Final Answers (33 page)
Authors: Greg Dinallo
“That was close,” Kate says, relieved.
“What do you mean?”
“That guy commented on my Reeboks. They’re very hard to get here. I said I have a friend in Bangkok.”
There’s no sign of Chen Dai’s helicopter as we walk to the Peugeot. We drive across the grounds slowly, passing the security kiosk, and through the exit gate, which opens automatically on approach. I swing onto the road and, suppressing my impulse to put the pedal to the floor, head south toward the Mekong at a normal speed.
Kate is stretched out next to me, her head thrown back against the seat, a serene expression on her face. We drive in silence
through the darkened countryside. Finally she sits up and turns to me with a little smile. “So, tell me. Does A stand for answers, or doesn’t it?”
“Sure does,” I reply, telling her what I’d figured out about the list, concluding, “Tickner said he thought Chen Dai had an ace in the hole. He didn’t have one. He had damn near a hundred of ‘em.”
“The MIAs were bargaining chips if things ever went wrong.”
“Why else keep them all these years? They were useless for smuggling, but they’d make dandy hostages. The threat wouldn’t have been, ‘Back off or they die,’ but, ‘Back off or they’ll never be repatriated.’ “
“Yes, but he can kiss his aid package good-bye if this gets out now.”
“That’s what he’s been worried about all along.”
“He could’ve gotten rid of them.”
“He will. Soon as the deal with Uncle Sam is finalized and the money starts rolling in.”
“But we’re going to make sure it doesn’t.” Kate removes the camera from her bag and begins rewinding the film.
We continue south until we reach Thanon Fa Ngum, the main boulevard that snakes along the river, then heads west into the heart of Vientiane. A short time later, we turn into Rue Bartholini— a short street between Chantha Kumman and Lan Xang—and are relieved to see another well-known symbol of free enterprise aglow in the darkness up ahead. It’s red, white, and blue, just like the Pepsi sign, but this one is rippling in a light breeze and has a field of stars. Embassies are sovereign territory and, as the Marine guard checks our passports and opens the gate, I can’t help thinking, it sure feels good to be back in the United States.
A
comfortable bed, a good night’s sleep, a couple of great meals, and hot, hot showers. Kate and I are fulfilled and at peace with the world. The champion of evil will be crushed, the good and just shall prevail.
But something is wrong.
In my euphoria, I’ve made an uncharacteristic error of omission when writing the equation. I’ve totally forgotten about other forces and factors—powerful and determined ones—which might have an impact on it. In fact, I haven’t even considered the possibility, let alone calculated the odds. I’ve been away from my laptop too long.
The uneasy feeling surfaces just after breakfast when we are informed by an embassy staffer that Tickner and Colonel Webster have arrived from Bangkok and are waiting for us in a conference room.
The film has been processed, and, when we join them, color prints of the photos Kate took in the walk-in freezer cover the table. They elicit genuine and heartfelt exclamations of surprise and horror, as does our story. In the course of telling it, we are gently chastised by Tickner and praised by the colonel, and then, after a pregnant pause and conspiratorial glance between them, Tickner locks his eyes onto mine, shifts them to Kate’s, and utters some stunning words.
“I’m sure you’re both pleased to be finished with this. Unfortunately, the Colonel and I aren’t. And it’s important to know we’ll be able to count on your continued cooperation.”
Continued cooperation? I don’t like the sound of that at all. Kate flicks me a puzzled glance. I shrug and am about to challenge him, when a staffer slips a form onto the table in front of me and hands me a pen. He does the same with Kate.
“It’s standard USG boilerplate,” Tickner explains. “Basically you’re agreeing that these photos and your stories will never see the light of day.”
“Or what?” I challenge indignantly.
“My apologies, Mr. Morgan. I didn’t mean it to have such a coercive ring.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Kate protests.
Webster puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. “There are still over two thousand MIAs, Kate,” he explains, softening the blow as best he can.
She nods, a little chagrined.
So do I.
“Try not to lose sight of the big picture,” Tickner counsels. “We’ll get what we want out of this, I promise you. But not at the expense of upsetting the diplomatic balances that years of painstaking work have achieved. Nor can we afford to ignore the need to send positive signals to other drug lords and guerrilla groups in Southeast Asia, not to mention governments.”
