The Abduction

by Mark Gimenez

  “That’s my mama,” Junior said from the kitchen.

  “Wow, she was beautiful.”

  “Yep. She died real sudden when I was just a kid. She’s buried out back.”

  “You buried your mother in the backyard?”

  “No … the major did.”

  She turned the corner and started down the long wall: more photographs, one of the man who looked like Junior with medals on his uniform and a green beret on his head, like the picture of Ben on her desk. His nametag said WALKER. And photos of soldiers in a jungle and in a city with pretty women who looked like Ms. Wang, the math teacher; they were smiling, but their eyes were sad.

  And Junior was real considerate for a boy. He actually knocked on her bedroom door before entering! That never happened at home. Mom just barged in whenever she felt like it.

  Next on the wall were big knives and a fancy sword and a leather cord strung with shriveled up … ears? That is so totally gross! She pulled her eyes off the ears and looked at the map of the United States that was next on the wall. Various places were marked in black, with dates and names: Kelly, Epstein, Goldburg, Garcia, Young, Ellis, McCoy.

  And Junior swore he didn’t touch her or look at her and said he’d kill anyone who tried to. Which seemed strange for a kidnapper. Like, if he didn’t take her for that and he didn’t take her for money, what did he take her for?

  Next to the U.S. map was an aerial photograph like the one Dad had shown her of their neighborhood—Catoctin Mountain Park, the label read—with everything marked: the entrance, a big lodge named Aspen, smaller cabins, stables, swimming pool, skeet range, bowling alley, gym and sauna, horseshoe pit, chapel, heliport, trails, security checkpoints. That would be a really cool place to go camping. Maybe they could take their postponed first annual Brice family camping trip there. Black lines were drawn from each security checkpoint to a smaller photograph tacked on the wall, photos of little buildings and soldiers with rifles and dogs on leashes. Wow, they’re way serious about making sure everyone paid their camping fee! Another black line was drawn from the entrance location to a photograph of the entrance with a big metal gate and the name of the place in white letters on a board hanging between two posts: CAMP DAVID.

  This was all like, really weird, but she couldn’t help thinking that maybe Junior wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Our mountain, he had said.

  She realized he was standing next to her. When he smiled, he was kind of cute, except he needed some major dental work. He put his arm around her shoulders and she didn’t move it. She pointed to the leather cord on the wall.

  “Are those—”

  “Ears. The major, he cut ’em off dead gooks. Give them to me for Christmas, back when I was about your age.”

  “And I was hoping for new soccer shoes.” She gestured at the maps on the wall. “What’s all this?”

  Junior pointed at a red flag with a half-moon sword and a hammer and the face of a man with a wispy little beard and said, “Commie flag from North Vietnam. That’s Ho Chi Minh hisself. And that’s an NVA helmet, and those black pajamas, that’s what the VC wore. That’s the major’s Bowie knife and his Colt .45s.”

  “What are all these photographs, the Camp David map?” She pointed. “I know that name, McCoy. What’s all this for?”

  “Oh … we’re gonna kill the president.”

  8:57 A.M.

  Three hundred miles to the south, John smacked the steering wheel hard enough to hurt.

  “How are we gonna save her, Ben? How are we gonna find her without the FBI’s help?”

  “They’re holed up in the mountains,” Ben said.

  “How do you know?”

  “That’s where a good soldier would be.”

  “A soldier?”

  Ben nodded. “John, I don’t know why the FBI wants those men—maybe they’re racists or Nazis or just nuts—but I know why those men want Gracie. I wasn’t sure until Tucker ID’d the tattoo.” He paused. “It’s about the war.”

  “The war?” John almost laughed. “Ben, you gotta let the war go.”

  “I’ve tried. It won’t let go of me.”

  John decided to humor Ben: “Okay, so what’s Gracie got to do with your war?”

  Ben stared blankly for a time. Then he said, “There was a massacre, in sixty-eight, in the Quang Tri province of South Vietnam. American soldiers murdered forty-two civilians.”

  “So?”

  “So I was there.”

  “You didn’t …”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “My father?”

  “No.”

