Pawns of Power: BETRAYED, #1

By Kezel Romanoff

With the threat of dying in the steaming jungles of Vietnam and mandatory service no longer an issue, few looked at the military as a career opportunity with free job training. America's youth avoided the military like the plague, creating a nightmare for Recruiters trying to fill quotas.

 

Working with judges, first time offenders busted for possession of a single seed; a glass pipe; rolling papers in an empty baggie having a pungent odor; were given the choice, jail or Army. Filling the ranks with "street sweepings~aka~cannon fodder" for the psychological sabre rattling in Western Germany, the Pentagon was unprepared for what followed. Two battalions of soldiers on a single base, in control of nuclear weapons during the day, became involved in the drug trade at night to eventually have the largest drug network in Germany.

 

The unspoken side of the military in an era when everyone was involved in something illeagal, from Colonels to Captains; Sargent Majors to Privates; even to Congressmen. Money, power, the desire to get stoned, whatever; made everyone a pawn. And pawns were expendable. A compelling story based on real events involving the author's service.

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kezel Romanoff
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735927343

Kezel Romanoff

As I started writing this story it was intended to be a social comment on the treatment of soldiers with invisible wounds. When I introduced Angelina (her character was based on a young Turkish barmaid I had met during my own tour of duty in Ulm, Germany) the tide turned and it quickly became a love story. Normally I do not write romance, and, while not wishing to abandon my brothers in uniform, I entwined both plots creating a more vivid picture.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

With the possibility of dying in the steamy jungles of Vietnam no longer a threat to American youth. The, ‘all volunteer’ Army of the ‘70s brought a new concept of career opportunities for those of us fresh out of school, riding the crest of those psychedelic times.   The New Army , offered a chance to avoid prison time after being arrested for charges of possession of; a ‘roach’, a glass pipe, rolling papers in an empty baggie with a pungent odor.

"Think of it this way, Gibson," the prosecutor offered as he slid the enlistment papers in front of me. It’ll be a chance to give back to your country. You can learn a trade, see the world, meet the girl of your dreams. And...you’ll have a clean slate when you get out.

Sure, why not? I thought as I picked up the pen. What can go wrong?

Back then, as a nineteen year old, little did I know my path would soon lead me from being just another GI Joe on the Army’s payroll; to having an identity crisis with the governments fighting the Cold War in West Germany; to being dragged through the eye of a needle and into the cross-hairs of anyone carrying the hammer and sickle.

My name was Jared Gibson, and my life was about to come to an end one cloudy day in the spring of 1975, when in a hotel in West Berlin, an American senator decided to do things his way.

April 10th, 9:30 a.m. Room 356,

Berliner Hotel

Wiesen Strasse, West Berlin

SENATOR BERNARD, WHAT you’re planning to do is foolish.  If you get caught—

I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Allen, the senator assured his aide while straightening his tie in front of the mirror. You know it’s just a fact finding mission for the repatriation of war remains.

If you continue this charade, Senator, your diplomatic immunity won’t protect you. As your aide and advisor, I must protest.

Then you know what you have to do if it doesn’t work, Senator Bernard snarled. Turning to the woman standing quietly next to the door, he pleasantly offered his hand. Come, Ms. Himmel, we don’t want to be late.

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

Allen grabbed the senator’s arm. For God’s sake, Senator, think of your wife.

Damn it, Allen. Who do you think I’m doing this for? He jerked his arm away from Allen's grip. You know the crap I’ve had to go through just to get here today. Bernard shook his finger at him, I’m warning you, don’t blow it for me.

In the hallway, Ms. Himmel handed the senator his overcoat. He smiled as he

took it. Tossing it over his shoulder, together they walked from the hotel to his car and drove toward Checkpoint Charlie.

Arriving at the checkpoint and not wanting to attract attention, he pulled the car into line and waited like everyone else. Senator Bernard looked at the intense lighting that shined down on the gate, even in the daylight. All the while scrutinizing the cadenced pattern the guards went through on both sides of the border. Though their rhythm was efficient, any sudden delay would often cause the insecure smuggler to bolt like a rabbit only to be caught immediately.

Finally breaking the silence, he looked at the gray-haired woman companion sitting next to him. You still willing to do this? If you want out, it’s now or never. I’ll understand.

Quietly, the slender woman looked at her feet, brushed her lap while nodding in affirmation. Then slowly she took a cigarette out her purse, looking confidently at the senator she held it up to her lips.

Pulling a lighter out of his pocket, he lit her smoke. Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.

Flicking the lighter closed, he nodded with the pleasure of knowing her answer, he then reached for his own pack of cigarettes on the dashboard and lit one for himself.

