Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  The aircraft’s loadmaster held up two fingers, almost like a peace sign, indicating that they were two minutes away from the drop zone. Glades nodded, adjusted his black leather “bunny hat” helmet, and signaled for the three jumpers to stand up and come to the rear of the plane. He led them through the all-important final gear check, making sure that their pack closing pins were properly positioned and that the dim red lights on the backs of their parachute packs and altimeters were working properly. He pivoted to let one of the men check his pins and pack light.

  After positioning the three men at the sheer edge of the tailgate, he knelt down to spot the jump. Using a portion of the tailgate’s hinge as a bombsight, he verified the red and green marking lights on the drop zone. Buffeted by the slipstream, he leaned slightly into the aircraft and signaled steering corrections to the loadmaster, who relayed them to the pilots.

  Seconds later, satisfied that they were on the right heading, he turned his head to lock eyes with the three men standing abreast on the tailgate. He slapped his gloved hand downwards on the cold aluminum and brought it back up with an upraised thumb. Making sure that they returned the gesture, he briskly pointed into the dark void. In an instant, without hesitation, the trio exited as one, falling away into the darkness. Glades smiled at the loadmaster and then dove after them. Arching his back, he fell through the turbulent slipstream and allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy the sensation of free fall.

  When the moment passed, he counted the pack lights and made sure that the three men were correctly tracking towards the green and red marking lights in the pitch darkness below. Less than a minute later, as they opened their canopies at the designated altitude, he hesitated an extra couple of seconds to make sure that he would be the lowest man under canopy, so that he could lead the less experienced stack of jumpers into the drop zone.

  Just four minutes after he had left the plane, Glades glided his MC-3 Para-Commander canopy into the small landing area, gently tugging at his steering toggles to make minor corrections. Thankfully, all four men touched down in the burned oval, almost on top of the marking lights, instead of landing in the less forgiving undamaged sugarcane. After he rolled up his canopy and recovered the rest of his drop gear, Glades breathed a sigh of relief; the little team had made it safely to the ground, so maybe his job was done.

  16

  ZANJ NWA

  Dubuission Homestead, Haiti

  1:23 a.m., Saturday, March 14, 1970

  Major Lewis, who had been a captain when Henson initially went through the assessment training at Aux One-Oh, was now in command of the Rapid Response Flight. After the jump, once Glades accounted for the men, Lewis took control of the mission. The humid air was still, and a brilliant mantle of stars decorated the sky. Except for the periodic buzz of mosquitoes and an occasional rustling of leaves, the only sound was a dog plaintively yelping in the distance.

  In the darkness, Lewis convened the group to review their plans for the coming hours. They lay flat on their bellies so that their heads and upper bodies were concealed under a poncho; the ground cloth’s grommeted edges were drawn down tightly to prevent any leakage of light from the red-filtered flashlight that Lewis used to illuminate the map and aerial photos. In minutes, the poncho was clammy with the condensation from their exhaled breaths.

  Henson looked at the sweaty, camouflage-streaked faces dimly illuminated in the red glow. It was almost like an Aux One-Oh reunion; the four new arrivals—Lewis, Glades, Ulf Finn, and Steve Baker—had been present on the day when he had failed the ejection pod search. While he had since reconciled himself that he had already been earmarked to leave the Air Force and transition on to Apex, he wasn’t convinced that Lewis hadn’t gone out of his way to make his departure a miserable experience. In fact¸ he suspected that Lewis had resented his presence at Aux One-Oh from the outset and had endeavored to trick him into inextricably losing his cool.

  “So you’ve looked at the vehicle?” whispered Lewis.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Finn, the team’s safing and recovery expert. “But I don’t have a good plan to extract it yet. We’ll probably end up coming in here with a helicopter. Those damned locals sure didn’t help matters by busting the thing up.”

  Not exactly an accurate statement, thought Henson. With the vehicle broken up as it was, they now had the option of ferrying the pieces out overland, at least to a location where it could be transferred to a truck and brought to the port. Using a helicopter was a risky proposition, one that would surely attract unwelcome attention.

