by Mike Jenne
As the two men stood up to leave, Jean grabbed Henson’s shoulders and spoke excitedly. Henson called after Baker, “Do you have a mirror? He wants Henri to see his new face.”
“Mirror? Mirror?” Initially, Baker frowned, and then he grinned as he patted his chest pocket. He fished out an emergency signaling mirror, knelt down beside the straw mat, and held the mirror so that his patient could appraise the results of the surgery.
Barely conscious, Henri gazed briefly at his reflection and smiled weakly. “Mesi anpil, zanj,” he muttered. “Thank you very much, angel.” With a serene expression on his face, he promptly fell asleep.
“I think our work here is done,” commented Baker, tucking the mirror back into his pocket. “Time to truck on down the hill. I should be a doctor, dude. I would never miss a tee time.”
By the time they made their way through the sugarcane back to the spacecraft, Glades had returned from his solo jaunt into the outskirts of Dondon. “Care to explain what you two boys have been up to?” he asked curtly. “Lewis is on his way. He’ll be here shortly.”
“We know,” blurted Henson. Knowing that Glades had them dead to rights, he explained about the Dubuission brothers and their treatment of Henri’s “leprosy.” Expecting Glades to be furiously irate, he was surprised when the hard-bitten Ranger just smiled and chuckled.
“What’s so funny, Nestor?” asked Baker. “We thought you were going to rip our heads off.”
“Well,” answered Glades in his West Virginia drawl. “I just never figured you two for the benevolent kind. I’ve got no bones to pick with you. It was the right thing to do.”
“Thanks,” said Henson. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
“You know, my mother used to tell me that kindness has a memory,” said Glades. “And an act of kindness passes from person to person, generation to generation.” He scratched his head and added, “Who knows what you two may have set in motion?”
“So did you make it to the peristyle?” asked Henson anxiously. “What did you see?”
“I did.” As he described it, Glades’s reconnaissance corroborated Henson’s report; he pinpointed the voodoo peristyle where the crew was being held and briefly watched Carson through a window. “And it definitely looked like they were gearing up for some sort of big shindig,” he concluded. “That matches what your Haitian colonel had to say.”
Over the course of the next few minutes, on a patch of bare ground, using ration boxes, string, and other scrounged materials, Glades constructed an intricate model that replicated the peristyle and surrounding area. He carefully shaped dirt with his hands to accurately depict the lay of the terrain, and used twigs to represent vegetation.
Drenched with sweat, Lewis and Finn arrived shortly afterwards. Glades acquainted Lewis with the layout of the peristyle compound. Cross-referencing the map and aerial photographs to his model and sketches he made during his surveillance, he pointed out the salient terrain in the vicinity of the building, including approach routes and crucial observation points.
Asking few questions, Lewis analyzed the materials and then spent approximately fifteen minutes gathering his thoughts. Finally, he said, “Based on what Sergeant Glades has reported, here’s my tentative plan. Glades, I want you and Finn to move down the hill to establish a surveillance position on the voodoo temple.”
Lewis continued, “According to Homestead’s plan, the main body and jeeps will come in after midnight.” He pointed at a spot on the map. “Baker and I will link up with them here, on Highway Three between Menard and Dondon. We’ll give them the last minute details from the surveillance team, and then I’ll lead the main element on a raid to rescue the crew. We’ll exploit the element of surprise, shock, and overwhelming firepower to neutralize any resistance. I guess we’ll give these Haitians an opportunity to see just how effectively their voodoo magic stands up to copper-jacketed lead. Current time hack is 11:45. I’ll write up the rest of the plan and transmit it to Homestead. Any questions?”
“What if Henson is right, sir?” asked Finn. “What if these two pilots are moved to Mirebalais tonight, before the main body arrives for the raid?”
“I don’t think that’s likely to happen,” stated Lewis. “Homestead certainly has the most current intelligence. Besides, I don’t see any other way to do this.”
“Uh, Major, Henson has concocted another plan,” said Baker. “It’s kind of radical, but you might consider it as an alternative.”
