“Bleeding’s stopped,” said Ed. “Let’s do this.”
So, Ridge cranked in more bank, raised the nose, and pulled a hard level turn until he again saw the orange flag. Then Ridge leveled wings and rocked them. Dramatically left and right, again and again, signaling to anyone on the ground they saw the flag and would help.
Pulling up about a thousand feet or so, Ridge turned to Ed. Got a thumbs up. Ridge jumped on the radio. Coordinated with the Hmong chopper. They rendezvoused over the orange marker. Then the chopper went in, dragging a Hmong crewman at the end of a line. Ridge banked left. Stuck his AR-15 automatic rifle out the window. Laid down ground fire, forming a wide perimeter around the orange flag. The chopper hovered at the center. The lineman slipped a loop under the arms of a man who now stood near the orange marker.
Once the chopper cleared the perimeter, Ridge stopped firing. He pulled off station and followed the chopper back to a forward operating base on the Laotian side of the border. After landing, a medic looked to Ed’s wounds and Ridge went over to the Hmong helicopter to meet the rescued man.
Dave Lake looked like a grinning skeleton. White, yellow, and blue taut skin. Hallowed cheeks. Sunken eyes. Ridge learned that Lake had been shot down and captured months earlier. Since then, NVA troops had kicked, beaten, poked, and prodded him through the jungle, eventually getting to the caves. Every few days, maybe, they threw him some left-over rice and fish heads.
Now, as Dave had his first real food in months, Ridge asked where in the world he had located an orange flag. He explained it was actually the orange-colored interior of a flight jacket he had taken from a dead Hmong crewman after they escaped the caves. He also confirmed that the two other POWs had been killed that night. To the best of his knowledge, the NVA had no other POWs in the cave system. They had only just begun setting up POW operations at certain levels of the caves. The other levels had NVA troop quarters, training grounds, dining areas, explosives storage, infirmaries and more.
Later that day, both Dave and Ed were air evacuated from the firebase to a CIA-hospital in Vientiane, Laos. Ridge had mechanics help him patch up the holes in the O-2, and flew it back, gingerly, to Ubon, Thailand. Two weeks later, during a mission briefing in their hotel basement, Ridge and Ed learned David Lake had been returned state-side. They also got a confirmed report that, the preceding night, unidentified gunships had blown holy hell out of the cave entrances near Hon Son Doong, Vietnam.
As Ridge’s eyes opened, he smiled at lingering thoughts of exploding cave entrances. And Dave Lake’s grin when Ridge first saw him, right after the rescue. What Ridge didn’t understand though were other nights. Similar flashbacks. Same exploding caves. That jolted him awake with muted screams. Blood. And countless body parts—drifting above the inferno.
Shaking his head in frustration, unable to get back to sleep, Ridge got up carefully without waking Jayne. He headed to the living room, grabbed a bottle of Don Julio 1942 Tequila. Anejo. Poured three fingers in a short tumbler, and plopped down on the sofa. It was dark. But moonglow stretched across the room. When he raised the glass to his lips Ridge caught his reflection in the large mirror on the opposite wall. He moved his head left and right. Then stopped and stared at the mirror. You’re pathetic, Ridge. Past time to get your shit together. You’re in the middle of a battle, and you can’t even figure out who the enemy is. Or what the battle’s even about. But two things are dead certain—your family, your friends are at risk, and you, you have to get a handle on this. Sleep. No sleep. Flashbacks. No flashbacks. Doesn’t fucking matter. You get a handle on this. Now.
As Ridge slowly finished off his tequila, he looked back at the mirror. Held his gaze. He thought of Sean. He thought of why he’d become an attorney in the first place. He thought of that widow and her kids. Then he put his glass on the end table. “Tough never quits,” he said aloud. “We’re coming at you, whoever you are. And we won’t stop.”
CHAPTER 40
Early on Saturday, Hess gathered the Watchmen near the Grand Parlor at the big house. It was a spacious room with priceless paintings by modern masters, beige stucco walls, four long white sofas arranged in a conversation pit, a cavernous black marble fireplace, and beige, almost white, carpeting throughout. It smelled new, unused. The Watchmen stood at the entrance as Hess approached. Then they snapped to attention.
“At ease, gentlemen,” he said. “But stand where you are. We don’t want to soil His Eminence’s Grand Parlor. I’ve asked you here because there’s a mission that needs doing. And one of you is coming with me. Based on merit. The rest will maintain security, here.”
Hess looked at each man in turn.
