Cry Vengeance!

By Bill MacWithey

Many men returning from Vietnam, either as tired, disillusioned soldiers, or released prisoners, found readjusting to civilian life and what our country had become while they were off to war extremely difficult. Drugs seemed to be rampant, most young people seemed completely disconnected from the real world, and the hardest thing for them to understand was being spat upon as the killers of children and women.

For the most part, they didnt understand their poor treatment by the man in the street, much less the poor treatment afforded them by their own government. Many of these returning warriors themselves became hooked on drugs and got involved in all manner of immoral and dishonest activities. It seemed since no one else gave a good damned about them, they didnt give a damned about themselves.

Army helicopter pilot, Major Adam Harris, not only endured the rigors of combat in Vietnam, but the constant daily torture by his North Vietnamese captors. How was he to know the commander of his prison camp was working with a US citizen to ship to the United States some of the very drugs to which he came home after five years? When finally released to return home to The States, Major Harris vows he will somehow, one day return to wreak vengeance on the prison camp commander.

Having lost his wife to an auto accident while a prisoner, Adam returns to San Antonio to find his son in an irreversible coma from a drug overdose. He has but one choice; he must let his son find the peace of death and bury him. Before signing papers for life support to be disconnected from his son, Adam tells unaware Adam Junior that he will find the people responsible for the drugs and make them pay with their lives.

When Major Harris was released from the prison camp, he flew out of Hanoi on a French aircraft, accompanied by a CIA agent, posing as a Red Cross representative. Harry tells Adam if he ever needs help, or just needs someone to talk to, he should call him. Adam has figured out that Harry is with the CIA, so when he decides to go after the drug dealers, he calls and enlists Harrys help.

After making a solo raid on several local drug dealers, Adam is told by Harry if he really wants to hurt the druggies, he needs to go to the source, Columbia. After putting together a team of ex-army rangers, all with an ax to grind against the drug dealers, with Harrys help, they go to Columbia and successfully kill a number of drug lords.

Adam has left a letter and other materials with a young girl, his sons girlfriend. She is to give it all to his parents if he doesnt return from Columbia. He and his team are forced to hijack a yacht to return to The States, and Adam knows the perpetrator behind his being used to eliminate competition among the drug lords is after the young girl. The information she holds would expose everyone in the US Government tied to these drug lords. It becomes a race to find her and hide her and her family from certain death.

Finally, Adam realizes there was a traitor on his team, planted to keep an eye on his teams activities. It turns out to be the person he would have least suspected. In the end, Adam has still not forgotten the major commanding the prison camp in Hanoi, and he has not forgotten his vow to kill the man. Having defeated those in the United States, who would have destroyed him, his attention again focuses on the major.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 2, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462841257

Bill MacWithey

Bill MacWithey has written many articles and columns on everything from writing to politics. A political advisor and newspaper columnist for 15 years, he conducts fiction writing seminars and teaches creative writing in adult education programs. With fourteen novels in various genres to his credit, Bill MacWithey is one of today’s most prolific authors.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Army gun ship pilot, Adam Harris, poured a cup of coffee and stood looking out the window through the early morning fog at his gun ship, parked some fifty feet from the building. Visible but now and then in the swirling mist, the chopper seemed unreal . . . a ghost machine. The sun groped its way through the white shroud to cast strange shadows and bright spots across the parking ramp. The eerie atmosphere only added to his foreboding.

A momentary hole in the fog allowed the sun to spotlight the painting on the side of his chopper, like an actor on stage, and he involuntarily shivered at the sight. A Gattling gun spewing fire protruded from the mouth of the tiger his crew chief had painted on the side of their ship. Adam didn’t mind the Gattling gun, but the obviously dead, black-clad VC soldier dangling from the tiger’s claws and dripping blood down the fuselage was a bit too much. Being surrounded by fog made the picture even more grotesque.