“No,” said Lewis flatly. “We’re going to do this my way.”
Glades sat on the ground nearby, using a P-38 can opener to open a small tin of peanut butter. He leaned towards Lewis and spoke quietly. “You said you were going to rely on the element of surprise, shock, and overwhelming firepower to pull this off. Considering the circumstances, do you really think that’s a good concept?”
Livid, barely able to keep his voice low, Lewis snarled, “Don’t dare stoop to lecture me, Sergeant. This is an operational mission, not another canned training exercise, so I don’t need your technical advice. Besides, since you always seem to hold up Ranger School patrols as the gold standard, I intend to execute this operation exactly how we were trained in Ranger School.”
“Not quite,” replied Glades calmly. “I know exactly what they teach at Ranger School. No one there ever taught you to fire on innocent civilians.”
“But they’re not innocent civilians,” countered Lewis. “They’ve abducted two American pilots and they’re holding them hostage.”
“So says you, Major. But let me remind you that those two men aren’t even supposed to be here, and unless something has significantly changed in the past few hours, the US government isn’t acknowledging their existence. Moreover, that applies to us as well, so no one has any legal standing in this matter, except the Haitians who live here.”
Glades continued. “So before you indiscriminately open fire on women and children, you might want to reflect on a place called My Lai. The Americal Division mowed down a mess of unarmed civilians there, and those officers are going to stand trial. And My Lai happened in a war zone where the rules are a lot less vague. Trust me, Major, you don’t want to kill innocent civilians. Ever. It’s really frowned upon, so I strongly recommend that you revise your plan before this operation escalates into a very ugly international incident.”
“Fine, Sergeant Glades,” snapped Lewis. “If you have another way to do this, then why don’t you enlighten me?”
“Me? Honestly, I don’t have anything useful to contribute at this point,” replied Glades. “But your man Henson has a plan. You might want to listen to it.”
“I’ve heard it, Major,” interjected Finn. “I think it will work. And if it does, we’ll walk out of here without firing a shot; plus Henson has a scheme to sneak the vehicle out as well.”
“Okay,” mumbled Lewis. “Henson, let’s hear it.”
As he listened to Henson outline his plan, Glades contemplated Lewis and the nature of officers like him. Men will enthusiastically follow a good and selfless leader, even to their certain deaths, but they despised and feared the ambitious, ego-driven careerists who seemed to be the bane of the modern military.
Lewis was a classic case; his every action appeared to be driven by career advancement. He seemed much less concerned about rescuing the pilots than he was obsessed about what kind of medal he would be awarded for leading the mission. Back at Homestead, he’d actually fretted whether the foray into Haiti would qualify as a combat mission, one that could warrant awards for valor, or whether it would be classified as merely a peacetime action.
The prospect that Henson might have a better plan—a workable plan—was likely too much for Lewis to fathom. He just couldn’t seem to grasp that a good idea might exist outside the realm of his own thoughts; he was too egotistical to listen to his subordinates. If that wasn’t dangerous enough, he seemed locked into the notion of “one size fits all” tactics, even in situations like this, where there was no good
solution to be had.
Glades thought of the conflict raging in Vietnam, and the thousands of good men killed because they were unfortunate enough to be placed under the command of unimaginative careerists like Lewis. In a similar vein, he thought of the scores of officers and NCOs killed by soldiers who were just too frustrated, angry and afraid to even concern themselves with the potential consequences of their homicidal actions. He wondered how many officers went to sleep believing that they were the latest incarnation of Patton, only to be jolted awake by the rustling of tent canvas. For many of the fragged, probably their last conscious thought was a question: What could I have possibly done to compel one of my own soldiers to kill me?
Chewing on a dry twig, Glades was absolutely sure that Lewis would summarily reject Henson’s plan in favor of his own, and that was a scenario that he truly dreaded. Regardless of whether they were successful in wresting the two pilots from their captors, they still had to make it to the coast, and a confrontation with the Haitian military was virtually inevitable once the rescue team made their presence known. Glades had been around long enough to know that it was plenty easy to have your ass soundly kicked by a fourth-rate army like the Fad’H, particularly if you were outmanned and outgunned.