  “But our unit did. Viper team. The big man at the park, he had a Viper tattoo—he was there. He killed those people.”

  “You knew that guy?”

  “Yeah, I knew him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the FBI?”

  “Because I knew that if he had Gracie, the FBI couldn’t stop him. No one can stop a Green Beret … except a Green Beret.”

  “But you didn’t tell the FBI, so they closed her case.”

  “That’s a good thing, John.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the men who took Gracie won’t be expecting me.”

  John thought that through, not sure whether it was a plan or the delusions of a drunk.

  “Okay, so that guy killed a bunch of people in Vietnam a long time ago—what’s that got to do with Gracie?”

  “I reported it … the massacre.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Army court-martialed those soldiers on my testimony.”

  “And?”

  “They’re taking their revenge.”

  John laughed now. “What? Forty years later, they’re coming back for revenge? That’s a long time to hold onto a grudge, Ben.”

  “How long have you held onto the bullies?”

  They drove in silence for several miles, then John said, “Did my father die there?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “How?”

  “John, some things are best left in the past.”

  “But it’s not in the past, is it? Not if it got my daughter kidnapped eight days ago.” He waited for Ben’s response, but none came. He looked over at Ben. “I’m entitled to know, Ben.”

  As night falls over Indochina on 17 Dec 68, SOG team Viper, twelve Green Berets fresh off a successful covert incursion into Laos, descends the limestone façade that is the Co Roc Mountain and crosses the Xe Kong River back into South Vietnam; they are five klicks south of the DMZ in the Quang Tri province. Intelligence reports indicate that Communist forces are now entering South Vietnam directly through the fourteen-mile-wide Demilitarized Zone. SOG team Viper’s orders are to interdict the enemy at the Seventeenth Parallel. It is Indian territory, a Vietnamese Communist stronghold, where no regular Army forces dare tread. Of course, there is nothing regular about SOG team Viper; so they venture forth into the night. But, as they say in Vietnam, the night belongs to Charlie.

  The major is walking point, leading his team silently through the jungle single file when his voice suddenly breaks the silence.

  “Am-bush!”

  The soldiers hit the deck a split second before all hell breaks loose, enemy fire incoming from every direction. They walked right into an ambush by a far superior force. They’re pinned down in a crossfire with no avenue of escape. If not for the major’s keen instincts and sense of smell—his nose picked up the pungent scent of a Cambodian cigarette favored by the VC—the VC would have twelve more Americans to add to their daily body count report to Hanoi.

  Flat on their backs, AK-47 rounds cracking overhead and ripping through the jungle foliage and leaves falling like confetti, the Green Berets take turns emptying their clips at the enemy, just to let the VC know they’re still alive and to give the major time to come up with a “go to hell” plan—a new plan when the original plan goes to hell, like now.

  Which he does.

  “On my lead,” the major says to his men, making a sha
rp hand signal toward the west. “Jacko, Ace—claymore our back trail.”

  Captain Jack O. Smith, who is never far from the major’s side, and Captain Tony “Ace” Gregory crawl off to the northeast and southeast. The major moves closer to his newest disciples, only seventeen days in-country, and says, “Brice, Dalton, when I move out, you boys act like hemorrhoids and stick to my ass.” And he smiles. Under fierce and likely fatal attack by the VC in a dark jungle in Southeast Asia, Major Charles Woodrow Walker smiles. His young disciples think, That’s why he’s a living legend.

  And they know what it was like to have followed into battle the great generals they studied at West Point—Lee or Grant or Patton or MacArthur or Eisenhower. The major is the first to hit the ground when inserted and the last to leave the ground when extracted; he walks point, the most dangerous position; he would die for his men, and they for him. He has survived over one hundred covert missions into Laos and Cambodia and North Vietnam; most SOG team leaders don’t last a dozen. He is a warrior-god.

  To Ben he says, “Let this be a lesson, Lieutenant. We should’ve taken out the old woman before she had a chance to rat us out to the local VC.”