Although he was an army ranger and had killed his share of the enemy, Adam was basically opposed to war and killing. Back home in Texas, where everyone talked, usually lying, about the huge buck they killed last season, Adam didn’t even hunt. He never had an inclination to kill anything as beautiful as the deer that roamed thick all over the hill country north of San Antonio—beautiful animals, with no defense against the high powered, death-dealing rifles the hunters so meticulously cared for and bragged about.

He turned from the window and started for the recliner across the room, but stopped and looked down at Al Connelly, a replacement copilot, who had been with the unit but three months.

Connelly had never been told the fate that befell the man he’d replaced, and as Adam looked at the new man, he thought about Bill Bradley burning to death in his crashed chopper.

He had to quit dwelling on the people he’d lost. It only added to his feeling that he wasn’t going to make it. With only three days until he’d leave all this killing and misery behind and go home to Gloria and Bobby, an unexplainable feeling of doom gnawed at his insides. He knew his anxiety was only because he was so close to going home but, try as he might, Adam couldn’t escape the feeling that something was going to happen to prevent his leaving this Godforsaken war behind.

Connelly lay on the leather sofa, another smelly cigar dangling from his fingers and dropping ashes on the floor. A large, half-filled metal ashtray sat on his chest and tipped precariously to one side with each breath.

Although seemingly asleep, without opening his eyes, Connelly asked in his deep baritone southern drawl, What’s the matter, Major Harris?

Adam had started for the recliner across the room, but turned back and said, Those damned stinking cigars, for one thing.

Sorry, Major. Connelly reached over his head, put the ashtray on the end table and swung his size thirteen feet to the floor.

Adam sort of grimaced and slowly moved his head back and forth. Hell, Al, I’m just worried about getting out of here alive. It’s been too damned quiet. Isn’t normal.

As Connelly ground the cigar out in the overcrowded ashtray, he smiled and said, Aw, you’ll make it, Major. Like you say, it’s been quiet. It’ll last another three days. Then, Connelly laughed and said, Man, I wish to hell I was going home in three days. You know who our new commander’s gonna be?

"Sure don’t. You guys will give the man a break and go easy on him, won’t you?"

Connelly spread his hands out in front of him palm up, with a devilish grin on his face. Hey, Major, what can I say. Once an asshole, always an asshole. And I’ll bet my daddy’s told me ten thousand times what an asshole I am. He followed with a soft chuckle.

You’re a turd, Connelly. Adam couldn’t help but smile at the big Alabama plowboy, as he continued his trip to the recliner. His butt had barely reached the imitation leather when the siren on the end wall of the Quonset hut screamed to life. Dammit! I knew it couldn’t last! He slammed the coffee cup down on the table so hard hot coffee covered his hand, and the cup fell to the concrete floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.

Reaction to the siren had become so automatic after hearing it for three years, he bounded for the door with no further thought of home, or his wife and son. Squeezing through the door of the Quonset hut as two other pilots reached it with him, Adam was all business, and the fear of not getting out of Vietnam alive disappeared.

His crew chief, Master Sergeant Ronnie Beckner, usually stayed close to their ship when they came on alert and. had just finished his routine fuel and armaments check when the siren sounded. By the time Adam and his copilot leaped through the big side door and ran forward to the cockpit, Beckner had the powerful turbine engines fired up and was slipping out of the pilot’s seat.

Adam slipped his helmet on, plugged the radio cord in and yelled, We got gunners aboard, Beck?

Roger!

He looked at his copilot and said, One more time, Larry. Get us off the ground. Punching in the radio frequency for operations, Adam tried not to let his disgust show as he asked, Whataya got, Ops? And how deep is this white shit?

Dog Company, 71st Battalion, has itself pinned down up by Phu Loc. They’re surrounded and need a path cleared. It’s only ground fog, Major. Half a K deep.

As the man at operations spoke, all four gun ships in Adam’s flight lifted off the tarmac and turned to the Northwest, toward Phu Loc.

Rising above the soft white blanket, Adam called, You have coordinates, OPS?

Roger, rescue. Block six, grid eleven. Good luck, Major.

