Tripwire

by Child, Lee

  It was very episodic fighting. The war was boiling all around him unabated, but Hobie spent a long time on the ground, because of the weather. For days at a time, the fogs and mists of Vietnam made it suicidal to fly a helicopter low-level into the jungle valleys. Then the weather would suddenly clear and the reports would clump together all under the same date: three, five, sometimes seven missions a day, against furious enemy opposition, inserting, recovering, supplying and resupplying the ground troops. Then the mists would roll back in, and the Hueys would wait inert once more in their laagers. Reacher pictured Hobie, lying in his hooch for days on end, frustrated or relieved, bored or tense, then bursting back into terrifying action for frantic exhausting hours of combat.

  The reports were separated into two halves by paperwork documenting the end of the first tour, the routine award of the medal, the long furlough back in New York, the start of the second tour. Then more combat reports. Same exact work, same exact pattern. There were fewer reports from the second tour. The very last sheet in the file recorded Lieutenant Victor Hobie’s 991st career combat mission. Not routine First Cavalry business. It was a special assignment. He took off from Pleiku, heading east for an improvised landing zone near the An Khe Pass. His orders were to fly in as one of two slicks and exfiltrate the personnel waiting on the landing zone. DeWitt was flying backup. Hobie got there first. He landed in the center of the tiny landing zone, under heavy machine-gun fire from the jungle. He was seen to take on board just three men. He took off again almost immediately. His Huey was taking hits to the airframe from the machine guns. His own gunners were returning fire blind through the jungle canopy. DeWitt was circling as Hobie was heading out. He saw Hobie’s Huey take a sustained burst of heavy machine-gun fire through the engines. His formal report as recorded by the dispatch clerk said he saw the Huey’s rotor stop and flames appear in the fuel tank area. The helicopter crashed through the jungle canopy four miles west of the landing zone, at a low angle and at a speed estimated by DeWitt to be in excess of eighty miles an hour. DeWitt reported a green flash visible through the foliage, which was normally indicative of a fueltank explosion on the forest floor. A search-and-rescue operation was mounted and aborted because of weather. No fragments of wreckage were observed. Because the area four miles west of the pass was considered inaccessible virgin jungle, it was procedure to assume there were no NVA troops on foot in the immediate vicinity. Therefore there had been no risk of immediate capture by the enemy. Therefore the eight men in the Huey were listed as missing in action.

  “But why?” Jodie asked. “DeWitt saw the thing blow up. Why list them as missing? They were obviously all killed, right?”

  Major Conrad shrugged.

  “I guess so,” he said. “But nobody knew it for sure. DeWitt saw a flash through the leaves, is all. Could theoretically have been an NVA ammo dump, hit by a lucky shot from the machine as it went down. Could have been anything. They only ever said killed in action when they knew for damn sure. When somebody literally eyeballed it happening. Fighter planes went down alone two hundred miles out in the ocean, the pilot was listed as missing, not killed, because perhaps he could have swum away somewhere. To list them as killed, someone had to see it happen. I could show you a file ten times thicker than this one, packed with orders defining and redefining exactly how to describe casualties.”

  “Why?” Jodie asked again. “Because they were afraid of the press?”

  Conrad shook his head. “No, I’m talking about internal stuff here. Anytime they were afraid of the press, they just told lies. This all was for two reasons. First, they didn’t want to get it wrong for the next of kin. Believe me, weird things happened. It was a totally alien environment. People survived things you wouldn’t expect them to survive. People turned up later. They found people. There was a massive search-and-recovery deal running, all the time. People got taken prisoner, and Charlie never issued prisoner lists, not until years later. And you couldn’t tell folks their boy was killed, only to have him turn up alive later on. So they were anxious to keep on saying missing, just as long as they could.”

  Then he paused for a long moment.

  “Second reason is yes, they were afraid. But not of the press. They were afraid of themselves. They were afraid of telling themselves they were getting beat, and beat bad.”