Kate and I sign the documents.
Within hours the diplomats are at work, and within days the media is heralding the outcome. So are we.
LAOS TO REPATRIATE REMAINS OF 98 MIAS
The evidence of improving relations between the United States and Laos continues to mount. Along with the recently announced aid package for impoverished Houa Phan Province, and the related Drug Enforcement Agency crop substitution program that will have a powerful impact on eliminating the production of opium and heroin, an agreement to repatriate the remains of 98 MIAs, lost in Laos during the Vietnam war, has been reached. The bodies—inadvertently discovered by a team of Laotian geologists who were exploring a subterranean cave—had evidently been hidden there during the so-called secret war by Meo
partisans. Fiercely proud mountain warriors, they risked their lives to retrieve dead Americans, preventing Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese forces from using them to prove that the U.S. military was illegally involved in the war in Laos. Apparently all members of the partisan group who were involved were killed during the conflict and the cache of MIAs went unreported. U.S. diplomats have roundly praised the Lao government for this humanitarian gesture.
k
ate and I go back to our lives.
She’s been living for this moment and has a much easier time of it than me. I love the house in Malibu, but there are just too many memories. After a few months, I sell it and move into a waterfront condominium in Marina Del Rey. It’s close to my clients on the west side, near the freeway, and literally minutes from the airport. I’ve been seeing a lot of Kate, and my daughters have been teasing me about getting a discount for the Friday-night red-eye to Dulles. But this trip is special and they’ve accompanied me.
It’s a crisp autumn morning in Washington, D.C. Several hundred people have assembled at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Slow-moving clouds are reflecting in the black granite as a military band launches into the National Anthem.
Kate and I and my daughters are in a group that includes Colonel Webster, Tickner, piano-player Dick Foster, Jack Collins from the NPRC, and Vann Nath, who came from Bangkok. Representatives from all the service branches, both houses of Congress, veterans organizations, the Friends of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, and the National League of Families are also present, as are the next of kin of the ninety-eight men whose remains were repatriated. Along with the names that have had their symbol changed to signify their fate has been resolved, are a number of replacement panels from which fourteen names have been removed. Mine was one of them.
The last strains of the anthem segue to the rising whine of jet engines. The sound builds to a thundering roar as we look skyward
to see three Air Force F-15s in a missing man formation come streaking out of the clouds. They pass directly over the Washington Monument and continue straight down the center of the Mall. The ensuing silence is soon broken by sharp military commands and the crisp reports of a twenty-one-gun salute. As the volley of gunshots reverberates, an Army sergeant in dress blues steps forward, raises a bugle to his lips, and begins to blow taps.
The first haunting note sends a chill through me. My eyes well, then tears go rolling down my cheeks as I flashback to those brave men I’d fought with so many years ago, to all those kids who died in my arms.
When the ceremony is over, Kate and I make our way through the crowd to the panel that contains her husband’s name. She runs her fingertips over the letters, stopping when she gets to the symbol that separates it from the next.
“Look,” she says, beaming, pointing to the diamond that has been inscribed around the cross, signifying his fate has been resolved. She slips the MIA bracelet from her wrist and places it at the base of the panel.
We turn from the wall and look back across the grounds to see hundreds of people hugging and crying, pointing to names on the wall, the years of uncertainty and pain finally resolved, the final answers at last known. Nothing will ever deaden the pain of losing Nancy, but seeing their joy certainly helps. I’ll leave here knowing that her death wasn’t in vain. That in the end, somehow, the numbers do add up. That there is some purpose, some reason, some grand design.
“He does, you know?” I whisper, taking Kate’s hand. “I really believe He does.”
She looks at me curiously for a moment before it dawns on her and she smiles with understanding. “Yes,” she says, softly. “Yes. My father was right.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
(SITTIN’ ON) THE DOCK OF THE BAY. Words and Music by Otis Redding & Steve Cropper. Copyright © 1968 & 1975 Irving Music, Inc. (BMI). International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 1992 by Greg Dinallo
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5476-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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