Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

  “Hello?” she answered after a few rings.

  “It’s John. OK to talk?” I asked, anxious like a teenager.

  “Yes, I’m packing for the Outer Banks and leaving early tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah . . . well look, I promise to drive down early on Christmas Day.”

  Sally seemed to hesitate. “You better,” she finally said.

  “Sally, I’m growing attached to you, you know.” I hoped she would confirm the same.

  She chuckled. “Just get back here. And get this Reed episode out of your system while you are in DC. Remember, you did not cause his suicide.”

  “I like that you care.” I shook my head. What was next for us?

  “I do care about you, but again, Reed killed himself over PTSD-related trauma—no matter what or who caused the triggering catalyst.”

  “OK, I agree. It’s nice to hear your voice,” I said, feeling something that I hadn’t dare approach before.

  There was silence and then Sally said, “You’re not listening to anything I’m saying, are you?”

  “Well . . . yes . . . It’s just so nice to hear your voice.”

  “Have you been drinking?” she responded.

  “Last night with Jim. I miss you.”

  She paused. “And I miss you too. Now hurry back to me on Christmas. Oh, before I forget, Jane Phillips came by late yesterday and dropped off some notes left by Tom Reed. Thinking you’d want them sooner rather than later, I scanned and emailed them to you.”

  “Yes, that’s great. Maybe this will help me understand the CIA’s involvement,” I said. “I will call you later. Goodbye, Sally.”

  “Goodbye, John.”

  I felt comfortable about the two of us as I stretched out on the bed, closing my eyes, welcoming the nap.

  How had I survived the twelve-year-old scotch and martinis last night? I shook my head. I promised myself no more heavy drinking with Jim, not without Kim to run interference. I leaned back on the sofa and finally looked at the sheets of the scanned documents that Sally had emailed me before my nap. Jim had let me use his printer to make copies while he puttered in the kitchen. I hoped he held up on the booze until after dinner, which would be in another hour, at six.

  My eyes searched the copies. I froze at the first sheet—a copy of a handwritten note with Todd Ramsey’s name and a phone number. On a separate page, a copy of the Rock Hill Police evidence tag stated that the note was folded in with the airline tickets. Now I definitely knew: Reed had lied in our session and in his journal writings. He had talked to Ramsey at the VA hospital and exchanged phone numbers. Was this his only encounter since the end of the war?

  Running into Ramsey triggered Reed’s anxiety and forced him to seek the VA for counseling and got me instead for the Friday session last week. I now knew they shared the traumatic event of killing one hundred villagers. I glanced at the sheet with Ramsey’s phone number again, pondering on whether to call him; I set it beside me on the sofa.

  Next, I checked the other two sheets, which I had never seen before. There were puzzling lists in no particular order on both pages. Reed had jotted down places, names, or maybe events that popped into his mind, trying to retrieve items for his therapy. It proved Reed had knowledge of Giang, My Son, and the hundred killed villagers. More damning, it associated Tom Reed with the killings at Giang, along with Ramsey and Colonel Loan. I brushed my hand through my hair. Why did Reed participate in the killings?

  Rereading the first page, I studied all the items; his sloppy handwriting slowed me somewhat:

  My Son/Cham/Montagnards

  Giang village/100 killed/VC?

  Gold/Cham artifacts/Ramsey

  Phoenix/Da Nang/Marble Mtn

  The hundred villagers had become Reed’s misery, but the other notations, such as the gold, the artifacts, and Montagnards, needed more clarity. Why were they not fighting the war like me? Some of the places, like Marble Mountain near Da Nang, I recognized instantly. Marines battled around that huge formation controlled by the VC in their catacombs in the mountain. From these caves, the enemy safely observed the marine base around Da Nang, directing mortar rounds onto the compound.

  The Cham people reference confused me. Why would a young army grunt just out of high school have any knowledge of this ancient tribe of Vietnam’s Central Highlands? Could Reed have been more cerebral than I thought? But I knew better. Also, Colonel Zang confirmed that the hundred killed were Vietnamese civilians, not VC. And even if they were Viet Cong, they were executed while unarmed.