Adam had already released the radio button when he shook his head and said in a definitely disgusted tone, Yeah, sure. He glanced out the side window at the white mist below and, in a barely audible tone said, Three lousy damned days.

While Larry Foster handled the big SK-11, Adam pulled the map for block six from its holder and put his finger on grid eleven. He was familiar with the area. Holding the map where Larry could see it, the copilot moved his head up and down in acknowledgment. They were twenty minutes from the target. He hit the button for the intercom and repeated, One more time, partner.

Larry grinned slightly and nodded.

After ten minute’s flight toward the target, Adam switched the radio frequency to ground operations and said, Dog Company, this is air rescue. Do you read me?

The voice screamed, Where the hell are you? We’re getting cut to pieces. How soon’ll you be here?

Ten minutes. You have flares out?

Yeah! All over the damned place! Hurry, for Christ’s sake! We’re badly outnumbered and they’re wipin’ us out!

We’re pushing it as hard as it’ll go. Who am I speaking to? Adam made a deliberate effort to speak calmly. He could imagine what it must be like to be surrounded and waiting for help, but dammit, he couldn’t help getting tired of everyone expecting miracles. The machines would only fly so fast, and he and his flight were never called in until it was, many times, too late.

Captain Murphy, company commander.

Adam heard the terrible strain in Murphy’s voice and wished they were closer. He was well aware the poor son of a bitch was probably in a hopeless situation without their help. He and his flight members had made dozens of these runs.

Hang on, Captain. We have it firewalled. We’ll be there as soon as possible. Adam had a look of deep concern on his face, having heard steady automatic weapons fire and the sound of mortar explosions on the radio. The trapped men were really catching hell. And, he knew the enemy was aware of what the flares meant and would try to cut the American troops to pieces before the gun ships arrived. Then, they’d take a few potshots at the choppers and run like hell, back into the jungle.

He swore under his breath. This was the worst kind of mission. Not only were the choppers sitting ducks if they flew slow enough to pinpoint and destroy the enemy, but he dreaded firing their weapons so close to his own people. He hoped the Captain had marked their boundary well. It was hard to tell friend from foe in the jungle—especially from a helicopter moving over a hundred miles an hour at treetop level.

Adam stared ahead, searching for the flares and spotted the Americans pinned down in an open area of short brush. He knew the surrounding jungle would be filled with the enemy.

Inside, he screamed, My God, let me get back this one last time! But he forced himself to remain calm, as he called to the other gun ships, Arm your weapons, gentlemen. Number two east, number three south, number four take the west. We’ll cover the north. Keep it low and fast. Don’t give the bastards anything to shoot at. He was thankful the fog had disappeared between the base and the target.

Adam knew all about one of the enemy’s favorite tactics. Pin the American ground forces down in the open, surrounded by jungle, then, when medevac choppers or gun ships came to the rescue, they were exposed in the open and made perfect targets for their little shoulder fired surface to air missiles. He had personally seen twenty choppers go down during his three years in Nam. The thing feared most by all the pilots and crews was getting nailed by a SAM. The VC and NVA had thousands of them all over the country, and it took but one of the mean little rockets to send you home in a plastic bag, if you got home at all.

Every chopper lost in Adam’s unit had been lost to SAMs. Adam was the oldest surviving pilot in the entire squadron, without being sent home dead or with some major body part missing. How could he help but feel he was living on borrowed time? Every crew chief and gunner in the unit wanted to fly with him, believing he was somehow charmed, because he’d survived so long. He’d never gone down due to enemy fire or mechanical problems.

Adam thought there must be thousands of the enemy in the edge of the jungle from the staccato of small arms fire hitting their craft, as they flew over the American troops. He heard the rapid splat-splat-splat of bullets shattering against the sides and belly of the chopper, and a dozen telltale white spots appeared on the bulletproof plastic of the windshield and side windows. The craft was designed to ward off small arms fire, but there was always the chance a lucky shot could come in through the open doorway on either side and hit something vital. And, of course, the gunners stood in the open doors. Even though they wore bulletproof vests and leg guards, a lucky shot could still penetrate their protection.