  Back at the river they spotted a lone figure down on the bank and the figure them. “Take him out,” the major said to Lieutenant Brice, the team’s sniper. Ben put his scope on the figure and saw that it was just an old woman filling water jugs. He informed the major. “Then take her out,” the major said. “But, Major, she’s a noncombatant. She’s so old, she probably can’t even see we’re Americans.” The major looked at him, shook his head, and said, “Move out.” Thirty minutes ago, Ben Brice had felt good about saving the old woman’s life.

  The two captains return. “Charlie’s gonna eat some lead,” Captain Smith says with a grin. The captains emplaced claymore mines behind their escape route; when the VC give chase, the claymores will stop them in their tracks. A small rectangular plastic box, its business side embossed with FRONT TOWARD ENEMY so some doped-up draftee doesn’t take out his entire platoon, the M18A1 claymore antipersonnel mine is a particularly effective killing device; upon detonation by remote control or tripwire, the claymore sprays seven hundred steel balls in a sixty degree pattern, killing anyone within fifty meters. The balls can literally cut the typical hundred-pound Vietnamese Communist in two.

  The major loads new clips into his twin .45s. The veterans of the team pull two hand grenades each. As tracer rounds zip through the darkness overhead like a fireworks show, Brice and Dalton look at each other and nod nervously.

  “Let’s kill some gooks,” the major says. From his backside, he hurls two grenades. The others follow his lead. The noise of the grenades exploding is deafening; the surrounding jungle is suddenly shrouded in white smoke. Every other grenade was a Willie Pete, a white phosphorus grenade. They were warned in training against throwing phosphorus grenades where the burning smoke could envelope them, but apparently there is an exception when surrounded by the enemy.

  The Green Berets are suddenly up and running all-out to the west, directly at the VC, who can’t see them coming; Major Charles Woodrow Walker is leading the charge with a .45 in each hand and Brice and Dalton tight on his ass. As they hit the enemy line, they unload on the startled VC; the major fires both .45s simultaneously. Ben fires his backup weapon, the Uzi. They hear the claymores detonate behind them and the death cries of the Viet Cong.

  No one looks back. The Americans run through the dark night, barely able to see the man in front of them, following only the sound of hard breathing and boots pounding the turf. For fifteen minutes they run.

  “Halt!”

  The major’s voice penetrates the dark. His hands grab Ben and yank him out of the path of the incoming. The others arrive and take cover. No one laughs; no one talks. Ben silently thanks God for the major, then his heart skips a beat: Where’s Roger?

  The major’s thoughts aren’t far behind. “Where’s Dalton?” he whispers to Ben.

  “He was right behind me.”

  “Jacko,” the major says, “check it out.”

  Captain Smith nods and disappears into the night. Thirty minutes later, he returns.

  “They got him, Major. Heading north.”

  “Goddamnit!” The major stands. “Saddle up.”

  They head back to the ambush point, their minds playing out the consequence of violating one of the three absolute rules drilled into every SOG team member from day one: never let yourself be captured by the VC.

  They track the VC through the jungle and into a hamlet. Entering the hamlet, it is apparent the VC were here; the fear shows on the peasants’ faces. The Americans sweep the hamlet, searching every hut and hiding place for signs of Dalton or the VC. The peasants huddle together; mothers clutch their children. They are cooperative but tense, as one would expect when confronted by eleven big and heavily armed American soldiers in the middle of VC territory.

  “No VC! No Yank!”

  In the center of the hamlet, an old man stands next to a big pot cooking over an open fire; it is the community pot of nuoc mam, a pungent fish sauce the Vietnamese pour over rice. He stirs the sauce with a long wood utensil. He seems scared to death and is barely moving his utensil. The Americans find neither Dalton nor VC.

  Captain Smith’s voice rings out. He’s picked up the VC’s tracks leading out of the hamlet and into the adjacent jungle. The Green Berets give chase, aware they’re probably running directly into another ambush or booby traps or—

  “Holy shit!”

  —Dalton.

  Ben Brice brings up the rear and comes upon his teammates standing shoulder to shoulder, their backs to him. One thought captures his mind: it must be Roger. He prepares himself to face death again, then he pushes his way through to the front. And in that moment, his life is forever changed. His romantic West Point notions of war and warriors are forever dispelled. His childlike vision of good and evil is forever altered. His innocence is lost. And so it is, when one confronts the evil in man.