  I flipped to the next page to find more notes catalogued:

  Grove of Banyan trees/caves/hill

  My Son/Village elder/Giang

  What had Reed tried to say? The lists must be tied to explaining the issues compounding his life days before he had his session with me. He created a puzzle for me to solve.

  Jim walked in wearing jeans and a blue sweater. His evening dress code, I guessed. He grinned at me and handed me a martini. “Dinner will soon be ready. You need this drink.”

  I shook my head, resigned to the inevitable. I took the glass as Kim yelled from the kitchen, “Just one drink. No more. You two are pushing it. I want to see my guys normal, not the walking dead.”

  Jim winked at me. We both laughed.

  Alexandria, Evening,

  December 21, 2002

  Woodruff stood in Jim’s living room. “I thought I would update you both in person before I get home.”

  “So, what is happening now?” Jim asked.

  I stood next to Jim. The dinner that Kim prepared had me in good spirits. But now that could change.

  “Ramsey lives in a cape cod off Casco Bay at Cape Elizabeth near Portland, Maine. Years back, he told me he loves the view, especially at night—the aesthetic reason he bought there. His key reason to buy the house came from his ability to monitor an approaching car from the mainland on the single road leading to his house on the peninsula. Surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean, it also provides observation for any approaching boats,” Woodruff said as he took the scotch that Jim offered and sat down on the couch.

  “Are you saying that Ramsey is there now?” I asked.

  “Ramsey and Loan both are,” Woodruff said. “We have them under surveillance and my men are concealed to avoid any attention.”

  “But you don’t know,” Jim said. “Ramsey is not a dummy. Even if he has PTSD.”

  “Of course, there is no certainty on our surveillance being unobserved. That is a risk we take. I wish we had the place bugged to hear their conversations.”

  “What are they doing together, I wonder,” I said. “They don’t live together?”

  “No, Loan is probably selling coke to Ramsey. We know he has a habit.” Woodruff took a sip of his drink and leaned back, relaxed.

  “No further action by you?” I asked Woodruff.

  “No. We just wait and hopefully draw them to Vietnam. Their activity does suggest something is going to happen soon.”

  Woodruff’s cell phone buzzed. He clicked it to answer. “Hello,” he said.

  Jim and I focused on Woodruff as he quietly listened to the caller.

  Finally, he clicked off, saying goodbye. “Loan just left Ramsey’s house. We are tailing him, but we assume he is headed back to his place in Boston.”

  “You are cavalier about them. Hope your plan with the Vietnamese works,” I said. I hoped my bemused statement would convince Woodruff that I wouldn’t go to Vietnam.

  “I wish I could tell every little bit of information, but please understand you have the broad strokes, the big picture. You need to consider that in your final decision. We need you to go.”

  “I’m sorry, James, but I think this whole project is far from clear to me, and too involved for an untrained person like me. That is why I am not in favor of going.”

  Woodruff s
at on the couch and stared at me. Minutes went by and then he stood. “Fine, but we have another meeting to go into this more, which I have to reschedule from tomorrow to Monday. I need more time to get ready.”

  Jim said, “James, that’s good. . . We’ll see you Monday. I know that John will keep his mind open.”

  I nodded.

  Woodruff headed to the door and said, “See you Monday, then.”

  Alexandria, Sunday,

  December 22, 2002

  After Woodruff told us that our next meeting was moved from Sunday to Monday morning, I decided to quit worrying and get a decent night’s sleep. Having nursed one martini the whole evening, I felt better and went to bed early Saturday night.

  At Sunday breakfast, I noticed that Jim had a buoyant mood as well—thanks to Kim regulating the drinking. As we finished eating, Jim’s sons showed up and the morning got away from us as we talked and laughed.

  Seeing Jim’s family on this quiet Sunday made for a relaxed day, but my concerns over tomorrow’s 10:00 a.m. meeting with Woodruff seemed to show.