A gunner manned a Gattling gun on either side of the deadliest flying machine in the army’s arsenal and, as Adam crisscrossed the jungle north of the friendly troops, the gunners turned the surrounding brush into a compost heap.

One by one, the other choppers called to say they had expended their munitions and were heading back to base.

Immediately after firing the last of his high explosive air-to-ground rockets into the jungle, Adam jerked the ship around toward the south and called the company commander.

Dog company, I hope we got a lot of ‘em off your back. You should have a way out now, but we gotta leave it with you. We’re out of bullets. Good luck.

Captain Murphy pleaded, Look, I’ve got some badly wounded people here. Can you drop down and pick some of them up? It’ll be too late by the time medevac gets here.

Damn, Captain, we’re sitting ducks. This machine is too big a target at such close range.

Murphy’s voice echoed his dejection. I understand. We’ll have to stick it out here. They’ll never make it overland. Thanks for your help.

Sonofabitch. How the hell can I just fly away? Adam remembered part of his Ranger Motto: I will never leave a fellow ranger behind. He yanked the chopper around again and yelled, Where the hell you want me to set down? You got thirty seconds.

Do you see the yellow flare?

Roger. Without further conversation, Adam swung the big helicopter to the left, dropped to within a foot of the ground, hovered, and yelled, Larry, get back there and get as many people on board as you can. Do it quick.

He used all his skill to hold the chopper steady, barely touching the ground, as his copilot, gunners and crew chief helped the people on the ground start loading the wounded. They had three people on board and two more just outside the door when the mortar shell or rocket hit.

Adam suddenly found himself in a world of screaming, screeching metal—a whirling, bouncing ball of smoke and flame. He was slammed rapidly one way, then another. The explosion threw the chopper violently on its side, and the whirling rotors bounced it wildly across the ground, as they were, in turn, ripped off.

When his ship came to rest, Adam was dazed and disoriented. It took him several seconds to realize what had happened. He felt something sticky on his forehead and rubbed it with his hand. Though his sight was impaired from his head being slammed about, Adam was startled by the crimson color on his hand. As he gasped for air in the smoke-filled cockpit, he heard his crew chief screaming out in pain and fear.

Oh, my God! I’m on fire, Major! Don’t let me burn, Major! Help me! Please, God, help me. I’m burning! I can’t move. He screamed even louder, Help me! I don’t wanna burn! Then, his crew chief emitted a scream Adam would remember the rest of his life.

Blinded and choked by the thick smoke rapidly filling the cockpit, Adam desperately worked with the clasp on his safety harness, trying to free himself from his seat. With the chopper resting on its side, it was nearly impossible to release the harness with his weight hanging on it. When the latch finally let go, he crashed down against the copilot’s seat. Larry lay lifeless against the other side of the cockpit, his wounds so grievous, there was little doubt he was beyond being helped. His body had been thrown all the way back into the cockpit by the force of the blast. Adam cried out, Oh, my God, at the sight of his friend’s mutilated body. The left side of Larry’s head was nonexistent, and a gaping hole in his left side oozed entrails. Adam was transfixed for a moment, knowing this thing couldn’t be Larry.

Even though confused, scared to death, and struggling to recover his senses, Adam wondered at the pictures of Gloria and Bobby passing through his mind in slow motion. He saw Gloria on their wedding day. Then, he was opening the door for her the day they brought their new baby home from the hospital. He saw his own picture in the paper, scoring the winning touchdown that brought his high school the state championship.

Adam wondered, Is this dying? No, by God, I’m not dead yet. I’ve got to get out of here. He was suddenly totally aware of where he was and what had happened. My God, I’ve got to get Beckner out.

He struggled to pull the bent metal from the short passageway to the rear of the ship, but realized it was hopeless. And, his hands were severely burned on the hot metal for his effort. Adam knew if he didn’t get out of the burning machine quickly, there would be no going home, ever. And, Sergeant Beckner no longer screamed.

