“Right. Pains. Needed a stent.”
“Do you feel that was related in any way to your son’s death?”
Ridge stared into his coffee cup. “Don’t know. But probably not unconnected.”
“OK. Let’s return to your background. Your education?”
Ridge looked up and smiled. “I got lucky. Got an academic scholarship. New York University.”
Peters took a few more notes. “And after NYU?”
“Pilot. Air Force. Then a lawyer. Brings you right up to date.”
“That covers the basics,” she said. “But I’d like to get some additional details. Something more to work with. Let’s try this. First, let’s move over to the armchairs. That’ll be more comfortable than staring at each other across a desk. OK?”
“I knew it could come to this,” said Ridge, with a half-smile. “Sure. I’m willing to try.” Peters headed to the nearest armchair with her tea, a pen, and a pad. Ridge took his coffee to the other armchair.
“Mr. Ridge. Get comfortable, please. Remember what’s said here is strictly confidential. So, let me ask you, what do you think of war?”
CHAPTER 34
Ridge nearly choked on his coffee. “War? What do I think of it? Frankly, I try not to.”
“That’s fair. But what is your attitude toward it? As a concept.”
“If you’re asking me to define it, I can tell you that it’s struggle for control of people, of resources. Just like all conflicts—in all aspects of life. Isn’t it always about control? One way or the other?”
“One could argue that. Did you know you tend to answer questions with questions?”
Ridge smiled. “I do? I’m a lawyer. You gotta give me a break.”
This time Peters smiled. “OK. Any other personal thoughts about war?”
“Oh, I have all sorts of thoughts about war. For instance, all wars are framed by an ‘us versus them’ mentality. I know that seems obvious. But it’s more than that. It’s us versus ‘the other.’ And going to war taught me a universal truth: All wars are started by someone spouting about the greater good.”
Peters leaned forward. “Greater good?”
“Yeah. But what the greater good is for some is likely to be the greater bad for ‘the other’.”
Peters picked up her pen and wrote something. “How do you feel about that?”
“In war, I think the proverbial ‘others’ always end up being soldiers, allies, resistance fighters, and collateral damage. Including innocent civilians. In Southeast Asia that amounted to millions upon millions of people, dead or maimed, on all sides of the conflict.”
Peters slowly nodded. “You’ve obviously thought about this a lot. But let’s focus in on you. Tell me about a combat experience that’s played over and over again in your mind.”
Ridge raised his cup and took a drink. Then, he looked up at Peters. “Probably my third mission. CIA. Laos.”
“Tell me about it.”
“We were flying unmarked, camouflaged O-2 aircraft. Visual and photo reconnaissance missions.”
Peters looked up from her notepad. “O-2 aircraft?”
“A twin-engine low-flying spotter aircraft. Push-pull engines—one in front and one behind. Nice thing was if bullets or rockets took out the front engine, it could fly all day on the rear.”
“Did you fly alone?”
Ridge shook his head. “Generally, someone was in the right seat. Either to operate the camera pod or help with visual recon. But on this third mission, I was alone, and things got ugly. Fast.”
“How?” Peters leaned forward and concentrated her gaze on Ridge. “What got ugly?”
“Well, Laos itself was beautiful. Flying low in the valleys, we were surrounded by gorgeous, towering green mountains. Long, glittering waterfalls. Where I was that day, the Mekong River snaked through the jungle. I knew when the valley twisted back to the river, my destination, Muang Phong, was just a few miles ahead. Intel photos from the previous day showed a charming city centered on multiple bridges spanning the Mekong, something like Paris on the Seine.”
“Sounds lovely,” said Peters.
“And then it wasn’t. What I found was less than half a city. The buildings east of the river were leveled…blown up, burned out, blackened, and still smoldering. I also saw NVA—North Vietnamese Army troops with black uniforms and flat coned hats, kicking and prodding hundreds of people across the bridges to the west side.”
“What did you do?”
“Shoved in throttles and climbed to gain altitude, see more, and perhaps make radio contact with friendlies. At about fifteen hundred feet, I radioed call sign, latitude, longitude, and the ‘needs help’ code. No answer. Nothing. From CIA ops or Air America pilots. So, I circled higher and spotted a plane down. A T-28, used by CIA-contracted pilots out of Thailand.”
“T-28?”
“Really a single-engine trainer aircraft. But modified to carry machine guns and shoot the hell out of ground targets. This one, though, had the hell shot out of it. As I looked down trying to find the pilot, the trees seemed to separate. Won’t ever forget it. That’s what it looked like. A huge orange fireball blossomed. It was a 23mm radar-controlled gun. I yanked, banked to get the hell out of there, but the exploding 23mm shell took out part of my right wing. Down became my only direction.”
“And…?” asked Dr. Peters.
“My bird strafed treetops, cartwheeled, and hit the jungle floor. I survived, but my left ankle got mangled, like being shocked by live wires. I got outta the cockpit, grabbed my AR-15 rifle and dragged myself away.”
