Thai Horse (16 page)

Simmons turned abruptly, his face reddening with anger. ‘What the hell would I have
t
lie about?’

‘The debriefing officer noted in his report back in ‘72 that you were scared. In fact, he wrote that you were stuttering. It was all over and you were back on the ground, but you were still that scared.’

‘I was three weeks in-country,
m
an,’ Simmons said brusquely. ‘That was only my third trip out. Sure, I was scared. I was scared the last day I was over there, too. I was nineteen. I was scared all the time.’

‘Being scared isn’t being a coward,’ Hatcher said softly.

‘Coward? That what you think?’

Hatcher shook his head. ‘That’s not what I think. But maybe it’s what
you think.’

Simmons kneaded his wool cap in his hands and shook his head. ‘You just never get away from it. Damn Vietnam,
God
damn Vietnam,’ he cried out with such passion that it surprised Hatcher. He felt sorry for Simmons but not sorry enough to stop.

‘You swear to me you didn’t see anyone coming away from that plane, and I’m gone,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘But if you lie, I’ll know it.’

‘Such a long time ago
. .

‘You weren’t under oath, Simmons. So maybe you made a mistake
. .

‘I’m not under oath now.’

‘Simmons, is it possible that Cody escaped from that plane?’

‘Anything’s possible.’

‘What do you think?’

A voice from outside yelled, ‘Five minutes, Simmons.’

‘Right away,’ Simmons yelled back. He looked back at Hatcher. ‘Why are they checking into this again, anyhow. It’s all over?’

‘There’s a chance Cody could be in an MIA camp in Cambodia,’ Hatcher lied. ‘Before we make a stink about it, I’ve got to be sure he didn’t die that day.’

‘It’s all in the reports. I told them all of it. They were always going down. It was a suicide outfit, everybody knew that.’

‘You mean Cody’s outfit?’

‘He was crazy, man. First thing I heard when I joined the SAR, “You’re Cody’s backup,” they’d say, “you’re gonna stay busy. Better keep your head down.
. .

The vision began flashing in Simmons’s head. He rubbed his eyes, but it persisted, as it always did. The figure limping frantically toward the river’s edge, waving futilely at him, then the explosion, the great awning of fire spreading out over the treetops. And still the pilot kept coming, waving, a specter silhouetted against fire until the image burned out in Simmons’s head.

‘Maybe
. . .‘
Simmons said.

‘Maybe what, Simmons? Maybe Cody didn’t die, that what you’re saying?’ Hatcher knew he had Simmons going, could almost feel his pain. That was part of it, knowing when they were going
t
o
break, keeping the squeeze on.

‘I never said he died,’ Simmons cried, ‘I never said that at all. He could of got outa there without me seeing him. They were shooting at us, there was a lot of fire.
. .

‘Bullets come close, did they?’

‘They were chewing the Huey up three feet from my face.’

‘So it was time to split, right?’

Simmons turned away from him. Outside, the familiar whine of the chopper could be heard as the pilot cranked it up.

‘I gotta go.’

‘Then I’ll wait until you get back.’

‘Jesus, what the hell do you want me to tell you?’

‘The truth.’

Simmons slammed the heel of his hand against the doorjamb.

‘Damn it! Damn it all. Damn you.

‘Been eating at you, has it?’

Simmons didn’t answer.

‘Look at it this way, if you did see somebody running away from the plane that day, maybe we can still find him.’

Simmons moaned, ‘I still get nightmares. Nothing’s worked for me. My wife left me.
. . .
It all turned to pig shit.’

‘Maybe this’ll help clear up th
e
se dreams,’ Hatcher suggested, but Simmons shook his head.

‘So you came up here to forget it?’

Simmons nodded mutely.

‘And it didn’t work.’

Tears suddenly flooded Simmo
n
s’s eyes. He tried to blink them back, but they slowly drew streaks down his face.

‘I keep thinking, maybe we coulda got him outa there, but they were shooting us to pieces, so I told them “Let’s get outa here, I don’t see anybody” and God
damn
it
. . .
started tearing me up before we even got back to the base and it never stops and I can’t stand to
. . .
can’t talk about it, see people I knew over there, I was just scared, man, that’s all.’

‘So Cody got out of the plane,’ Hatcher said bluntly. Simmons was weeping softly arid he was trying not to show it. He leaned against the window, watching the chopper stir snow clouds as it war
m
ed up. Simmons took a deep breath and sighed.

‘One of ‘em did,’ he said finally.

‘They think they found some of the gunner’s remains at the site,’ Hatcher said, ‘But they never found Cody.’

Simmons faced Hatcher, his face twisted with grief. ‘What the hell happened to hi
m
?’ he asked, his voice quivering with guilt.

Hatcher shrugged and shook his head.

‘If you ever find out
—,
Simmons started, and the voice from the plane yelled again, ‘Si
m
mons, what the hell’re you doin’? We got work to do.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ Hatcher said, ‘There’s one other thing. Does Thai Horse mean anything to you?’

‘You mean heroin?’

‘That’s all it means?’

‘That’s all it means to me.’

‘Thanks. You better get going,’
H
atcher said.

As Simmons walked toward the office door Hatcher stood up and touched his arm. ‘Listen to me for a minute,’ he said. ‘What happened in-country, that doesn’t count over here. You forget that. That was another life. What you did? That could happen to any
b
ody. And if you did cost Cody his life, you probably saved the lives of the pilot, copilot and you. Three for one, that’s a fair enough trade.’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ Simmons said. ‘It doesn’t help.’

‘Conscience can be a terrible companion,’ Hatcher whispered.