Making his way back into the cockpit, tears mixing with the blood from the cut on his forehead and running down his face, Adam said aloud, My God, Beck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Larry.

He groped for the handle of the pilot’s emergency exit door. Coughing uncontrollably, as he pushed the door up and to the rear, Adam struggled to hoist himself through the opening. Skin from his burned hands stuck to the hot metal of the chopper’s belly, as he slid downward and hit the ground.

Yelling in pain, as he landed on his back, Adam rolled over, got to his feet and scrambled away from the fiercely burning machine and toward the jungle, a football field away. He ran as fast and as low as he could, barely noticing the bullets whizzing all about him, his quest for safety in the brush was so intense. All the while, he repeated aloud in a frightened voice, Don’t worry, Gloria. I’m gonna make it.

Fire reached the fuel tank, and the gun ship disintegrated in a violent explosion. The concussion from the blast knocked Adam to the ground, and he felt the heat sear the back of his neck. Then, he felt the pain in his thigh, where a piece of his ship had passed through. Groaning with pain, he looked down at his leg, half expecting it to look like Larry’s head. But there was only a small hole in his flight suit with a slightly larger circle of blood surrounding it. He whispered in a strained voice, Don’t quit now, Adam.

Crawling and dragging his wounded leg through the tall grass and into the brush, he rolled over on his back and reached for the forty-five automatic on his hip. The holster was empty. All he got for the effort was a stabbing pain that ran from his burned hand all the way up his arm to the shoulder. His face screwed up into a tortured grimace, as he fought to stifle a scream. The smell of burned flesh filled his nostrils—the smell of his own hands and neck.

Rolling back onto his stomach, Adam lay listening intently, tears flooding down his face, trying not to cry out from the pain. The jungle had suddenly become silent, save the roar from his burning gun ship. The only other detectable sound was a distant moaning of some other wounded soul.

Raising up on his elbows, he got to his knees, managed to get his helmet off, then got to his feet and leaned against a tree. Adam lowered the top of his flight suit and removed his tee shirt. He used it to wipe the blood from his face and out of his eyes, then tied it around his bleeding leg as tightly as his injured hands would allow. Slipping his arms back into his flight suit, he shook his head, trying to think clearly. Fear caused his breath to come in short gasps, as he thought, My God, what am I going to do? The American troops. I’ve got to find the Americans. Which the hell way did they go?

For the first time in his life, Adam knew real, immediate fear. It was the first time he’d been on the ground, with the enemy shooting at him, and he didn’t have so much as a slingshot to fight back. He stared at the nearly impenetrable jungle, wondering if he should try to sneak away slowly, or run like hell. Panic made the decision, and he crashed headlong through the brush in the direction he thought was south, hoping to catch up with the American infantry. His throat and mouth burned fiercely, and he found it difficult to breathe.

He ran right into the waiting arms of the young NVA soldier. There was no escape. Adam stared at the small figure with the Ak47 just a few feet in front of him. He looked to be no more than fourteen or fifteen years old. There was as much fear in the eyes and shaking hands of the young soldier as Adam felt. For a split second, he glanced to the side, considering diving into the brush in an attempt to escape, but it was hopeless. It would be suicide.

The child soldier jabbered rapidly and indicated Adam should put his hands in the air. Slowly raising his arms over his head, he grimaced in pain. The boy moved warily closer, the AK47 tucked against his shoulder, and pointed directly at Adam’s chest. He didn’t see or hear the other enemy soldier sneak up from behind

and hit him in the back of the head with the butt of his weapon.

He awakened to intense pain, lying in the back of a truck, bouncing along a rough dirt road through the jungle. Bound hand and foot and gagged, his mouth and throat burned fiercely from thirst and the damage done by the scorching, acrid smoke inside the gun ship. Adam had never imagined such excruciating pain, and wished he’d remained unconscious. When he opened his eyes, a fuzzy blur of green jungle raced by overhead. The steel floor slammed him in the ribs each time the truck hit a hole in the road. Then, he became aware of the pain in his hands. Thousands of nerve-ends had been damaged.