  “I feel the same,” Jim said. “It feels as if we are being manipulated. On the other hand, you are spending the Christmas holiday with us. So that is a good thing.”

  “Yes, but this pitch by the CIA and Colonel Zang is confusing, and it all seems ambiguous.”

  “Well, let’s see what they have tomorrow.”

  “I’m telling you now that I’m not going to Vietnam for whatever reason they give. I think I trust Zang more than the CIA. There is something missing in Woodruff’s explanations.”

  Jim nodded and sat down with two martinis, handing me one of them. “Kim said we can have one before dinner,” Jim said, a big grin on his face. “And it is your call on going back to Nam. I’m here to support you, buddy.”

  “To tomorrow and whatever it brings,” I said, clinking Jim’s glass.

  “Did you call Sally?” Jim asked.

  “No, she’s driving today and left me a message on my cell to call on Monday or Tuesday. She will be busy with her folks getting ready for Christmas.”

  Jim grunted. “You know, this beats the hell out of the jungles of Vietnam,” he said.

  I took a small sip of my martini and nodded.

  Alexandria, Monday,

  December 23, 2002

  Most men don’t have close male friends since their lives are dominated by work, a competitive world especially where climbing the corporate ladder prevents closeness. Jim and I had the war as a bonding factor, as well as relying on each other for survival, allowing our friendship to grow stronger ever since, even with long gaps between seeing each other. It was a given that one of us would be there for the other. I still believed that about us.

  And we unconsciously demonstrated our unique bond sitting on the sofa together, Jim next to me on my right. Opposite us James Woodruff comfortably sat in the plush club chair. Colonel Lin Zang of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam sat to Woodruff’s right and directly opposite me in the other chair.

  Zang and Woodruff arrived within minutes of each other after 10:00 a.m. All four of us were in business suits, white shirts, and conservatively patterned rep ties. Military habits of being in the correct uniform for an occasion were hard to break. It looked like a corporate business meeting. Jim felt it important to play the part, and I agreed.

  I checked Jim. Even though he was polite, he harbored ill thoughts of the war and fighting the NVA. Having a former NVA officer again in his home and drinking a glass of his beer seemed strange.

  My eyes turned to Zang. His uneasiness showed, more so than I experienced with him last Saturday in this same living room. Zang looked tired but still maintained his sense of power, fit and lean, dressed in a slim-fitted black suit and a bold, bright red tie with gray diagonals. The bayonet scar on his left cheek still served to identify him.

  “OK, we should start this meeting,” Jim said. He spoke low and without enthusiasm, performing an obligation. “I again vouch for John Moore, who served in Vietnam as a combat officer, as I did. His Top Secret security clearance as an army officer is on file. More importantly, he is my closest friend. My wife is out of the house, so we are just the four of us in the house with Colonel Zang’s security man outside.”

  I glanced at Jim. This meeting had risen to another level compared to the previous meetings with Zang and Woodruff.

  Woodruff nodded. Zang followed by bowing his head. His eyes were still on me.

  I had to interrupt. “Jim . . . I’m confused.”

  “I apologize, John,” Jim said, “but I was asked to keep the content of this meeting a secret.”

  I waited for the next bombshell.

  “And John has his passport with him, and I believe, Colonel Zang, that you will facilitate the visa for him if this goes as planned.” Jim’s tone approached a monotone. His normal vivaciousness had disappeared. There had been pressure put on him.

  Zang nodded. “Mr. Schaeffer, I will have them delivered to your house tomorrow night.”

  “But . . .” I paused, sensing my lack of control.

  “John, trust me. As a precaution and to save time, give the Colonel your passport just in case you go.”

  If it had not been Jim, I would have refused. But Jim I trusted, and to support him and his business relation with the CIA, I pulled out my passport and handed it to Zang. “This doesn’t mean I’m going,” I said.

  Zang gave a nod. “My associate whom you met Saturday is in the car with a camera and will take your photo before we leave here.”

  “Jim, I think you need to explain what is going on!” I looked at him, irritated.

