CHAPTER 48
Ridge jolted awake at 3. Tuesday morning. Sweat covered his skin. He pulled his eyelids open, disoriented. His eyes gritted like sandpaper. Strained, stinging. His head ached. He stared at the dark ceiling and tried to remember where he was. Finally, he realized: At home, in bed. Safe. But definitely not feeling it. His tongue tasted like a towel. He reached for bottled water on his nightstand and took a swallow. Then another. Rotating the cap off nearby Ambien, he downed a pill. Then he fluffed his pillow, put his head down, and within the hour got back to sleep—somewhat. Soon his feet got warm, then warmer and his mind slipped off to war.
The mission was photo reconnaissance. Ridge cinched his shoulder holster, slung the strap of his AR-15 rifle over his shoulder, and left the hootch. Jumping in the crew van, he realized it was only him this morning. First flight of the day. Crack of dawn. He drove himself to the flight line. Since it was dark, he used a flashlight to do the pre-flight inspection on his O-2 aircraft. Crouching down by the forward propeller, he flashed his light into the engine cowling. Just then, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Ridge flung around, not sure what it was, and put his light on the smiling face of 18-year old Jim Stance. Though not much younger than Ridge, he seemed like a young kid.
Stance was one of the newest mechanics. He was excited. Sergeant Ed Drew, Ridge’s regular crew chief and expert photo man, picked Jim as his replacement. Ed, suffering from some type of light malaria, couldn’t make the mission that day.
Stance did well, at least during the morning missions in III Corps and the Delta Region. Then about 11 a.m., he and Ridge dropped into Phan Rang Air Base for fuel and food. Jim still looked excited. They had taken ground fire in the Delta, and Ridge arranged to have some Army mechanics plug three holes in the right wing. Jim spoke to the Army guys just like Steve Canyon, Commander of Big Thunder Air Force Base. Straight out of the comic strip. He explained how difficult it was to take the thud, thud, thud of ground fire while focusing the camera and emphasized how “his pilot” couldn’t go off-station until Jim clicked away on the camera and gave him the word to leave. In Jim’s story, Ridge was just a chauffeur.
Oh well, he thought, the world’s all about perspective. Ridge accepted his new position and focused on the bullet holes. The foam in the wing had prevented fuel leakage while they were airborne, just as advertised. And the new plugs looked good.
Afterwards taking on fuel and getting some lunch, they loaded up and pulled out to the runway for their afternoon mission in II Corps, north of Phan Rang. This sortie was different. The temperature and jungle humidity met in the high nineties. Hot and sweaty. Sticky. Bumpy. The thermals made flying feel like racing a car through a huge parking lot with speed bumps every few feet. After one hour, Jim had had it. The first time, without warning, he barfed into his microphone and all over the instrument panel.
“I’m sorry, sorry,” he shouted over the noise of both propellers. “I’ll clean it up—I promise.” Then Jim vomited again. This time to his right onto the camera pod. Ridge reached over and whacked the back of his helmet. “Your helmet. Use your helmet!”
Ripping off his helmet, Jim threw up a third time—this one in the pot. But with the extreme heat and humidity, the stench set in, a putrid odor, like sour milk on a hot day. Which just made Jim sicker. Meanwhile, surrounded by jungle mountains, Ridge tried to figure out where to land.
“Hang in there,” Ridge shouted, as Jim doubled over and barfed again into the inverted helmet between his knees. “I’ll get us down.”
Ridge spotted a firebase. A huge circle of reddish dirt in the middle of green jungle. Tangerine-colored powder, Agent Orange, had been used to wipe out the trees. The firebase had brownish-orange tents, two choppers and, best of all, a short roll-out metal runway for fixed wing aircraft. Ridge picked them up on FM Radio. He told the Army operator he had an emergency—an incapacitated crewman—and would be dropping in for help in five minutes. The Army radio operator cleared Ridge into Firebase Orange.