When he tried to move to a sitting position against the side of

the truck, one of two NVA guards kicked him viciously in the face. The savage attack broke his nose, and blood spurted from his battered lips. The other guard laughed and ground his foot into Adam’s bound, severely burned hands. Once more, he slipped into the

welcome, merciful black world of unawareness.

Barely alive after three days in the back of the truck without food or water, Adam was just cognizant of being dragged for some distance and thrown on the ground in darkness.

He had no way to know how many hours or days elapsed before his subconscious will to live once more awakened his tortured mind. As his senses fought to come alive again, he became aware of the stench of urine and dirt. His opening eyes were greeted by blackness. The hard-packed dirt scraped against his face when he tried to move. He lay perfectly still, listening for a sound, trying to figure out where he was. Total silence. Am I dead?

Adam rolled over on his back, his eyes finally beginning to adjust to the darkness. The outline of two small cans on the dirt drew his attention. His fever-wracked body seemed to move on its own, to a position close to the cans. He gripped one between his badly swollen hands and gulped the water down. Then he drank the cold, thin rice and fish soup.

Using his elbows and forearms to drag himself, he managed to struggle to a sitting position against the wall. The effort totally exhausted him. Every time his hands came in contact with anything, the pain was unbearable. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands separated in front of him, and tried to get his thinking processes working again. Where am I? What happened? I flew out on a mission and something happened to the chopper. Then . . .

He looked around the four walls and made out the outline of a door. He was inside some kind of very small room. Except for a faint bit of light coming through a narrow slot close to the top of the door, it was totally dark.

Tears streamed down his face, and he sobbed loudly as he remembered the wife and son he was supposed to go home to. Oh, Gloria. My God. His feverish body shook with great sobs, as he tried to piece together what had happened. There was the chopper spinning across the ground, a fire, Ronnie Beckner’s screams, the NVA soldier, the hard steel bed of the truck.

My God, I’m a . . . prisoner!

CHAPTER TWO

The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.

Adam had learned to cope with the pain of torture by reciting passages from the Bible and by swearing at his tormentors, silently, to himself. He learned the best way to endure the pain was to make the worst insults he could conjure up about his tormentor’s entire family.

Isolated in his tiny cell, he had long since lost all reckoning of time. He knew it had been at least three years since he was taken prisoner, but that was as close as he could guess. Days and nights blurred together into one long nightmare of pain and loneliness.

His small world was completely cut off from the outside. It had no window, and the door was sealed completely around the edges, so no light could seep through a crack. The perpetual darkness was the worst of the tortures, and the small slot in the door was seldom left open. In time, Adam almost looked forward to the interrogations and torture sessions. Without them, he would never have been out of his cell and would surely have gone blind, if not insane.

The torture to which he was subjected was as much mental as physical. His only contact with other human beings was with his captors. After all this time, pain and injury continued to be inflicted, even though he had no information of value to give them. If he’d known anything worth telling when he was captured, he certainly didn’t now. He knew the only reason for his constant torture was for the pleasure of his tormentors.

The NVA Major commanding the prison, whose name Adam didn’t know, and whom he referred to as Pigface, continually tried to get him to sign a confession. The confession condemned the United States for its murder of innocent citizens of North and South Vietnam. It also said Adam renounced his citizenship in the United States and told the world he wanted to remain with the innocent people of North Vietnam. He repeatedly refused to sign, sure that once he did, they’d kill him.

And, his tormentors, indeed, threatened to kill him many times. Once, he was tied to a post before a firing squad and asked one last time if he would rather sign the confession or die. He smiled and said, You stupid bastard. You’ll never understand, will you? I’d rather die than sign your phony confession, you stupid son of a whore!

