Page 155 of Cry Havoc
“Be that as it may, we will soon be in a position to evaluate the intelligence of the American war criminals undergoing interrogation and reeducation in Siberia.”
“It is a significant risk, Director. Those risks outweigh the rewards. Ifthe intelligence gleaned does not produce quantifiable results, I recommend we shut the program down.”
“Give it time, Comrade,” Lavrinenko said, studying his heir apparent. “Does this program make you nervous?”
“I am ill at ease. It is different from holding Gary Powers, a pilot who violated our airspace. These are illegal extraditions.”
“You worry too much.”
“If you take over the KGB, these worries will become mine alone.”
“We can discuss transferring the POW project to the KGB when I transition over. We do not need to decide tonight. What you do need to decide is your entrée.” Lavrinenko waved the waiter over. “Order another drink and relish the notion that the Americans in Siberia are having a much more unpleasant night than we are.”
As Penkovsky exited onto the street in the cool summer evening, he looked for burly, thick men in dark suits waiting to throw him into the trunk of a car, but they did not materialize. He thought about acquiring cyanide that would kill him before he was taken to the basement of the Lubyanka. He knew the GRU special services department had cyanide capsules embedded into the filters of cigarettes and others that could be implanted in false molars, though walking around with death hidden in a fake tooth seemed too risky. Penkovsky would make inquiries of special services.
The deputy director had not told the CIA everything. This game had to be played slowly, deliberately. Perhaps one day he would trade his most valuable secrets for freedom. Could he damage his country enough that she would fall? If so, would he stay and rebuild? No, his mission would be accomplished, and it would be time for a new life. Where would he go? Perhaps New York. It was home to the Metropolitan Opera after all. Then he would be trading one cold winter for another. What about theSan Francisco Opera? It was on par with New York. How cold were San Francisco winters?
The deputy director walked down to the street and ducked into his waiting car, its door held open by his driver.
Penkovsky would return to his home and prepare a sheet of harp music for the CIA. He would keep some secrets close to his chest to facilitate his escape when the time came. For now, it was important to prove his value both to Lavrinenko to secure his position as the next director of the GRU, and to the Americans so they would go to any lengths to extract him for a windfall of intelligence information that could turn the tide of the Cold War.
Should he pass along that there were American servicemen being held in captivity in Siberia? Did that information have the potential to start World War Three?
Penkovsky thought about the potential fallout all the way to his flat, trying his best not to hold his breath as his GRU-supplied vehicle sped past the Lubyanka.
CHAPTER 55
FOB 1, Phu Bai
South Vietnam
July
TOM’S RIBS HAD MENDEDbetter than expected. For a time, he thought they would never heal, every breath reminding him of failure—his failure to save Quinn and his failure to rescue Hiep and the other American POWs.
Following the raid, Lieutenant Colonel Backhaus had ordered Tom to the 95th Evacuation Hospital in Da Nang for next-level care. He was prescribed a strict regimen of penicillin to prevent cellulitis, septicemia, and sepsis infections and was rehydrated by intravenous fluids to counter possible giardia, cholera, and dysentery. Multiple times a day, he forced down the hospital’s packaged salt and mineral tablets that made water almost undrinkable.
The Army doctor was also concerned about Tom contracting pneumonia. He explained that broken ribs increased the risk due to associated shallow breathing and the natural response to pain that inhibited normal coughing. This could cause the secretions of fluids and pus to pool in the lungs, leading to infection. Along with malaria, hepatitis, gastrointestinal illnesses, and a variety of sexually transmitted diseases, pneumonia was one of the most common ailments they encountered in Vietnam.
After four days in the hospital, Tom was discharged on light duty status, promising to return every week until the medical staff assessed he was well enough for full duty. Backhaus had arranged for Tom to assist in the operations department of Command and Control North, located on the coast in Da Nang next to Marble Mountain three miles south of China Beach. This allowed the SEAL to stay abreast of MACV-SOG operations while he continued to recover. Tom suspected that Colonel Backhaus also wanted to keep him engaged with responsibilities that would occupy him so as not to dwell on the loss of Quinn and most of RT Havoc.
As soon as his ribs would allow, Tom was back on a longboard off China Beach, catching waves and looking out over the sea. Hueys frequently roared overhead in low-level passes with pilots and crew hoping to catch a glimpse of scantily clad Air Force and Army nurses soaking up rays on the sand.