Because the metal runway was short, Ridge had to set up a steep power-on approach—an ‘assault landing.’ He cleared the treetops, nudged power back, and dropped like a rock. Ridge smashed into the metal runway, cut power, and jumped on the brakes. To his right, Jim had his face in his helmet, moaning. The perforated runway clanked, cranked, and sounded like it was collapsing as they rolled out.
With skill, experience, and beaucoup luck, Ridge stopped the bird before running off the runway. He shut down the props, and three army mechanics ran over. They pulled Jim from the right side, and cotted him over to the M.A.S.H. tent. Medics did the rest, as Ridge jumped out of the plane. He thanked the Army folk for their hospitality and explained the situation. Then, he looked around.
Except for the metal runway, two choppers and about eight big tents covered in red dust, there were no other structures. Three men in camouflaged fatigues walked the jungle perimeter with M-16 rifles ready. In the center of the firebase was a large dust bowl with a volleyball net. Twelve guys in green boxer shorts and little else were playing hard. Jumping, sweating, stretching, falling, and covered head to foot in orange-red dust. The rest of the men centered on Jim and Ridge.
“Welcome to Firebase Orange,” said a soldier dressed in a green T-shirt and boxers. “Sorry it’s hot as hell here. No air conditioning.”
Always quick to pick up on things, Ridge figured out right away his host was a lieutenant. His T-shirt had “LT” printed on front in black. “Thanks Lieutenant,” said Ridge. “How’s my man?”
“Not good,” said LT. “He’s dehydrated. White as a ghost. Moaning. Needs water, and plenty, right away. That’s one thing we don’t have much of here at Orange. Plenty of heat, plenty of Viet Cong, plenty of red dust, but not a hell of a lot of water. We just blew away the jungle and reactivated this firebase. It’s smaller than the original, and our Army engineers messed up. The underground water tank, the pump, and the spigot from the old base sit thirty yards into the jungle—thata way,” he said, pointing to a narrow trail that disappeared into thick vegetation. “And Charlie knows it.”
Ridge stared at the trail. Since the sun was high in the sky, he had no idea whether LT was pointing north, toward Thailand, or east toward the U.S. of A. The impenetrable jungle surrounding them seemed all the same, in every direction—green, lush, incredibly huge, and ungodly thick. “Shit,” said Ridge. “Can you spare me two or three guys? I’ll also need those twenty-gallon plastic jugs over there. If so, we’ll get the water.”
“Anytime we can help flyboys, we’re in,” said LT. “When the Cong start to blow us to hell, you guys save our asses from the air, every time.”
Ten minutes later Ridge and two grunts with green head bandanas and M-16s strapped to their arms, called Gunzo and Habit, located the well. Ridge placed the two jugs near a brass faucet attached to a three-foot rusty pipe jutting from the ground. Less than a second later, as Ridge reached for the faucet, bullets cracked out of the jungle—from opposite sides. Ridge and Gunzo, to his right, hit the dirt. Habit, on his left, took a bullet. Through the forehead. He collapsed. Ridge crawled over, took a pulse. Then he grabbed the fallen man’s M-16 and started to return fire. Gunzo, on his right, sprayed bullets in the opposite direction. Multiple screams. Yells. Running. Then things went quiet—real quiet.
Ridge and Gunzo got up, bent over, rifles outstretched. They listened. Left and right. Then they slowly penetrated trees and bush on one side of their position. Twenty feet further into dense vegetation, they found two VC, sprawled on the ground. Gunzo poked one, then the other with his M-16. They were gone. Hunched over, rifle out front, Ridge moved deeper into the hot humid jungle. Gunzo behind. Thirty more feet, thick, suffocating undergrowth and thorny vegetation gave way to a small clearing. Sweat dripping into his eyes, he stopped, straightened up, and stared straight ahead. “My God.”
Instinct told him to look away. A sickly stench of rotting meat, cheap perfume, and sewage assaulted his nostrils. He shut off his breathing and closed his eyes—to escape. As he choked back the bile, he realized, it’s what they want. To terrorize. Ridge refused to submit.