  “But everything else is intact?” asked Lewis. “Especially the high value items?”

  Trying to quietly swat an annoying mosquito, Finn nodded assent. “I’ve checked the interior, sir. Everything is where it’s supposed to be. I’ve disabled all the pyro and removed the film and tapes. With your permission, sir, I’ll set charges as a contingency, so we can blow it in place, if need be, on your order.”

  “Do it,” said Lewis. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. The crew must have departed in a big hurry, probably to escape the fire. Both survival kits are still stowed in the vehicle, so they just have the clothes on their backs. No kits, no over/under gun, no radios. I strongly suspect that they’ll eventually circle back here. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see them before the sun peeks up.”

  “Noted,” replied Lewis softly. “Henson, you said you discovered tracks on the far side of the ridge, going downhill, right?”

  “Yes, sir. And the Dubuission brothers said they followed the crew down the ridge, roughly to the west, for about thirty minutes,” answered Henson.

  “Would you care to explain why you didn’t just go ahead and follow their trail?” asked Lewis.

  “Because I felt the priority was to confirm the location of the crash site as quickly as possible, sir,” replied Henson. “Especially to pass the word that the crew wasn’t here at the site.” He didn’t understand why he was being compelled to justify his actions; surely there would be time for an inquisition later, once the crew was recovered. Besides, his exact instructions were to conduct a hasty search, and once he physically located and reported the crash site, he was explicitly directed to stop the search and make preparations to receive the advance team.

  “Also, just so I have clarity on the circumstances,” said Lewis quietly. “You were running the CRZ and providing terminal guidance when the crew made their final approach. Weren’t they following your guidance when they overshot the landing site and crashed here?”

  “You’re right. I was running the CRZ, sir. By myself. But there were a lot of extenuating circumstances that led to them landing here. It couldn’t be helped.”

  “I’m sure,” commented Lewis. “Okay, men, here’s my plan. Everyone stays put until daylight. Hopefully, Finn is right, and the crew will circle back after dawn breaks. If they don’t, Finn and I will move down the west side of the ridge to chase their tracks, hopefully to wherever they’re currently holed up. Baker, I think it’s most likely that they will return, so I want you to remain here in case they need medical attention. Sergeant Glades, I also want you to stay here, in case any new information comes in from Homestead.”

  “How about me, Major?” asked Henson.

  “You’ll hang out here as well, Henson. I have everything under control. I don’t anticipate needing your assistance, but I don’t want you drifting around anywhere, either.”

  “Sir, the commander of the Fad’H northern garrison is expecting me for breakfast at seven. I’ve established good rapport with him, and I think it’s best that I be there.”

  “Well, far be it from me to infringe on your social calendar, Henson.” Lewis sniffed. “The truth is, you’ve already caused enough damage, so consider yourself free to flit off on to your breakfast date. Come back if you have an update. Otherwise, stay out of our way.”

  “Will do,” replied Henson, trying to conceal his hostility.

  “If there are no questions,” concluded Lew
is, stifling a yawn, “one hundred percent stand-to at zero five hundred. Today will be a busy day, so take turns getting some rest. That’s all, gentlemen. Henson, remain.”

  The men other quietly slid out from under the damp poncho and padded off into the darkness, leaving Henson and Lewis behind.

  Lewis switched off the flashlight. They were so close that Henson could feel the Major’s moist breath in his face. “I would strongly caution you to watch your insubordinate tone,” warned Lewis. “If you’re still harboring some sort of latent grudge from Aux One-Oh, Henson, then you need to get past it. Immediately.”

  Henson took a deep breath, exhaled, and softly replied, “Major Lewis, I’ll show you the respect you’re due, but you also need to remember that I’m not subject to your command. I’m a civilian contractor. At this point, we have the same mission: to deliver these two men safely home. To that end, I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  Household of Colonel Mendoza, Cap-Haïtien, Haiti

  6:55 a.m., Saturday, March 14, 1970

  Henson tapped at the ornately carved mahogany front door of Roberto’s home. The maid, a dour-faced and portly Haitian woman, answered and then led him to the parlor. Roberto was there, attired in crisply starched fatigues, buckling his Sam Browne belt.