  Reacher was scanning the final mission report, picking out the copilot’s name. He was a second lieutenant named F. G. Kaplan. He had been Hobie’s regular partner throughout most of the second tour.

  “Can I see this guy’s jacket?” he asked.

  “K section?” Conrad said. “Be about four minutes.”

  They sat in silence with the cold coffee until the runner brought F. G. Kaplan’s life story to the office. It was a thick, old file, similar size and vintage as Hobie’s. There was the same printed grid on the front cover, recording access requests. The only note less than twenty years old showed a telephone inquiry had been made last April by Leon Garber. Reacher turned the file facedown and opened it up from the back. Started with the second-to-last sheet of paper. It was identical to the last sheet in Hobie’s jacket. The same mission report, with the same eyewitness account from DeWitt, written up by the same clerk in the same handwriting.

  But the final sheet in Kaplan’s file was dated exactly two years later than the final mission report. It was a formal determination made after due consideration of the circumstances by the Department of the Army that F. G. Kaplan had been killed in action four miles west of the An Khe Pass when the helicopter he was copiloting was brought down by enemy ground-to-air fire. No body had been recovered, but the death was to be considered as actual for purposes of memorializing and payment of pensions. Reacher squared the sheet of paper on the desk.

  “So why doesn’t Victor Hobie have one of these?”

  Conrad shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I want to go to Texas,” Reacher said.

  NOI BAI AIRPORT outside Hanoi and Hickam Field outside Honolulu share exactly the same latitude, so the U.S. Air Force Starlifter flew neither north nor south. It just followed a pure west-east flight path across the Pacific, holding comfortably between the Tropic of Cancer and the Twentieth Parallel. Six thousand miles, six hundred miles an hour, ten hours’ flight time, but it was on approach seven hours before it took off, at three o’clock in the afternoon of the day before. The Air Force captain made the usual announcement as they crossed the date line and the tall silver-haired American in the rear of the cockpit wound his watch back and added another bonus day to his life.

  Hickam Field is Hawaii’s main military air facility, but it shares runway space and air-traffic control with Honolulu International, so the Starlifter had to turn a wide, weary circle above the sea, waiting for a JAL 747 from Tokyo to get down. Then it turned in and flattened and came down behind it, tires shrieking, engines screaming with reverse thrust. The pilot was not concerned with the niceties of civilian flying, so she jammed the brakes on hard and stopped short enough to get off the runway on the first taxiway. There was a standing request from the airport to keep the military planes away from the tourists. Especially the Japanese tourists. This pilot was from Connecticut and had no real interest in Hawaii’s staple industry or Oriental sensitivities, but the first taxiway gave her a shorter run to the military compound, which is why she always aimed to take it.

  The Starlifter taxied slowly, as was appropriate, and stopped fifty yards from a long, low cement building near the wire. The pilot shut down her engines and sat in silence. Ground crew in full uniform marched slowly toward the belly of the plane, dragging a fat cable behind them. They latched it into a port under the nose and the plane’s systems kicked in again under the airfield’s own power. That way, the ceremony could be conducted in silence.

  The honor guard at Hickam that day was the usual eight men in the usual mosaic of four different full-dress uniforms, two from the United States Army, two from the United States Navy, two from the United States Marine
Corps, and two from the United States Air Force. The eight slow-marched forward and waited in silent formation. The pilot hit the switch and the rear ramp came whining down. It settled against the hot blacktop of American territory and the guard slow-marched up its exact center into the belly of the plane. They passed between the twin lines of silent aircrew and moved forward. The loadmaster removed the rubber straps and the guard lifted the first casket off the shelves and onto their shoulders. They slow-marched back with it through the darkened fuselage and down the ramp and out into the blazing afternoon, the shined aluminum winking and the flag glowing bright in the sun against the blue Pacific and the green highlands of Oahu. They right-wheeled on the apron and slow-marched the fifty yards to the long, low cement building. They went inside and bent their knees and laid the casket down. They stood in silence, hands folded behind them, heads bowed, and then they about-turned and slow-marched back toward the plane.

