by Mike Jenne
“Adieu.”
Dubuission Homestead, Haiti
9:15 a.m., Saturday, March 14, 1970
After sending a dispatch by shortwave, Henson climbed on his Motoguzzi, sprinted south on Highway Three, negotiated the tricky road from Grande-Rivière-du-Nord, parked the bike, and then ran up the trail. Arriving at the crash site, he quickly discovered that the news had beaten him there. Glades and Baker sat in the shade of a tree overlooking the Gemini-I wreckage, mulling over the details of the freshly received message as they examined the map.
Baker tore the cellophane wrapper off a bar of compressed oatmeal from a compact “LRRP” ration. He munched on the cereal bar as he used a shaving brush to apply “LSA” lubricant to his silenced MAC-10 submachine gun. Glades continued to study the message, as if there might be some details or nuance he had overlooked on the first reading. The motionless morning was oppressively hot and humid, like a steaming damp blanket draped over the earth.
“Man, this commuting is killing me,” groused Henson, flopping quietly on the ground next to the three men. “One more fast lap and I’ll need a new set of kidneys.”
“Nice to see you, Matt,” said Baker, twisting the cap closed on the green LSA tube. “We just received your latest dope. It came in on the wire from Homestead about five minutes ago. It sure doesn’t sound like welcome news. Let me give you a quick update. We heard from Lewis about thirty minutes ago. They said they followed a distinct track and blood trail down the hill to Highway Three, but after they crossed the road, the track petered out.”
Baker continued. “Lewis was working his way north towards the river to see if they can pick up the track again. Right now, they’re out of radio range. They’re supposed to make radio contact again in an hour, but once we tell them the news, it’s still going to take them at least an hour to make it back here, and that’s if they break brush and haul ass. This ain’t easy terrain.”
Henson looked at his watch. “So we cool our heels for the next two hours?”
“At least,” noted Baker. “But the good news is that Homestead told us our reinforcements are coming in. The airport at Cap-Haïtien is closed from dusk to dawn. Around two o’clock tomorrow morning, two C-130s will land there with rest of the guys and four jeeps. Homestead said that the current plan is for them to come straight here, link up with us, grab the crew, and then we all head north on Highway Three. There’s a US Navy ship about five miles offshore right now. After we have the crew, we’ll work our way to a pick-up site on the coast northeast of La Petite Anse. When we radio the ship, they’ll send boats to ferry everyone out.”
“That’s no good,” declared Henson. “The Fad’H commander—Colonel Roberto—said that the crew may be moved out of Dondon as early as tonight. They’ll be way to the south of here, in a more secure location, so we might not have a chance to grab them after tonight.”
Glades shook his head. “The message from Homestead said nothing of the sort.”
“Then something obviously got lost in translation,” said Henson. “Look, I may have something to fold into the mix. On the way here, I thought about this situation, and I think I may have another way to grab the crew. Care to hear it?”
Baker answered, “We’re not gainfully employed right now, so testify, brother.”
Henson quietly cleared his throat. He took off his Panama hat, placed it on the ground, and then set his canvas shoulder bag beside it. “In order to explain this scheme, I have to lend you some background first. Prior to this crash, I hadn’t worked up in these mountains before, so I’ve never met any of these people. For some reason, when I first meet them, they just seem to be scared to death of me. It bothered me for a while, and then I realized what was going on.” Building from those details, Henson explained his plan.
When Henson finished, only Glades responded. Nodding in affirmation, the Ranger sergeant quietly said, “Gutsy plan, but I like it. It’s audacious, but I’m a big fan of audacity. But there’s one gaping hole. We haven’t physically confirmed this location in Dondon, nor have we verified that the crew is actually being held there.”
Glades compared the aerial photo to the precisely drawn details of the topographic map. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his rucksack, set a bearing on his lensatic compass, took a sip of water from his canteen, and stood up. “I’ll wander down the hill and take a look,” he said.
“I’ll go with you,” said Henson.