The major said, Go ahead and curse me if it makes you feel brave, Major Harris. But you have a wife and son to think of. If you are killed, your wife will sleep with another man—probably one of those smart enough not to allow themselves to be drafted to fight the innocent people of my country. He might even rape your young son.

If that’s what my wife chooses, so be it. But she’s not a whore, like your mother, you sonofabitch! As hard as Adam tried not to let the bastard upset him, he was losing it.

Major San Lee stared at him, his face twisted into a look of pure hatred. The anger showed in his voice, as he gave the orders to the firing squad in English. Squad! Attention! Ready . . . aim . . . fire!

The sound of the weapons reverberated in his ears, but he felt no impact—no pain. It was just one more tortuous act designed to break him, and it nearly succeeded. He broke out in a sweat despite the chill in the air. It took all his will power and strength to walk straight and keep his suddenly weak legs from shaking, as he was led back to his cell. He had been sure this time, they would kill him. It was only a matter of time. But, he’d die a man, not the groveling coward the major wanted him to be.

The next time he was threatened with death, it was with hanging. But again, when the trap door opened, he dropped but six inches, the rope still slack around his neck. Adam wondered why they didn’t just kill him and be done with it. They surely had no qualms about executing people. But, for now, he was alive, and there was still some small chance he’d eventually go home. He did consider himself lucky after all the injuries he received at the hands of his torturers. It seemed there were few bones in his body they hadn’t broken at one time or another, but he could still walk.

The worst part of his captivity was the nightmare. Again and again, in terrifying dreams, Adam re-lived the day he was captured. Each time, Sergeant Beckner’s screams preyed on his soul. Each time, he was blinded by the thick smoke, as he fumbled with the seat harness. Every time he slept, the chopper went through its wild, tumbling gyrations. He felt the pain of his hands being burned raw on the hot metal.

A thousand times, when awakening from the dream, Adam rehashed his decision to drop to the ground to pick up the wounded infantrymen. Again and again, he condemned himself for killing his crew and leaving Gloria and Bobby all alone.

But there were good dreams, too. In one, the prisoners took over the camp and tortured the monsters who had abused them for so long. In another, he was back on the beach on South Padre Island with Gloria, or he pushed Bobby in the swing he had hung from a tree in their back yard in San Antonio. Other times, he heard the yells of delight when Bobby caught a fish on one of their many trips to the coast. But his favorite dream was of strolling hand in hand on the moonlit beach, with Gloria, very much in love.

Then, one day, the guard opened the door and marched him down the dark hall lined with doors like his and into the interrogation room. The major was there, and with no detectable emotion on his face, said, Please, Major Harris, have a seat. He pointed to the one chair at a small wooden table.

Major Pigface took a newspaper from under his arm and laid it front of him. It was from Adam’s hometown. Surprised, Adam looked from the familiar masthead to Pigface.

Go ahead, Major. Pigface’s smile broadened as he spoke. Take as long as you like to read it.

As the suddenly benevolent Pigface left the room, a guard brought in the first real meal Adam had seen since his capture and placed it on the table. One plate was piled high with steamed vegetables, and a real, honest-to-God steak, nearly as large as the plate, stared at him from the other.

Adam looked at the large cup of what appeared to be steaming hot coffee. It looked and smelled like coffee, and he would have killed for coffee, but before he tasted it, he would have to analyze all this.

The guard pulled a fork and steak knife from his breast pocket, laid them on the table, and walked to the other side of the room. He stood watching Adam closely, an AK47 cradled in his arm.

Adam wondered, If I try to slash my wrists, what are you going to do, shoot me?"

It was the first time he gave in even a little to the squinty-eyed, pinched-faced major. He knew he shouldn’t eat the meal, but couldn’t help himself. Starting on the steak, he hungrily devoured the entire thing before moving on to the vegetables. When he’d finished every scrap of food, Adam sipped the coffee and began reading the newspaper. It was nearly two months old, but he was sure it was real. He carefully scanned every word.

