movement startled the men in the boat and they started yammering at each other in an unfamiliar language. Raising a hand, Byrnes waved. “Help. Help.” His yelling excited the men even more. Two of the men paddled the small boat in his direction. The third man put his hand out to grab the life preserver closest to the boat. He pulled Byrnes to the side of the sampan.

Once Byrnes had both hands on the edge of the wooden boat, the three men struggled to pull him into it. He was of almost no help, too weak. Rolling over the gunwale and onto his back on the wooden deck inside the boat, the powerful scent of fish wafted into his nostrils. Byrnes tried to express his gratitude. He gasped for breath. Once his heart stopped pounding, he continually nodded his head and said, “Thank you, thank you,” through parched lips and sunburned face. The men sat him in the shade of the curtain that covered the hatch to the mid-deck wooden shelter. Fishing poles of various lengths and two bamboo poles attached to small fishnets lay on the deck between the shelter and the side of the boat. Along the far side of the boat a large fishing net filled the deck from the bow to the stern.

The men spoke quietly among themselves. Eventually, one offered the American a metal cup of water. Sitting unsteadily at the stern of the boat, Byrnes gulped the warm fresh water. He handed the cup back, pantomiming for them to fill it again.

The oldest of the three men – two looked young enough to be his sons – shook his head. He pointed to the forward section of the ship. Past the small covered shelter amidships, Byrnes saw the stump of a mast and some hemp line lying on the deck. The sail and most of the mast were gone. His rescuers needed rescuing, too. They rationed their water.

For an hour, Byrnes and the older man tried to communicate through sign language and pictures scraped into the wood of the old boat with a metal belt buckle from a life preserver. He finally understood that the men had survived the same storm he had endured. For three days, it had driven them farther out to sea than they had intended to go. The wind had snapped the mast, and blown the sail and mast over the side.

Pointing to the small outboard motor hanging on the stern of the boat, Byrnes made puttering noises like a motorbike. The old man shook his head. He led Byrnes to the engine. Flipping the choke over, he ordered one of the younger men to pull the starter rope. On the third pull, the engine puttered briefly, and then died. It did the same on the fourth pull. The second young man pulled four more times. The engine refused to run.

Byrnes tapped on the gas tank. The old man pointed to the ocean. Seawater had gotten into the fuel during the storm. Byrnes searched for a gas can. There were two 20-liter cans of gas inside the shelter. One was half full, the other almost completely empty. He pointed to those. The old man again pointed at the ocean. Both somehow had been contaminated during the storm, possibly as they tried to fill the gas tank on the outboard.

Reaching behind him, Byrnes fingered the covering to the hatch. It rippled slightly in the gentle breeze. The curtain felt like leather, or at least a waterproofed material of some type, almost the same consistency of suede or the chamois his father had him use to dry the family automobile. Motioning slowly, the American pointed to the knife that hung on one of the younger men’s belt. It had a wooden handle and a razor thin, long, sharp blade. With his other hand, he pointed to the curtain at the opening of the shelter. He held his hand out for the knife. After the older man nodded, the younger one handed the knife to Byrnes, handle first.

While the men watched, Byrnes first poured the entire contents of the nearly empty gas can into the half-full can. Using the knife, Byrnes carved a large square of the leather from the bottom of the curtain. He grabbed one of the fishnets on a short bamboo pole. Fashioning a pouch from the leather-like material, he pushed the piece of curtain into the fishnet. Leaning over the side of the sampan, Byrnes dipped the pouch into the ocean. As he suspected, the covering was waterproof. A puddle of seawater remained in the pouch.

After dumping the seawater back into the ocean, Byrnes wrung the pouch as dry as possible. Changing his mind about using the original square and net, he laid them on the deck and cut another large square from the curtain. He fashioned another pouch in a second fishnet and pantomimed pouring a small amount of gasoline from the half-full can into the pouch. The old man nodded, and one of the young men  poured several ounces of gasoline onto the leather. Byrnes squeezed the piece of curtain, forcing gasoline through it. The fuel dripped from the outside of the pouch. He wrung the pouch again between his sunburned hands. When he was convinced the gasoline had soaked through the material and not dissolved it, he nodded. The young man filled the pouch again, while Byrnes held the pole so the pouch hung over the large opening in the empty gas can. From the underside of the material, gasoline dripped into the can.

Byrnes held the can between his legs. When the leather cup was full, he yelled, “Stop!” The startled man stopped pouring. The contaminated liquid in the leather pouch drained slowly into the gasoline can, all except a small amount of water. Byrnes tossed the water over the side and, after repositioning the pouch over the can, he nodded, imploring the man to pour more contaminated gasoline into the pouch. Pouch full again, he yelled, “Stop!”

“Dung lai,” the old man said then and each time the pouch filled. Once they finished filtering the contaminated fuel, Byrnes pointed to the fuel tank on the outboard. The two young men lifted the engine from its mount and poured the gasoline from the tank into Byrnes’s jerry-rigged filter. Then they tightened the engine back onto the stern of the small boat using the two clamp bracket screws that held it in place.

Byrnes pointed to the spark plug. He made a motion of unscrewing it and pulling it out, thinking it might have been fouled with oil when the men turned the engine over. The old man went into the shelter and returned with a spark plug wrench. Carefully, he unscrewed the sparkplug and handed it to Byrnes. The American inspected the plug. He dried it with his now dry T-shirt, noting there was no oil on it. Using the younger man’s knife, he scraped gently at the ground and center electrodes until they appeared silver instead of black. He handed the spark plug back to the old man, who reinserted it into the engine and tightened it in place.

Under the direction of the old man, one of the younger men set the choke and yanked on the starter cord. Nothing happened, except a brief clap from the engine that Byrnes thought promising. The man pulled the rope again. The engine sputtered, ran for thirty seconds longer than it had before and quit. Impatient the old man stepped forward. He repositioned the choke to half open and pulled the rope himself. Byrnes saw the sinews in the old man’s arms, legs, and neck strain when he pulled the rope with both hands. The engine roared to life, making a pleasant buzzing sound.

The old man steered the sampan toward the west and the setting sun. Both younger men clapped Byrnes on the back. One went to the container of fresh water and filled the metal cup with water. He offered the cup to the old man, who refused it. Pointing to Byrnes, the old man said, “Con co,” and smiled. The American drank his second cup of water in two days.