“No need,” asserted the Ranger, shaking his head as he adjusted his web gear and checked his weapon. “I move faster alone. I’ll be back in two hours. If I’m not, or you’re gone, then I’ll see you back at Eglin in a week or so.” He turned and faded quietly into the woods.
Baker quietly whistled and said, “I’ve been in some dicey situations and have hung around some bad dudes, but that rascal just scares the crap out of me. I’m not sure he’s human.”
“Well, he’s right at home here,” replied Henson. “It’s like a land custom-made for him.”
The men stood and walked over to the partially disassembled Gemini-I spacecraft. As they examined it, Henson checked his watch and noted, “Hey, we’ve got a little time on our hands …”
Studying the landing gear jutting out from the overturned spacecraft, Baker ran a finger across the metal bristles protruding from the bottom of the skid. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s plenty of time for both of us to dictate our last will and testament.”
“Actually, I was thinking of something else. You mind looking at something? I would really appreciate your medical opinion.”
Baker grinned and replied, “Medical opinion? Oh, this doesn’t bode well. Matt, please tell me you haven’t acquired some social disease down here. I’m not set up to treat the clap.”
“Nothing like that. Two brothers own this place. Jean and Henri Dubuission.” Henson pointed towards the north. “They live in a hut up there, past the sugarcane. I told them to stay put there until I said otherwise. Anyway, I would like you to take a look at one of them.”
“You really think that’s a good idea? You don’t think that they might figure out something is going on if I went up there?”
Henson laughed quietly and commented, “Well, considering that a spacecraft landed in their backyard and set their crops on fire, and then four guys dropped out of the sky on top of it the next night, I suspect that they already know something’s up.”
“Point taken. So what’s on your mind?”
“Something’s been bothering me,” replied Henson. “Henri supposedly has leprosy, and while he looks awfully hideous, I’m really not sure.”
“Leprosy? Oh man, nasty business, Matt,” Baker said, frowning. “But just by sheer coincidence, you happen to be talking to an authority of sorts. When I was going through Special Forces medic training with the Army, they sent us to Louisiana, to the National Leprosarium in Carville, for a few weeks of on-the-job training.”
“Special Forces? The Green Berets sent you? Why on earth would they do that?”
“Several reasons. First, it was billed as a civic action mission, sort of like a big Eagle Scout project. Second, Special Forces works in a lot of places where leprosy is still endemic, like Vietnam and Africa, so it was an opportunity for the guys to see it there before they saw it in the field. I think it was to toughen us up some, and maybe teach us a little compassion as well.”
“So since you know so much about it, what causes leprosy?”
Slowly walking around the spacecraft as he studied its details, Baker replied, “Leprosy? It’s bacterial. Fortunately, about ninety-five percent of the world’s population is naturally immune to the bacteria.”
“Can it be cured?” asked Henson. “Is there anything that can be done for Henri?”
Lightly running his hand along the pocked surface of the Gemini’s blunt heat shield, Baker answered, “Cure? No, but some new treatments look promising. Back at Carville, the docs had a lot of success with a sulfone drug called Promin. But before you lift anyone�
�s hopes, let me warn you—if your guy really has leprosy, there’s not much that can be accomplished in this environment. I seriously doubt that Promin or any of those other drugs are available down here.”
“Well, I would still appreciate it if you took a look.”
“Okay, but why the rush?”
“I figure that if we don’t do it now, we won’t have another chance. As it is, Lewis will blow a gasket if he finds out. I figure it’s better to beg forgiveness later than to ask for permission now.”
“Say no more,” declared Baker, swinging his M5 medical bag onto his broad shoulders. The large canvas bag was jammed with medical supplies and drugs. He picked up his submachine gun. “Lead on, my black brother. Take the radio with you, just in case.”
A few minutes later, Henson and Baker walked into the hut where the brothers waited. Upon seeing Henri, Baker burst out laughing. Jean cursed in anger as Henri sobbed. With tears streaming down his cheeks, the tormented outcast turned his face in shame.
“Great bedside manner, Dr. Schweitzer,” smirked Henson, removing his hat and wiping sweat from his brow. “Can you make him feel any worse about himself?”