Tom was not built for the ops shack, and he managed to convince Backhaus that he would be much more valuable in the air as a Covey Rider in a Cessna O-2 Skymaster. Aside from wanting to get out of the Tactical Operations Center, Tom needed back in the fight. The man who killed Quinn was out there, and Tom was not going to find him in the Da Nang TOC. Soon the Frogman was airborne in the unique twin-engine aircraft that had entered service only a year earlier. The Oscar Deuce was a push-pull configured high-wing aircraft with one engine forward of the cockpit and another behind the fuselage allowing the plane a top speed of close to 200 mph, though their mission usually required them to fly much slower. Tom sat in the plane’s right seat and communicated with SOG Recon Teams on the ground in Laos, providing their eyes in the sky, marking targets with rockets, coordinating bombing runs for fast movers, relaying communications, and guiding teams to extract. Covey was a Recon Team’s lifeline. As a Covey Rider, Tom was still in the game, still learning and refining his skills, skills that would serve him well when he got back on a team. The Air Force pilots were all volunteers and extremelyexperienced FACs who were more than happy to let him take the co-pilot’s stick. There was a freedom to flying, something akin to being in the ocean on his board. If he survived, maybe he would take it up stateside.
Every now and again, he would join the pilots in their Covey barracks, a floor of which they had converted into a bar by knocking down the walls between rooms. A sign over the entrance read: “The Muff Divers’ Lounge—Where the Elite Meet to Eat.” Chivas Regal flowed freely, poured by a large and protective mama-san who took up her post next to a refrigerator adorned with graffiti. A makeshift library lined one wall, and a green vinyl couch stained with beer, food, and one could only guess what else was in the room’s center. By the door was a poster of Raquel Welch in a bikini from her filmOne Million Years B.C.,appropriately positioned so that pilots could give her a ritual good luck tap as they left on missions. The bar had become a retreat, a place where SOG pilots met to trade stories, pass along lessons, mourn their dead, and party with nurses. It smelled of stale beer and incense.
For the most part, Tom laid off the booze and cigarettes in anticipation of getting back to lead a team out of Phu Bai. Instead of making the Muff Divers’ Lounge a nightly ritual, Tom would grab a longboard borrowed from the lifeguards at China Beach, and make his way to the coast, paddling out through the surf in the dark. The crashing of the waves under the shadowy skies offered him a reprieve from the war. On the water, Tom spent time with ghosts. He thought of Quinn, Amiuh, Hiep, Hoahn, and Phe. And he thought of the living, Ella DuBois and Loelia Maxwell. Though he tried to fight it, those thoughts were always interrupted by visions of a Russian, the man who had gutted and beheaded his friend.
He felt even more at home on the ocean when it rained. Storms pushing up from the marshes to the south brought an electricity to the atmosphere. His body, mind, and soul absorbed the charged current, energizing his depleted reserves. Sometimes he stayed on the water until sunup.
By mid-July, Tom’s ribs were back to normal. He was off the penicillin.His body was lean and strong from daily surf sessions, and his mind was sharp from his numerous combat flights over Laos. His primary doctor at the 95th Evacuation Hospital signed him off as fit for full duty, and the next morning he was on a Huey bound for Phu Bai. Tom wanted a team. He was prepared to make his case to Backhaus. Tom wanted to reconstitute RT Havoc, and his sights were set on the One-Zero position. From working at CCN, Tom knew that 5th Special Forces Group was set to deploy a new group of SOG volunteers from the States. One of them would be his assistant team leader. He would get Mang and Tuan back and rely on them to select four additional ’Yards to complete the team. Tom was ready.
The Huey departed Da Nang and rose through the mist that hung between the sea and the Annamite Mountain Range. The pilot used Highway 1 as a guide and maneuvered through the Hai Van Pass, the coastal road slicing across the blanket of emerald jungle like a jagged scar.
La Rue Sans Joie.
Tom ran his fingers over the double crosses of the Croix de Lorraine rosary in his pocket, the rosary once carried by Amiuh and then Quinn. One day, Tom would give it to Amiuh’s son. The Frogman said a silent goodbye to the ocean and turned his attention to what lay ahead, the distinctive rhythm of the helicopter’s main rotors, powered by a turboshaft engine, hypnotic as they cut through the air. Tom felt like he was returning to a home occupied by the spirits of dead teammates. They haunted him. Perhaps they always would.