As he began reading the front page, Adam suddenly wondered why the camp commander would resort to this. Then, it struck him. There has to be something in the paper about Gloria having me declared legally dead, or divorcing me. It would have to be something like that for Pigface to go to all this trouble . . . just one more of his goddamned little games.

The only light in the room came from a skylight, and he had to hold the newspaper at just the right angle to read. His hands shook as he turned to the legal notices, but he found nothing. Returning to the front page, he read every word on every page. He saw the small headline on page five.

Woman killed in one car accident.

Mrs. Gloria Harris of San Antonio was killed in a one-car accident at 10:15 Saturday morning on Loop 1604, at Interstate 10 West. Police theorize a tire blew out, causing Mrs. Harris to lose control of the vehicle. The auto left the roadway on a bridge and crashed over the guardrail to the highway below, killing Mrs. Harris instantly.

Mrs. Harris is survived by her mother and father of San Antonio, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Garza, and a son, fourteen year old Robert Adam Harris, Jr.

Mrs. Harris’ husband, Major Robert Adam Harris, Sr., an army pilot, has been listed as missing in action in Vietnam for nearly five years and is believed to be a prisoner of the North Vietnamese.

Adam slowly closed the paper and stared at the wall, tears filling his eyes and running freely down his cheeks. Slamming his fists down on the table so hard the coffee cup flew off onto the floor, he screamed at the top of his voice, Noooooo! He lay his face on his arms and cried, his entire body shaking violently. Overcome by rage and sorrow, Adam wanted to beg to go home.

He suddenly sat up and wiped the tears from his eyes. You can’t fall apart now. You can’t! Not after battling this sonofabitch all this time. You’re doing exactly what the bastard wants.

Adam wanted to scream at them to send him home. He wanted to beg the major to let him sign their damned confession and let him go. But, he knew they’d never set him free. Once he signed their phony confession, they’d have no further use for him. And, because the statement said he was electing to stay and help the beleaguered people of North Vietnam, no one at home would give a good damned if he were dead or alive.

He knew Pigface would be watching through a small opening directly in front of where he sat. God, how he wished he could kill that sonofabitch!

Major San Lee walked back into the room, placed a chair opposite Adam, took a seat and said in a consoling tone, Major Harris, may I offer you my condolences. I’m truly sorry you have lost your wife. Perhaps now, you would like to make things easier on yourself and sign your confession. I do not want you to suffer more than you have. If you confess to your crimes and the crimes of your country, you will live to go back to your son. You are all he has, now. I know that in your country, just as in mine, it is most important for a boy to have a father to guide him as he grows. For the thousandth time, he laid the papers in front of Adam.

After staring at the papers a full minute, Adam asked, May I speak, Major?

Of course, you may.

The death of my wife saddens me more than you could possibly understand. Hands shaking uncontrollably, Adam looked down at the tabletop, tears in his eyes, and had to fight off choking up. I’ll also tell you, I do want to go home to my son more than anything in this world. He hesitated again, swallowed hard, and the anger quickly returned. But, I must also tell you, you might as well kill me now. I’ll never renounce my country. Nor will I admit to that pack of lies you bastards have fabricated!

Major San Lee stared at him, his anger evident in the way his face screwed up, as he yelled an order to the guard in Vietnamese. The guard grabbed Adam’s collar, jerked him roughly from the chair and hit him in the back of the head with the butt of his weapon.

He slowly returned to consciousness in the darkness of his cell. A fierce headache and a ringing in his ears refused to let him think straight, and he had a hard time remembering what had happened. Then, he gradually became aware of his surroundings, recognizing the feel of the cold dirt floor beneath his body. They had stripped him of his clothes, and he shivered uncontrollably in the dank cell. Too weak to stand, he rolled over onto the straw-filled mat and tried to cover his naked body.

The pain in his neck and head made him scream out, but the scream never passed his lips. When he remembered the newspaper article, Adam put his face in his badly scarred hands and wept. Finally, giving in to exhaustion, he drifted off into fitful sleep and dreamed of