  It took an hour to unload all seven of the caskets. Only when the task was complete did the tall silver-haired American leave his seat. He used the pilot’s stairway, and paused at the top to stretch his weary limbs in the sun.

  12

  STONE HAD TO wait five minutes behind the black glass in the rear of the Tahoe, because the loading dock under the World Trade Center was busy. Tony loitered nearby, leaning on a pillar in the noisy dark, waiting until a delivery truck moved out in a blast of diesel and there was a moment before the next one could move in. He used that moment to hustle Stone across the garage to the freight elevator. He hit the button and they rode up in silence, heads down, breathing hard, smelling the strong smell of the tough rubber floor. They came out in the back of the eighty-eighth floor lobby and Tony scanned ahead. The way was clear to the door of Hobie’s suite.

  The thickset man was at the reception counter. They walked straight past him into the office. It was dark, as usual. The blinds were pulled tight and it was quiet. Hobie was at the desk, sitting still and silent, gazing at Marilyn, who was on the sofa with her legs tucked underneath her.

  “Well?” he asked. “Mission accomplished?”

  Stone nodded. “She got inside OK.”

  “Where?” Marilyn asked. “Which hospital?”

  “St. Vincent’s,” Tony said. “Straight into the ER.”

  Stone nodded to confirm it and he saw Marilyn smile a slight smile of relief.

  “OK,” Hobie said into the silence. “’That’s the good deed for the day. Now we do business. What are these complications I need to know about?”

  Tony shoved Stone around the coffee table to the sofa. He sat down heavily next to Marilyn and stared straight ahead, focusing on nothing.

  “Well?” Hobie said again.

  “The stock,” Marilyn said. “He doesn’t own it outright.”

  Hobie stared at her. “Yes he damn well does. I checked it at the Exchange.”

  She nodded. “Well, yes, he owns it. What I mean is, he doesn’t control it. He doesn’t have free access to it.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “There’s a trust. Access is regulated by the trustees.”

  “What trust? Why?”

  “His father set it up, before he died. He didn’t trust Chester to handle it all outright. He felt he needed supervision.”

  Hobie stared at her.

  “Any major stock disposals need to be co-signed,” she said. “By the trustees.”

  There was silence.

  “Both of them,” she said.

  Hobie switched his gaze to Chester Stone. It was like a searchlight beam flicking sideways. Marilyn watched his good eye. Watched him thinking. Watched him buying into the lie, like she knew he would, because it jibed with what he thought he already knew. Chester’s business was failing, because he was a bad businessman. A bad businessman would have been spotted early by a close relative like a father. And a responsible father would have protected the family heritage with a trust.

  “It’s unbreakable,” she said. “God knows we’ve tried often enough.”

  Hobie nodded. Just a slight movement of his head. Almost imperceptible. Marilyn smiled inside. Smiled with triumph. Her final comment had done it to him. A trust was a thing to be broken. It had to be fought. Therefore the attempts to fight it proved it existed.

  “Who are the trustees?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m one of them,” she said. “The other is the senior partner at his law firm.”

  “Just two trustees?”

  She nodded.

  “And you’re one of them?”

  She nodded again. “And you’ve already got my vote. I just want to get rid of the whole damn thing and get you off our backs.”

  Hobie nodded back to her. “You’re a smart woman.”

  “Which law firm?” Tony asked.

  “Forster and Abelstein,” she said. “Right here in town.”

  “Who’s the senior partner?” Tony asked.

  “A guy called David Forster,” Marilyn said.

  “How do we set up the meeting?” Hobie asked.

  “I call him,” Marilyn said. “Or Chester does, but I think right now it would be better if I did.”

  “So call him, set it up for this afternoon.”

  She shook her head. “Won’t be that quick. Could be a couple of days.”