‘That doesn’t help either,’ Simmons said bitterly. He pulled his cap down tight o
v
er his head and left the room. Hatcher watched through the window as Simmons ran through the snow toward the ch
o
pper. He thought to himself, Okay, so Cody could have gotten out. And if he could’ve gotten out, he could still be alive and that means he’s not dead for sure.

So where’s he been for fifteen years?

‘You lost him? You
lost
him,’ Sloan said softly but firmly. ‘How can you lose anybody in
—
What was the name of that place again?’

‘Shelby,’ Zabriski answered. ‘He didn’t come back to Billings, Colonel. He took a feeder into Spokane and from there to Seattle, then he caught a
flight
into L.A.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘L.A. International. He’s going out in the morning.’

‘Where?’

‘San Diego.’

‘San Diego! What the
—,
Sloan hesitated for a moment, then: ‘Wait a minute. I’m putting y
o
u on hold, just hang on.,

Sloan punched the hold button,
a
nd turned to one of four computer operators who worked in his tiny headquarters.

‘Holloway, I need a current location on two Navy men.

Lieutenant Commander Ralph Schwartz and Commander

Hugh Fraser. And I got a man holding on long distance’

Sloan spelled the two names.

‘Gimme a minute, sir,’ Holloway said. Sloan drummed his desk nervously and leafed thr
o
ugh the copy of the Murphy file while Holloway type
d
questions into his computer. Sloan’s operational headquarters was three rooms in. a small office building four blocks from the White House. There was a small waiting room manned by his secretary, the main terminal room, which had four computer terminals connected to a network of phones and satellites, and Sloan’s private office, which did not contain a single personal item of any kind.

It took less than two minutes for the sergeant to get the answers.

‘Coming up now, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Fraser retired eighteen months ago, Colonel. He’s VP of a small charter airline in Seattle. No current civilian address on tap. On the other one
. . .
uh, here we go Ralph Schwartz: he’s full commander now, sir, director of flight instruction at NAS San Diego.’

‘That’ll do it, Sergeant, thanks,’ Sloan said and switched back to Zabriski in L.A. ‘Okay, I got it worked out. Cancel the surveillance and come back in.’

‘Cancel the surveillance?’ the agent asked, surprised.

‘Cancel it,’ Sloan said and hung up. He started to
laugh.
That son of a bitch,
he thought,
he’s playing games with me, showing me he still has the stuff.
The whisper
man had made no attempt to cover his tracks, he just wanted to see how long it would take to catch up with him. Sloan looked at his watch. It was 7 P.M., 4 P.M. on the coast. Hatcher had covered a lot of ground in twenty-f
o
ur hours.

Another computer operator interrupted his thoughts.

‘We have a computer call coming in, Colonel.’

‘Who from?’

‘M base.’

The caller was using a computer modem to make the call. It was a method for securing the telephone line on risk calls. The computer screen in front of the operator scrolled out several questions requiring responses.

Code number:

Daily code:

Operation code:

Level clearance:

Call target code name:

Your code name:

Your clearance number:

Voice check:

An incorrect response anywhere along the line would result in an instant disconnect and a freeze on the calling number so it could be traced.
N
umbers and names appeared across the screen as the caller answered the questions.

‘He’s cleared the voice check,’ the
o
perator said.

‘Put the call on the green box,’ S
lo
an ordered and went into his office. He closed the door a
n
d unlocked a drawer in his desk. It contained a phone with a device that scrambled transmission both ways a
n
d then unscrambled them on a one-to-one line. There were two small lights on top of the box. A green light assure
d
Sloan that the line remained clear. If the other light, which was red, lit up, the call was immediately terminated.

Sloan answered the phone.

‘This is Moon Racer,’ he said.

‘This is Hound Dog, sir. We’re ha
v
ing problems.’

‘It’s all right, Hedritch, we’ve got a virgin line.’

‘Our boy is giving us fits, Colonel.’

‘Same old problem?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s okay as long as we keep him on the lake, security’s a breeze. But he’s determined to hit the night spots. I told him it was impossible and I won’t repeat what he told me.’

Sloan chuckled. ‘I can imagine, I brought the man out, remember. Those tropical types are all alike. Hot blood and all that.’

‘His hot blood is going to be all over the floor if he’s not careful. Do I have the authority to stop him?’

‘Negative. He’s a guest of the United States, not a prisoner. Our job is to protect him, t
o
ugh as that may be.’

‘He wants to go to a disco called split Personality, to a costume party. We couldn’t secure the place if we had the whole Israeli Army helping us.’

‘When?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

Sloan thought for a moment.

‘All right, we’ll just have to take our chances. Don’t let anybody know you’re coming. Get there about eleven o’clock, tell the manager who you are. Locate in a spot that’s inconspicuous. That’s the best you can do.’

‘It’s gonna be hairy, sir.’

‘It always is, Hedritch.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sloan hung up. He took a long Havana cigar from his desk drawer, took it out of its protective tube and drew it back and forth under his nose several times, smelling its rich tobacco. Then he lit it and picked up the green phone again. He punched out a number.

‘Yes?’ a voice answered after the first ring.

‘This is Moon Racer. Is the man available?’

‘Yes, sir.’

A moment later a voice asked, ‘Moon Racer?’

‘Yes,’ Sloan replied.

‘Are you smoking, Moon Racer?’

‘Yes. Do you know what I’m smoking?’

‘La Fiera.’

‘Good. I’ve got the mark for you.’

‘Is it the troublesome one we have discussed?’

‘Yes. Campon will be at a place called the Split Personality in Atlanta, Georgia, eleven
P.M.
day after tomorrow.’

‘That would be Wednesday.’

‘Right. Is there a problem?’

‘No problem. Enjoy your smoke.’

‘I intend to.’

Sloan hung up, closed the drawer and locked it. Then he picked up his regular phone.

‘Get mc on the next
fl
ight to San Diego,’ he said.