  Jim patted my arm. “Soon enough, John. And I’m sorry for being so secretive.” Jim’s stress showed. I didn’t like it.

  The ensuing silence dominated as I sat looking at Zang, waiting for the next bit of drama. He was no longer the scrawny, beaten-up NVA lieutenant, dressed in green cotton fatigues, spattered with dirt and blood, but a full colonel who had clout with the CIA.

  I shot another look at Jim and then Woodruff. “I’m sorry, but I’m still waiting for an answer on why you think I’m going to Vietnam!” It was on them. “And as far as I know, I’m not going.”

  Woodruff said, “We need you to hear us out.” He had just ordered me. Everyone recognized it.

  My stomach churned acid, and I felt a burning sensation in my throat as he began.

  “John, I’m being somewhat repetitive here, but we know about the threats and attack against you in Saigon by Colonels Loan and Hung during the war. Loan escaped to the US during the fall of Saigon with Ramsey’s help. If captured, the NVA would have executed him for his part in killing captured Viet Cong prisoners. Some he only tortured for information. He freed some from Saigon jails after bribes were paid. Ramsey worked with Loan and participated in the interrogations, using electrical charges from batteries, ancient torture racks, and the infamous tiger cages. Also, as you may know, Colonel Hung never escaped the NVA take over, and he is still in prison in Hanoi, Vietnam.”

  “To buy his freedom, Hung has agreed to help us to lure Loan back to Vietnam,” Colonel Zang interjected. As he talked, his military posture stood out in contrast to Woodruff’s slouch. Was the last statement on Hung the truth or contrived for my benefit.

  “He has provided information on Ramsey and Loan and communicated with Loan over the past year. He claims he has no knowledge of the murdered villagers near My Son, the ancient site of the Champa civilization. He may be telling the truth. It seems from our own investigations the villagers were killed to prevent the secret of stolen gold from being exposed. Ramsey and Loan executed them. And Specialist Fourth Class Reed participated, as he himself told you during therapy with you last Friday, on December 13. Mr. Schaeffer had conveyed this to us while he researched your request for information.”

  I sensed that Zang was waiting for me to say s
omething.

  “Did I promise you anything from our last meeting here?” I asked, looking at Zang. My mind struggled to recall the whole event, knowing that I had a hangover that day.

  “That you might be a witness against Loan,” Zang answered. “However, I know you were distressed with drink.” He finally smiled.

  “Let me reserve the final answer until after this meeting. Does this still mean you don’t have Loan in custody?” I asked, staring at Woodruff, knowing the answer.

  “No,” Woodruff said, leaning toward my direction. “I repeat that Loan is a US citizen now, and the CIA has no authority to arrest him. And Ramsey, an American, is more than a serious embarrassment for the company because of his involvement in these war crimes. The Socialist Republic of Vietnam wants to capture and arrest Loan for his war crimes. We at the CIA want Ramsey to also end up in Vietnam—it would be the best solution.

  “And speaking of Colonel Loan, Ramsey had protected him for years and pulled strings to get him US citizenship. That is the sticky part. If we have him arrested by the FBI in the US, then we will need to follow due process of the law to protect him as a US citizen. Loan should never have been issued American citizenship because of his war crimes. However, if he is captured in South East Asia, then the Vietnamese government can ignore all that since they never revoked his Vietnamese citizenship.”

  I digested this information and pondered what it meant for me.

  Jim jumped in. “Is Loan out of country yet?”

  “We’re not sure. We know he lives in the Boston area, and we’re trying to locate him now since he hasn’t returned to his apartment. However, we’ll not stop him from leaving the US as part of this plan we are forming here. We hope, based on Hung’s communication with Loan over the last year, that Loan has been spooked to return to Indochina with Ramsey and retrieve the gold,” Woodruff said and leaned back in his chair. A worried look appeared on his face. His baggy cheeks added to his aging look. “Colonel Zang is more intimately informed about Hung manipulating Loan to return to Vietnam.”