  There was silence. Just the boom and shudder of the giant building breathing. Hobie tapped his hook on the desk. He closed his eyes. The damaged eyelid stayed open a fraction. The eyeball rolled up and showed white, like a crescent moon.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “At the very latest. Tell him it’s a matter of considerable urgency to you.”

  Then his eyes snapped open.

  “And tell him to fax the trust deeds to me,” he whispered. “Immediately. I need to know what the hell I’m dealing with.”

  Marilyn was shaking inside. She pushed down on the soft upholstery, trying to ground herself. “There won’t be a problem. It’s really just a formality.”

  “So let’s go make the call,” Hobie said.

  Marilyn was unsteady on her feet. She stood swaying, smoothing the dress down over her thighs. Chester touched her elbow, just for a second. A tiny gesture of support. She straightened and followed Hobie out to the reception counter.

  “Dial nine for a line,” he said.

  She moved behind the counter and the three men watched her. The phone was a small console. She scanned across the buttons and saw no speakerphone facility. She relaxed a fraction and picked up the handset. Pressed nine and heard a dial tone.

  “Behave yourself,” Hobie said. “You’re a smart woman, remember, and right now you need to stay smart.”

  She nodded. He raised the hook. It glittered in the artificial light. It looked heavy. It was beautifully made and lovingly polished, mechanically simple and terribly brutal. She saw him inviting her to imagine the things that could be done with it.

  “Forster and Abelstein,” a bright voice said in her ear. “How may we help you?”

  “Marilyn Stone,” she said. “For Mr. Forster.”

  Her throat was suddenly dry. It made her voice low and husky. There was a snatch of electronic music and then the boomy acoustic of a large office.

  “Forster,” a deep voice said.

  “David, it’s Marilyn Stone.”

  There was dead silence for a second. In that second, she knew Sheryl had done it right.

  “Are we being overheard?” Forster asked quietly.

  “No, I’m fine,” Marilyn said, brightness in her voice. Hobie rested the hook on the counter, the steel glittering chest high, eighteen inches in front of her eyes.

  “You need the police for this,” Forster said.

  “No, it’s just about a trustees’ meeting. What’s the soonest we can do?”

  “Your friend Sheryl told me what you want,” Forster said. “But there are problems. Our staff people can’t handle this sort of stuff. We’re not equipped for it. We’re not that sort of law firm. I’ll have
to find you a private detective.”

  “Tomorrow morning would be good for us,” she said back. “There’s an element of urgency, I’m afraid.”

  “Let me call the police for you,” Forster said.

  “No, David, next week is really too late. We need to move fast, if we can.”

  “But I don’t know where to look. We’ve never used private detectives.”

  “Hold on a moment, David.” She covered the mouthpiece with the heel of her hand and glanced up at Hobie. “If you want it tomorrow, it’s got to be at their offices.”

  Hobie shook his head. “It has to be here, on my turf.”

  She took her hand away. “David, what about the day after tomorrow? It really needs to be here, I’m afraid. It’s a delicate negotiation.”

  “You really don’t want the police? You absolutely sure about that?”

  “Well, there are complications. You know how things can be sometimes, sort of delicate?”

  “OK, but I’m going to have to find somebody suitable. It could take me some time. I’ll have to ask around for recommendations.”

  “That’s great, David,” she said.

  “OK,” Forster said again. “If you’re sure you’re sure, I’ll get on it right away. But I’m really not clear exactly what you’re hoping to achieve.”

  “Yes, I agree,” she said. “You know we’ve always hated the way Dad set it up. Outside interference can change things, can’t it?”

  “Two in the afternoon,” Forster said. “Day after tomorrow. I don’t know who it’ll be, but I’ll get you someone good. Will that be OK?”

  “Day after tomorrow, two in the afternoon,” she repeated. She recited the address. “That’s great. Thanks, David.”

  Her hand was shaking and the phone rattled in the cradle as she hung it up.

  “You didn’t ask for the trust deeds,” Hobie said.