“Hey, I’m not laughing at him. I’m laughing because I’m relieved,” declared Baker as he composed himself. “This isn’t leprosy, Henson. Not even close. Man, I can’t believe that this guy has been stuck on this damned hill for this. What a damned shame.”
“If it’s not leprosy, then what the hell is it?”
“Well, dumbass, if you had ever read your Bible, you might recall that lepers were covered with sores and boils. This is neither. It’s just a big damned lump.” Baker sat cross-legged on the dirt floor and examined the massive growth protruding above Henri’s right eye.
“Okay, it’s definitely a lump. Is it cancer? A brain tumor?”
“Henson, you’re just not cut out for the medical field, are you? You just don’t have a very good grasp of the obvious. If our friend had a brain tumor this big poking out of his skull for the past fifteen years, do you really think he would still be alive right now?”
“Good point.”
“This is a tumor of sorts, but it’s benign. It’s called a lipoma. Lipomas are common in the Caribbean, especially among men of African descent. It’s simply a large semi-solid fat deposit under the skin.” Baker placed his fingers on the mass and moved it around under the skin. “But I must admit, as lipomas go, this one’s a real humdinger. Biggest I’ve seen, by far.”
“So can anything be done with it?” asked Henson. “Can a surgeon remove it?”
“Surgeon? I suppose, but since there’s not one on this hill, I guess I’ll just have to do it. Actually, it’s a fairly minor procedure. I could do it with a can opener, but since I left my church key back at the house, I’ll just have to use my field surgical kit.”
“How long?”
Zipping open his M5 bag, Baker laughed. “About forty-five minutes for the forehead, if there are no complications. A little over an hour if we do a twofer. I’ll do the back one first. If it’s not a lipoma, I don’t want to mess with his face and cause any additional harm. We’ll be back down the hill long before Lewis returns. Just one thing, though. Just to make sure, would you mind asking Henri if he wants them taken off?”
Henson crouched down and spoke quietly in Henri’s ear. Henri smiled broadly and nodded. Jean’s mood softened considerably, and he smiled as well.
Laying out surgical instruments, Baker said, “I take that as an affirmative reply. Look, I can do this with just a local anesthetic. I have lidocaine for that, but it would be nice if we could use a general to calm him down a little more. Can you ask his brother if they’re hiding a bottle of rum somewhere? Maybe for special occasions? I think this would certainly qualify.”
Henson spoke to Jean, and the Haitian left the hut. “How much does he need to drink?”
“Not much. Two or three fingers should do the trick.”
Jean returned with a bottle and a metal cup. Baker opened it and took a whiff. “Oh man, this is some noxious stuff. I’m sure it packs a potent wallop. Go ahead and administer him a snoot. Afterwards, scrub up good with that Phisohex. You’re going to assist. First surgery?”
Henson nodded as he poured rum in the cup.
“Then you owe me a case of beer when we get back.”
Handing the liquor to Henri, Henson asked, “What if Lewis gets back early and catches us up here doing this?”
Baker chuckled. “That’s highly unlikely. Besides, have you told Lewis about the leprosy?”
Henson nodded. “I did.”
“Then Lewis isn’t setting foot up here. Surely, the notion of catching lep would petrify him. Trust me, Matt, mum’s the word and no one will be the wiser. Except our buddy Henri here, since we’re granting him a shot at a normal existence for the rest of his days on earth.”
Henson escorted Jean outside as Baker prepared his instruments. Minutes later, with the slightly intoxicated Henri laying face down on the straw mat, Baker shaved the scalp around the lipoma before liberally swabbing the area with brown Betadine “monkey blood” disinfectant solution. He injected lidocaine to numb the site, then drew a slightly oval-shaped mark with a ballpoint pen. With practiced exactitude, following his oval reference mark, he deftly used a scalpel to make an incision over the mass. As Henson squeamishly held the surgical wound open with a retractor and forceps, Baker carefully dissected and excised a glistening, orange-yellow gelatinous mass about the size of a billiard ball.