Additionally, there was absolutely no way that he could allow Lewis to wantonly kill innocent civilians. In the world of Nestor Glades, there were certain rules that were inviolable. Of his sacrosanct tenets, two were foremost: Glades would never intentionally harm a civilian, and he would never harm anyone—prisoners included—he had taken under his protection.
Glades knew how this game would end if Lewis refused to alter his playbook. He didn’t want to subvert the officer’s authority, but in his pocket he carried a handwritten letter from General Fels. The letter was like a fail-safe mechanism to address the worst case scenario; once executed, it would explicitly relieve Lewis of command and place Glades in control of the mission. Tapping his chest pocket with dread, he was sure that he was only moments away from opening the envelope and presenting the letter to Lewis.
So what happened next shocked the otherwise unflappable Nestor Glades. Lewis snapped his fingers quietly and gestured for him. “I’ve listened to Henson’s plan,” said Lewis. “And although I don’t think it’s perfect, it sure seems to be the best way to skin this cat.”
“There are still a few loose ends,” said Henson. “This afternoon, I need to go into town to scare up a vehicle and gather up some odds and ends. I’ll also need at least one more guy with me for the take-down.” He turned to Glades and asked, “Would you mind?”
“I would be honored,” answered Glades. “But it’s still your show. Major, are you sure you’re comfortable with all this?”
“I am,” replied Lewis. “We’ll finish up the plan, brief the men, and execute. With any luck, we’ll eat breakfast at Homestead tomorrow morning.”
17
HOUNGAN
Aerospace Support Project
3:35 p.m., Saturday, March 14, 1970
Distraught, Tew anxiously paced the floor while Wolcott intently studied the latest report from the rescue staging site at Homestead Air Force Base. According to Fels, the situation was dire, but his men on the ground in Haiti had formulated a solid plan, and he urged that everyone show patience and restraint until they had an opportunity to execute.
Tew dug in his desk drawer for some antacid pills. Finding the bottle empty, he cursed under his breath and slammed the drawer closed. “I cannot believe that with all our sophisticated technology, we have two men stranded in this backwards country, held captive by a sorcerer convinced that they’re some kind of werewolves, and that he’s intent on trading them off to curry political favor,” he bemoaned. “And here we are, the most powerful nation on the face of the planet, yet we only have three troops on the ground to resolve this situation.”
Looking up, Wolcott slipped off his reading glasses. “You forgot Henson and that Army guy, Glades. That totes up to five, Mark. Besides, the other fifteen will go in tonight.”
“You’re right. What a difference that will make,” snorted Tew sarcastically. “Who needs an airborne division or a carrier battle group? Five men? We have a veritable army at our disposal. Look out, world! What a fiasco. I suppose the only issue that remains is whether we leave the rescue to Fels and his men, or whether we call Hugh Kittredge.”
Reflecting on that contingency, Wolcott groaned quietly. General Kittredge had agreed to let them handle the situation, so long as there was a reasonable expectation of a favorable outcome. But if it became apparent that they were in over their heads, they were expected to phone Kittredge without delay.
In turn, Kittredge would call the president, and the State Department would swiftly throw its weight behind securing the release of their two men in Haiti. But it was an action that would not be without consequence. No matter how much money was spent or how quietly this distasteful matter was handled, Wolcott could not envision an outcome in which the world would not learn about their secret operations in orbit.
“Well?” asked Tew.
Wolcott slowly cracked his knuckles, which emitted a disconcerting sound like pea gravel being crunched underneath the weight of heavy hobnailed boots. “Say the word, Mark, and I’ll make the call,” he declared, lightly placing his hand on the phone receiver. “But we both know that when I make the call, Blue Gemini is over. All over.”
“So what would you have me do?” demanded Tew. “Moreover, Virgil, what would you do?”
“Me? What would I do? We’re right against the goal line and it looks mighty ugly, but Isaac Fels is confident that his boys can make the winning play. I say we trust them to do their jobs.”
