“And then?”
“Yeah. My adrenaline was pumping, and I managed to crawl about thirty yards. Began burying myself in jungle growth, happy that survival training in the Philippines taught me how to disappear. But then I realized, my bandolier with extra AR-15 magazines and my .38 Special pistol were still in the plane. The prospect of being an NVA prisoner-of-war in a bamboo cage somewhere didn’t set well. So, I got up and tested my ankle. Sprained, not broken, and I hobbled back to the plane. My hands were on the .38 when, well, all hell broke out.”
Peters leaned forward. “What happened?”
“NVA troops, crashing through the jungle, straight at me. Then, a helicopter appeared overhead. Whirl winds thrashed down, and the pilot hung out the left side firing a machine gun at the NVA. Another crew member, on a dangling rescue line, fired his gun to the right. Using my left hand, I opened up with my AR-15 into the charging NVA. Then I blasted at the others with the .38 in my right. When the guns stopped and the black smoke cleared, I counted nine NVA dead. The chopper lineman simply slipped a loop under my arms, and up we went.”
“Who was in the helicopter?”
“The crew was Hmong. Part of thirty thousand Laotian mountain people who, with CIA-backing, fought our secret war in Laos.”
Peters looked perplexed. “Hmong?”
“People who emigrated from south China. Late 1800s. Settled the northern mountain regions of Laos. They cherished their freedom and saw communism as a threat. The CIA recruited them to fight the Communist Pathet Lao and NVA. They became loyal allies, and fought bravely, fiercely. Always.” Ridge tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but those last words ended on a wobble.
The doctor carefully placed her tea on the small glass table to her right and turned back Ridge. “How did that Hmong pilot ever find you?”
“He’d picked up my earlier distress call. Hmong crews flew over Laos frequently for that purpose. Unfortunately, my rescue pilot and his crewman died just two months later during another rescue of a U.S. pilot.” Ridge tapped his fingers on the armchair. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. “Bottom line, I’ll never forget them. Or the Hmong people. But, as you may or may not know—given that you’re younger than me—for what some American bureaucrats thought was the greater good, in 1975 thousands of Hmong were left stranded at Long Tien, CIA Headquarters in Laos, waiting for promised American evacuation planes that never came. Instead, the Hmong were executed by Communists, drowned trying to cross the Mekong River, or died disease-ridden in refugee camps. That image hasn’t left me. Frankly never will.”
Dr. Peters picked up her tea cup again, took a sip, and looked at Ridge. “Do you feel guilty about that?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
Ducking the question, Peters looked down at her notes. “OK. I can see why the sleeping problems. Have you had any extended nightmares, detailed flashbacks? Where events seem to be happening again.”
Ridge started to feel uncomfortable. “Time to time. Over the last four years, especially lately. Yeah.”
“Any physical cues or symptoms, before or after a flashback?”
Ridge, startled, composed himself, took a sip of coffee. “Funny you ask. It’s been bothering me for years and it’s kind of weird. Often before a flashback, my feet—especially the bottoms—get warm. Hot, really. And after the flashback, I wake up abruptly, in a sweat. Sometimes my upper teeth ache. Other times, my ears seem to burn. Go figure.”
Peters scribbled a note, her lips pursed. “Could be elevated blood pressure. Supine position? I’d have to know more about your particular situation. By the way, what did you do after the war?”
“Left the CIA. For reasons I don’t want to get into now, other than saying: Anything extreme can turn evil.”
Peters wrote something down. “So don’t ever push to the edge—is that it?”
“No. Always push to the edge. Just be careful not to go over it.”
The doc stopped taking notes. “So what did you do after the CIA?”
“Returned to the Air Force. But it was different, stateside. I flew as a functional test pilot. Tested jets after major overhauls and in-flight emergencies that supposedly were fixed.”
Peters’ eyebrows drifted up. “Dangerous? No?”
“Dangerous, yes.” Ridge downed another gulp of coffee. “But not like combat. It could get exciting, though. Unanticipated spins, engines that burn out during afterburner climbs, canopies that separate at Mach One speeds. That sort of thing. When you could, you brought back the bird. They adjusted it. You flew it again. Until it was safe for other pilots.”
Peters crossed her legs, one foot gently swaying up and down. “Why not dangerous like combat?”
“Just me and the machines. Not head-to-head.”
“No enemy?”
“That’s it. And then one day, I decided to try law school. Become a litigator. At 28, I started at the College of William and Mary. Williamsburg Virginia. GI Bill.”
“Why the law? Did you have a goal as a litigator?”
“Absolutely. My goal is justice. Real justice. For everyone.”
Peters took down a note. “Why William and Mary?”
“That’s easy. First law school in America. 1779. For me, at the core of the American dream. It seemed right for three years of study, self-examination, and thinking about what makes our country what it is. And then I graduated. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“The rest,” Dr. Peters said, “will have to wait until next time. And, Mr. Ridge, I do hope there’s a next time. But for now, our time’s up, and I have another patient waiting. I’d like to schedule our next meeting for about two weeks from now. I do think I can help.”
Ridge started to back pedal. “Hmm…have to check my calendar first. Then I’ll call your receptionist. But really, thanks for your time today. I appreciated it.”
As Ridge sat in the car, hands on the steering wheel, staring out the windshield at nothing, he mentally catalogued everything she’d asked, everything he’d answered since he’d stepped into Dr. Peter’s office. Bottom line, she seemed like a nice person. Competent. Good listener. But….he couldn’t bring himself to commit. I don’t know. I just don’t know.
He started the car and headed up the ramp of the underground garage. Once he hit daylight, he decided. I don’t have time to do this now. Too much on my plate. Attacks, break-ins. People getting hurt. Shit. And the James ejection-seat case shot out from under us. I need to get that all fixed first. Then, maybe, maybe think about the rest.
CHAPTER 35
At 6 p.m. on Friday, Joshua Censkey woke up in a dog cage. Drugged. Disoriented. He started to call for help. Then, reconsidered. Musty, moldy odors choked his nostrils. The room, hard to see in the dark, looked like the inside of a tomb. When his eyes adjusted, terror swamped his mind. He saw other dog cages. A cot. A well-used armchair. And fiberglass weather-proofing panels—on all walls and even the damn ceiling. He tried not to make a sound, but he must have moved, must have been heard—or seen? Cameras? The door to the room swung open. An overhead light switched on. A huge guy, with pale, pale blue eyes, strode in. Two younger bald-headed men behind him.
The big one pointed at him. “Keep your goddamn mouth shut.” To the other men, “Put him on the cot.”