“Gentlemen, this is a kill assignment—ordered directly by His Eminence.” He paused, focused his pale blue eyes on One. “One, I have chosen you again to join me on this mission.” The other Watchmen turned immediately to congratulate One, all except Two, who turned his eye-patched face away, exhibiting disappointment and disgust. His petulance was noted by Hess, who ignored it. For the moment.
Hess said, “One, to the Planning Room. The rest of you to your jobs. Security is 24/7 business around here. Never forget that.”
Ten minutes later, Hess joined One at the table in the Planning Room. “We leave in one hour,” said Hess. “Our destination: The Phoenix area. We’ll go in my truck. That way, no traces of travel are left behind. No online reservations, tickets, charge slips. Get the idea? Wear your brown boots, jeans, a T-shirt, and your black sweatshirt with the hood. Don’t forget sunglasses. The desert can murder your eyes. Bring two canteens of cold water, and a sheet of clear plastic wrap about 12-inches by 12-inches. Now get going. See you at the truck in 52 minutes.”
One looked perplexed but didn’t ask questions. His eyes had widened when Hess mentioned the clear plastic wrap. Despite that, Hess decided to brief him afterwards, when One had a real need to know.
Fifty-one minutes later, One joined Hess at the truck. Hess had on boots, jeans, a T-shirt, and a black hooded sweatshirt. The silence of the five-hour trip on freeways and across deserts was broken only by Hess’ political talk shows, “By Far Right,” and “Beyond Conservative America,” and a further briefing by Hess. He told One that the target was William Sayor, a federal judge in Phoenix, and that Hess had already done all the homework. Hess knew the judge lived alone, the judge’s address and directions to his house. “Sayor is a fuckin’ traitor,” said Hess. “We contacted him through your work at the lawyer’s office last Monday night. At first, he agreed to join us. Even issued a critical decision in our client’s favor. Then, almost immediately, refused to do more. The piece-of-shit actually threatened to rat us out. Little wonder, last night, His Eminence gave the order. A death sentence.”
“Herr Hess, does the killing ever bother you?” asked One.
“Of course not. It’s for greater good. Remember that.”
One nodded. “How will we go about it?”
“Because I studied him, I know Sayor. He’s a city boy, born and bred. Take him out of his element, he’s half beaten. Like a fish sucking air.”
At 6 p.m., Hess and One pulled into a drive-thru lane at a burger joint off the freeway, three hours outside Phoenix. Hoods and sunglasses on, they loaded up on burgers, fries, and soda. Hess got the ‘Big Drink.’ It came in a large plastic-molded cup with ‘Big Burger’ stamped on the side. He saw immediately that One felt sorry he had ordered only a large cola. Just a Styrofoam cup, less soda, and a cheaper look.
Hess paid in cash, and not to miss an opportunity for instruction told One, “Next time, get the Big Drink.”
They ate in the truck. But not on the move. Bad for digestion. Instead, they pulled into a trucker’s rest stop, two-and-half hours outside Phoenix. Parked. Near some straggly trees at the far end of the huge parking lot.
“Get comfortable,” said Hess. “After we eat, shut-eye. Here in the truck. On a mission, we never leave a trace—no motel register, no charge receipts, nothing. And don’t even think about using the bathrooms across the parking lot. Someone might see you. Anyway we have a big desert outside for that type of thing.”
As they finished their burgers and fries, One asked permission to pose a question.
“Sure,” said Hess. “Fire away.”
“What did you do before the Raven Society?”
“A commando. Tier One Special Operations Force. 76th Ranger Regiment.”
“Like it?”
“I did then.”
One’s eyes grew large. “Did you see battle?”
“Saw it. Felt it.”
“Where? When?”
“That’s five questions. But OK. The Persian Gulf War. ’90-’91. Most everyone recalls the 100-Hour War, Operation Desert Storm. Just one-hundred hours after U.S.-led coalition forces entered Iraq, then-President Bush, the First, declared a ceasefire and Kuwait’s liberation. But few mention the lead-in. Special Operations. Non-stop all-out battles against Iraqi forces in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. I know; I was there. A commando medic. We dealt with chemical attacks, truck-mounted Scud missiles, mortars, barbed wire, minefields. Shit, we’re talking three or four of the largest tank battles in American military history. In field operations, we piled up bodies, arms, legs, feet, even eyes. As Special Ops medics, we saw and did more in a few months than most doctors do in a lifetime. And eventually, we drove the fuckin’ Iraqis back into Iraq. Then, 100 hours of ground and air attacks in that pit, and we shut ’em down. All over, February 24, 1991.”