  “I must apologize,” said Roberto, gesturing at a chair as he leaned over to lace his boots. “‘But we cannot sit for breakfast this morning. My cook is making me a sandwich to take with me; perhaps he could fix one for you as well. Fried egg and bacon? Matthew, you must sample some of this bacon while it’s still fresh. It’s absolutely delicious.”

  “Mesi. That sounds very good,” replied Henson, sitting down on a leather-upholstered ottoman. “But what’s wrong, Roberto? Is there trouble somewhere?”

  Roberto shook his head. “There’s an awkward situation brewing in Dondon. I’m placing my soldiers on standby at the garrison, in case we have to respond quickly.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Matthew, I should not tell you this, but my executive officer has a nephew who attends voodoo rituals at the Peristyle de Beasujour, in the northern outskirts of Dondon, right alongside Highway Three. He said the peristyle’s houngan is holding two blans there. That’s apparently why we didn’t receive reports of the loups-garous from Dondon, because they’ve captured them, or blans they suspect of being loups-garous, and they don’t want the word to slip out.”

  Henson’s head spun with the dire implications. “That’s terrible for the blans,” he blurted, shaking his head. “What could possibly be worse?”

  “What could be worse? Plenty,” asserted Roberto. “Their ordeal has only begun. Loups-garous are greatly feared, because they can wreak so much havoc. It raises the houngan’s stature immensely if he is able to subdue just one, and now this houngan has two of them in custody. If he is able to permanently eliminate them as a threat to the community, then his power will be indisputable. He will be the most dominant houngan in Dondon, without question.”

  “Eliminate their threat? He plans to kill them?”

  “He could, but I seriously doubt that he would. So long as they are held in human form, the loups-garous are a valuable commodity. My exec’s nephew overheard that the houngan intends to present them as a gift to a very powerful mambo who lives in Mirebalais.”

  “Why would he do that?” asked Henson.

  “Mostly so he could gain political favor and wider influence,” explained Roberto. “You see, if voodoo were an earthquake, Mirebalais would be the epicenter. The Saut-d’Eau waterfalls are near there; they are a sacred site for voodoo practitioners and Catholics alike.”

  Roberto continued. “This particular mambo rules the roost in Mirebalais, and she’s also a personal spiritual advisor to Papa Doc Duvalier. She’s a notorious loup-garou herself; when Papa Doc summons her, she transforms herself into a bird and flies to Port-au-Prince.”

  As Roberto turned to comb his hair in a mirror, Henson stole a glance at his Timex watch. “When do you think this will happen? And how will it happen?”

  “When? Within the next few days, but possibly as early as tonight,” avowed Roberto, looking over his shoulder. “When he’s ready, the houngan will hold a special ceremony to summon the loas—the spirits—to assist him in bringing the loups-garous under his ultimate control. Afterwards, the townspeople will be invited to witness the loups-garous being placed in a hut, which will be guarded by members of the peristyle.”

  Roberto pivoted towards Henson. “In the early morning hours, when everyone is sound asleep, there’ll be some sleight of hand, and the two loups-garous will be spirited away to Mirebalais. In the morning, a chicken and a goat will be found in their place.”

  “The townspeople will rejoice, since they have been delivered from the tyranny of the loups-garous. The houngan’s stature will be greatly enhanced, because he has forced the loups-garous to permanently assume the form of harmless animals. So long as they are manifested as a chicken and a goat, the townspeople can keep a watchful eye on them. Of course, if they’ve really been a nuisance, it’s just as likely the animals will be slaughtered and eaten.”

  “Can’t you do something about this?” demanded Henson.