After tying off minor bleeders and suturing the incision closed, Baker swathed the wound in gauze and then shifted his attention to Henri’s deformed face. “One down,” he commented. “We have five minutes before it’s time to make a radio check with Lewis and Finn. After we raise them and give them the latest news, we’ll roll Henri over and swing for the fences.”
Peristyle de Beasujour, Dondon, Haiti
10:38 a.m.
Although Carson was certain that the Haitian police or some other authorities would eventually come, nothing significant had transpired since they had been brought here yesterday morning. Striving to make effective use of his time, he memorized the details of the building. Hoping that rescue was imminent, he gradually shifted Ourecky and himself so that they were clearly visible from all potential access points that assaulters might use.
There was a window nearby; when his guard looked lax, he furtively stood up and looked out. He could easily hop through the glassless window, make it to the safety of some woods about a hundred yards away, and be gone from here before anyone was the wiser. Acutely aware that it would entail leaving Ourecky behind, he quickly discarded the escape option.
In his brief moments of lucidity, Ourecky was lethargic, but most often he was all but unresponsive. Carson was still concerned that Ourecky had incurred a serious head injury in the crash. Should he force Ourecky to remain awake? Should he let him sleep? In any event, it didn’t seem to matter; at this point, the engineer was more inclined towards unconsciousness, and there was little Carson could do to dissuade him from dozing off.
Since yesterday, the stream of curious visitors had died down to an intermittent trickle. Besides the two elderly women who attended to them, and the two guards, there was a fearsome-looking black man who orchestrated the proceedings. About six feet tall, with closely shorn gray hair and a wisp of a beard, the authoritative Haitian looked to be in his early sixties. Stripped to the waist and wearing red trousers sheared off just below the knees, he looked strong and supple, with taut muscles and sinews laced tightly over a powerful frame. About six other regulars drifted in and out of the building.
Supervised by the sinister overseer, they appeared to be decorating the large room for some sort of festivity. They chanted, swept the dirt floor, placed fresh candles in sconces, and adorned the rafters with garland and fetishes.
The insufferable heat had sapped Carson’s appetite as well as his strength. He no longer ate, but had managed to accumulate a small hoar
d of bananas and mangoes, just in case they later made a run for it. But although escape was still an option, the most likely scenario was that someone would eventually come for them.
Convincing himself that it was just a matter of time until rescuers arrived, he decided to board his imaginary submarine. As he stared at a maniacal grin of a skull painted on the adjacent wall, Carson progressively slammed shut and dogged the watertight doors, eventually isolating himself in the snug control room. And there he waited.
Dubuission Homestead, Haiti
10:54 a.m.
The second phase of the surgery proceeded smoothly. After making a large incision, Baker removed another mass, even larger than the first, from Henri’s forehead. “Let me close this,” he said, preparing sutures. “I’m going to take my time, to make sure that he heals up with minimal scarring. When I’m done, I’ll call for you to bring in his brother.”
Henson went outside and waited with Jean. With his arms wrapped around his knees, Jean squatted by the hut’s low entrance, nervously rocking back and forth on his heels. A few minutes later, they heard Baker’s voice from within the hut. “All done. Bring him in, Matt.”
Jean entered the hut and knelt beside the straw mat where his twin dozed. Baker lifted the gauze so he could admire his handiwork. Seeing his brother’s transformed face, Jean wept.
“Sounds like he’s happy with the results,” commented Baker, peeling off his latex gloves. He opened a leather-bound case filled with glass vials. He opened a vial and shook several pills into a small paper envelope.
“This is tetracycline,” explained Baker. “Henri needs one every six hours for the next week. And here’s a few aspirin tablets, since it’s a sure bet he’ll wake up with a killer headache. I’ll leave some soap, a tube of Betadine, gauze and tape. Tell him to keep both incisions clean and lubed up with monkey blood. Tell him to make sure that Henri sleeps on his side for the next couple of nights, and to watch over him, just in case he pukes in his sleep.”