Tew slumped into his chair and nodded his head. “You’re right, Virg. We should trust them.”
Dubuission Homestead, Haiti
5:15 p.m., Saturday, March 14, 1970
After the plan was finalized, Henson rode into Grande-Rivière-du-Nord to do some last minute shopping. Three hours and roughly two hundred dollars later, he had procured two second-hand dark suits and various oddments, along with the short-term rental of a Volkswagen van.
At Lewis’s request, Glades had sculpted another terrain model to complement the first, except the new mock-up depicted an expanded slice of the geography in the area. Glades was happy to oblige. He was especially glad that Lewis had seen fit to listen to Henson, and that the two had managed to blend together the best parts of both of their plans.
Looking over his notes, Lewis stood up, quietly cleared his throat and said, “Okay, gents. We’re going to spiel through yet another round of one-two, buckle your shoe. He leaned over the first terrain model and pointed at the peristyle. “This is the target. There’s only one entrance, on the north side of the building, and one window, on the east side. Sergeant Glades stated that the pilots are situated in the southeast interior corner of the building.”
Shifting to the second terrain model, Lewis gestured at the patrol base location. “We’re here. Once we finish this chalk talk, Henson, Glades and Baker will move to the hide site, where the VW bus is stashed. Finn and I will head down the hill to establish a surveillance site.”
Lewis glanced at Henson. “Once we’re settled in position and have a good feel for the comings and goings, we’ll call you with an update. After that, Henson, the game is all yours. You initiate when you’re ready, and you call the plays. You’re up.”
Henson stood and used a stick to point at the vehicle staging site. “We’ll linger here until everyone’s in position and ready for us. Once we’re set, we’ll roll north along the river, then turn southwest on Highway Three and straight on to the objective. Baker will be driving and will stick with the vehicle for the duration.”
Donning his Panama hat and mirrored sunglasses, Henson continued. “Once we arrive at the peristyle, Sergeant Glades and I will bust in like we own the place. If my plan works, we’ll grab the pilots and hustle straight out. We jump back in the van and then spl
it to the north.”
Lewis nodded his head and said, “Hopefully, everything will go smoothly and Henson will make the grab. If so, once his element departs to the north, Finn and I will quietly stooge on the site for at least another twenty minutes. At this point, our role is to strictly delay any pursuit. If anyone jumps in a vehicle and it looks like they’re going to pursue, we’ll discourage them by disabling their vehicles. Finn, unless I direct you otherwise, you’ll shoot tires only.”
“Tires only, sir. I got it,” groused Finn, caressing the burlap-wrapped stock of his M21 sniper rifle. “Tires only. Whoosh, whoosh … bump, bump … make car stop. No shoot driver. Shoot driver bad. I finally have an opportunity to shoot this puppy for real, and I’m restricted to popping holes in rubber.”
“Just think of it as prophylactic marksmanship,” said Lewis, smiling. “Again, if everything goes according to plan, Finn and I wait patiently for twenty minutes and then fade back up the hill. We’ll take your motorcycle to the pick-up site. Okay, Henson, you’re up again.”
Henson said, “Once we have the two pilots, we’ll drive straight to the pick-up point on the coast. We’ll conceal the VW in this bamboo grove,” he said, gesturing at a point about a mile short of the coastline. “I’ll come back for it after the pick-up. If the pilots are relatively stable, we’ll stay put and wait for you all to show up. If Baker makes the call that they need immediate medical attention, then we radio for an early pick-up boat. In any event, we anticipate you’ll be about two hours behind us.”
“Okay,” Lewis said. “Returning back to the peristyle. If you go in and encounter significant resistance …”
“Then we yank the guns out of our bags and crawfish out,” said Henson. “Once we’re outside, we’ll break hard to the left, towards the VW and the road, and get out of your way so you can cover us by pinning everyone down. From that point, if we can overcome the resistance with your help, we’ll grab the pilots, jump in the van and skedaddle north. If not, we’ll wait for the main body to arrive and play it by ear.”