  Lieutenant Roger Dalton, U.S. Army Green Beret, hangs from a tree by his ankles, naked and disemboweled, his intestines hanging down into the small fire the VC built so the Americans could better see their handiwork. His genitals are missing. As is his head. The only sound is that of the fire sizzling with each drop of his bodily fluids. They know it’s Dalton by the fresh Viper tattoo on his left arm and the dog tags intertwined in the laces of the boots sitting below the body, a typical precaution in case you stepped on a land mine and had a leg blown off; the dog tags allowed the medics to rejoin man and leg, if not literally at least for the body bag. But it was not a precaution against decapitation by the VC. The major’s face is grim.

  “This is why we kill gooks.”

  After a long moment, Warrant Officer Nunn asks in his Southern drawl, “But where’s his head, Major?”

  The major’s expression changes as if he had a revelation.

  “Goddamnit!”

  He pivots and runs back toward the hamlet. His men exchange confused glances, then they chase after their leader. Ben Brice looks at what remains of his best friend and throws up.

  The major and nine angry, armed, adrenaline-charged Green Berets arrive back at the hamlet and run directly to the old man at the community pot of nuoc mam. He heard them coming; he is crying, for he knows his fate. The major shoves the old man aside and grabs the wooden utensil. He stirs in the pot then uses the utensil and his razor-sharp eleven-inch Bowie knife to fish an object out: Roger Dalton’s head, his eyes wide open, his mouth wider and stuffed with his genitals.

  The major’s face contorts in rage and he lets out a feral scream that echoes against the jungle walls surrounding the hamlet. Then he turns to the old man and yells, “No VC? No VC?” His hand flashes past the old man’s face, as if he were going to strike him but missed. The old man’s face registers surprise, then blood appears along a thin line across his throat. He falls. The major slit the old man’s throat with the Bowie knife.

 
; Lieutenant Ben Brice is using his Bowie knife to cut his best friend’s body down and blaming himself—if he had obeyed the major’s orders and taken the old woman out, Roger would still be alive—when he hears gunfire from the hamlet. It’s as if God whispered in his ear: he knows instantly what is happening.

  He leaves his friend and runs backs to the hamlet, fighting his way through the hot steamy jungle, until he comes upon a massacre he cannot stop and a china doll he cannot save.

  9:18 A.M.

  John’s tears stained the smooth Alpaca beige leather.

  He had pulled the Land Rover off the highway shortly after Ben had begun retelling the massacre at Quang Tri. Now his forehead rested on the steering wheel.

  “The major was the greatest man I’ve ever known,” Ben said. “Brilliant, natural born leader, completely without personal fear, an absolute belief that America was destined to defeat Communism in the world. He could have been one of the greatest soldiers in history.”

  A deep sigh.

  “Maybe when a man fights evil every day for so many years, he becomes evil. Maybe a man can’t be around that much hate without hating. I fought the hate. The major … the hate consumed him. He became the evil he was fighting.”

  “Where is he now, the major?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “We were ordered to war but not allowed to win the war. We were ordered to kill but court-martialed for killing. We were ordered to defeat Communism in Southeast Asia only to see Communism win at home.

  “Thirty years of Communist rule over America and what has our once great nation become? An immoral society that is unworthy of its military. Civilians who demand freedom for free. Politicians who promise peace and prosperity at no cost, an all-expense-paid life devoted to the pursuit of happiness. Politicians who refused to do their duty but now call on the military to fight foreign wars when their political ambitions are thereby served. That is America today.

  “Each of us—soldiers in the United States Army—took a solemn oath to defend this nation against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And defend it we did—the Cold War is over, the Evil Empire is no more, Communism is defeated. But now the threat to America comes from within. From domestic enemies. From those among us who want an America subordinate to the United Nations, subject to international laws and courts, who want to dismantle the American military—because we are the last defense of America. We cannot allow that to happen. I will not allow that to happen. Not while I can still pull the trigger.”