He slowly opened his eyes, raised his head, and tried to swallow. The things—still there. In front. Strung on webbed branches of a spreading tree. Eight human heads. Hacked. Faces the purplish-gray of rancid plums. Crudely scalped. Viciously chopped at the neck. Torn ragged flesh laced with drying russet-colored blood. Frayed black rope, through the ears, tied to branches above. Mouths sagged. Eyes, propped open with slender sticks, gazed blindly at him. Eight silent soulless stares. Stares he couldn’t turn from and would never forget.
Six a.m. Tuesday. Ridge was up. He made coffee and checked the north balcony. The male hummingbird darted out of nowhere, straight at his head, stopped on the dime and flew round and round in vertical loops. Ridge shifted his eyes to the nest. Ms. Hummingbird was sitting in it. Then he looked at the feeder. Empty. Ridge turned, fetched nectar from the kitchen, filled the feeder and sat in the balcony chair. The male hummingbird winged forwards, backwards, upwards, downwards, and upside down. Then he flipped upright, did a 180 and fed at the feeder. The next instant he flew right up to his better half, stopped suddenly, and seemed to kiss her—black bill to black bill. Actually, Ridge figured, he was feeding her. Then back to the feeder and back to his mate. Ridge, mesmerized, thought how right Jayne had been. Ancient symbols of joy and happiness, modern symbols of peace. Ridge sat, and watched in wonder.
Later, even with the bird show, Ridge got to the office early. On the plus side, there was something to be said for working without interruptions. No phones. No visits. No questions. No loud conversations. Like working on the moon. Or a deserted island. Surrounded by endless miles of ocean. Peaceful.
Terry barged into Ridge’s office. “Oh, you’re here. I was gonna leave a note. Why so early?”
Ridge shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Well, I’ve got news. I reviewed the thumb drive Dave Lake Fed Xed yesterday. Not much on the video. But the audio picked up a phone conversation between our insurance god, Chesterfield, and someone saying the Silent Conflict issue was as good as over.”
“That’s news to me,” said Ridge. “Our crack paralegal, Jessie, hasn’t even had time to research the case yet. Maybe Chesterfield was talking to his blowhard lawyer, John Gryme. He probably plans to file his own summary judgment motion to end the case.”
“Could be.” Terry took a seat. “Also had talk on the audio track about the Dutch West Indies. And of all things—insuring the rulers of Yemen.”
“Well, Chesterfield runs his insurance business through the West Indies, probably for tax reasons. But Yemen? Got me. Anything else on the audio?”
“Chesterfield got another call,” said Terry. “About the health insurance part of his empire. I recorded that part.” Terry turned on his recorder: “Tell the damn doctor and hospital associations to go to hell. Our analysts make the decisions about who gets what operation, who gets what drug, and whether generic substitutes will do. When will the fucking doctors learn? We pay the bills; we call the shots. I don’t give a damn what their professional opinions are, or what they think is best for a patient. They all better start thinking 21st Century. Decisions gotta be based on fucking statistics, actuarial tables, costs, for God’s sake. Look, let me make it crystal clear: I don’t want to hear any bullshit about this ever again.”
“Nice guy,” said Ridge. “But this is just kissin’ cousin to the Silent Conflict issue.”
Terry put down his cellphone. “How so?”
“The insurance industry bases everything on statistics. They argue it’s all for the greater good. Their line of shit goes: Sure, some patients will die, but far more will benefit from the limited resources we have available.”
“Champions of Greater Good,” said Terry.
“And, in that way, they put doctors in a conflict position with their patients, just like they put insurance-defense lawyers in conflict with their clients. Bottomline, they demand doctors and lawyers do what’s best for the insurance company. Patients and clients run second. It’s the insurance mafia at work. Every day. Everywhere.”
“But where does that leave us?”