  Roberto shrugged and replied, “I know better than to become mired in the affairs of houngans and mambos, particularly in this situation. If that mambo is denied her loups-garous, and Papa Doc hears of it, then it would only be a matter of time before the Tonton Macoutes tap on my door. And Matthew, while I believe that most voodoo is just harmless hocus pocus fakery, I genuinely fear the Tonton Macoutes. All Haitians fear the Tonton Macoutes.”

  “But …”

  Roberto held up his hand. “I share your concerns for these blans, whoever they are, but this is a terribly complicated situation. There have been no reports of missing blan tourists or workers, so these two have probably snuck across the border illegally and are up to no good. So whatever reckoning awaits them, however horrific, they’ve brought it upon themselves.”

  Henson struggled to contrive a way to seek the assistance of the Fad’H officer while revealing as little as possible. “Roberto, I have a confession,” he confided. “When I transmitted my daily report last night, my company instructed me to be on the lookout for two Americans. I think that they may be pilots. There’s a reward if I find them and assist them in getting out of Haiti. I’m sorry for not saying anything previously, but it’s a lot of money, and I thought …”

  “Hah!” blurted Roberto, slapping his thigh. “American pilots! I suspected as much. Let me share my theory, Matthew. I have contacts in the Cuban DGI intelligence service, and they tell me that U-2s and other American spy planes routinely fly over Cuba. Anyway, these two likely had an equipment failure, ejected, and came down in Haiti. That would explain the apparition that people saw; it was probably one or both of them descending under parachute.”

  “You may be right,” replied Henson. “Roberto, since we know where these men are, why don’t we take advantage of this situation? We could split the reward money.”

  “And how much would that be?” asked Roberto, polishing his sunglasses with a handkerchief.

  Mentally counting the money remaining in his bag, Henson swallowed and replied, “The reward is ten thousand dollars, in US currency. Roberto, I would be willing to give you the full amount if you would see fit to help these men. All you need do is send your men to fetch them.”

  Roberto laughed. “Funny. Matthew, I don’t send soldiers to fetch. That’s a dog’s task.”

  “I’m sorry. I chose my words poorly. I surely didn’t mean to insult you, friend.”

  “No matter. Did I not just tell you that the Tonton Macoutes would likely become involved if anyone interfered with this transaction? There’s no hiding from them. What would you expect me to do? Take that pittance, scramble across the border, and seek asylum in Santo Domingo?”

  Roberto continued. “Eventually, I would pay for my indiscretions, regardless of where I landed. Besides, Matth
ew, regardless of how much money the CIA … I mean, regardless of how much money you were to offer me, even if it was enough to buy refuge in Panama or Brazil, I could never leave this place. Despite all of its faults, this is my home. Haiti is where I belong.”

  “Then what do we do?” demanded Henson.

  “We? We can do nothing, friend. You can do as you wish, but I must do as I am told. If Headquarters instructs me to secure these men, then I will. Now, if I can make a recommendation to you—climb on your motorcycle, race back to Morne Bossa, switch on your short-wave, and report what has happened.”

  “I will do that,” vowed Henson.

  “Your State Department should become involved as swiftly as possible, make the necessary apologies, and do what they can to hasten their release. I cannot fathom why that has not happened already. And, Matthew, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  For once, Roberto fleetingly showed emotion—frustration bordering on anger—and said, “Matthew, this is a tremendously awkward situation for me. You need to make it abundantly clear to your handlers that I know how they operate. My soldiers and I are compelled by oath to repel foreign invaders. If anyone arrives on these shores to take these men by force, then we will fight them. Of course, my little garrison can offer scarce resistance against a battalion of US Marines, but I assure you that we will draw blood and plenty of it. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” said Henson solemnly.

  “I hope that you do. Matthew, I know that you are obligated to assist these two unfortunates because they are your countrymen, but I caution you: tread lightly.”

  Outside, a jeep’s horn beeped twice. The maid entered the parlor and handed Roberto two lunch pails; he gave one to Henson and said, “Here is the breakfast I promised. Now go, friend. Do what you think is right, not just today but always. Bon chans. Adeiu.”