When their turn at the checkpoint came, Senator Bernard held his credentials against the window. The American soldier snapped to attention and waved him through. Slowly rolling his car the twenty feet to the East German side, he again held up his papers to the window. This time, the guard motioned for him to roll down the window. The senator complied, then held up his papers once more. The soldier snatched the documents from Bernard’s hand, carefully studying them. Then, holding the passports up, the guard first looked hard at the woman, as if waiting for her to bolt, then at her photograph. Next he glared at the senator. Lowering the documents, he glanced in the back seat of the car, then down at the floor board. Then back at the woman. He studied her passport picture once more.

Suddenly, a ruckus on the American side of the gate distracted the guard’s attention for several minutes. Both the senator and Ms. Himmel didn’t move and continued staring forward. Keeping an eye on the situation at the other gate, the guard wrote a note on his clipboard. When he finished, without a word, he handed their papers back and waved them on.

The silence became deafening as the two drove a kilometer down Friedrichstrasse, each in their own thoughts. The woman said nothing as she pointed at the next street. The senator made a quick right into the narrow alley like street and drove several more blocks before bringing the car to an abrupt stop. Ms. Himmel flung open her door, scurried across the sidewalk and down a basement stairway out of sight. Punching the accelerator, the senator continued driving down the narrow street while trying to avoid several of the Russian built cars parked half in the street and half on the sidewalk.

Traveling a few blocks, he turned down another narrow lane. Going for another five blocks, he turned left then immediately turned into a one-way lane. Driving two blocks with just inches on either side, he slammed on the brakes; a woman rushed out of the shadows and slipped into the car. As the door shut, he once more stepped hard on the accelerator, racing to the next intersection. There, he made a left onto the main thoroughfare, Wilhelmstrasse, and headed for the Palace of the Republic.

It was there, he arranged to meet the Minister of Agitation and Propaganda, who also happened to be the First Secretary of Foreign Trade, to discuss repatriating the remains of American soldiers from World War II.

0300 WILEY KASERN

Neu Ulm, West Germany

HEY GIBSON, TURN YOUR alarm off!

Lashing out at the clock, I struggled to get out of my bunk. It was 0300, and two of my roommates were still playing darts, while the third was trying to convince his German girlfriend that it was OK for her to spend the night in the barracks.

"How the fuck did I get sucked into another night like that again?" I mumbled as I reached for my shower bag and towel. My head throbbed with the pounding beat of the rock music from my roommates stereo. Gritting my teeth, I stumbled out the door with my eyes closed, and down the hall toward the showers. With only a single light on the ceiling lit, I filled the sink and attempted to shake my can of shaving foam.

As the hiss of the foam leaving the can filled my quiet solitude, the company clerk kicked the door open. Hey, Gibson. Your turn for a random piss test.

You’re shit outta luck, Carl, I mumbled. I just went.

He tossed the plastic bottle into the sink full of water. I don’t care how you do it.

You asshole, I groaned, dodging the splash.

Fill the damn thing and set it on the office counter by eight a.m. 

You could have... I snatched the bottle from the water, throwing it at him. Only to watch it bounce off the door as he let it swing shut.

Back in my room, still on schedule, I put on my cook whites and stuffed the empty bottle into a pocket. Brushing my hair one more time, I grabbed a new pack of cigarettes and a clean apron, then slammed my wall locker closed. As the big metal door closed, the moonlight reflecting off a row of Mercedes at the dealership across the street caught my attention. Someday, one of those will be mine, I dreamed as I left, heading down the stairs into the cool morning air.

Crossing the empty parking lot between the barracks and the mess hall, I stopped to light a cigarette. Sgt. Graham pulled into the lot, honking at me as he drove past. Blinded by the bright glare of the lighter’s flame, the sound startled me. Throwing the smoke down, I ran for the mess hall and up the back steps. Bursting into the kitchen I headed for the assignment sheet hanging beside his office door. I scanned the sheet for my name as I struggled to tie on my apron. Damn it, not again. How did I get stuck with coffee, toast, grits and oatmeal, for the third flippin’ time in a row? 

Gibson, you better not fuck up the coffee like you did Monday!

Kiss my ass, Stubbs! I snapped back, not thinking about how loud I was.

I turned around heading for the storeroom. Sgt. Stubbs stepped in my path. The six foot-three sergeant leaned in close to my face. You better keep your fucking nose clean, Gibson. You keep fucking up and I’ll throw your ass into a deep dark hole. Smiling, he straightened up. No one back home will ever know what happened to you.

Biting my tongue, I tried to sidestep around him.

He countered, stepping into the center of the doorway and raised his voice. You understand me, you little fucking shithead?

Biting my tongue harder, I stepped back trying to figure my next move.

Gibson! Where’s the coffee? the battalion mess sergeant yelled from the dining room.

On the way, Sergeant Graham, I yelled back, taking the opportunity to push past Stubbs.

Inside the storeroom, I grabbed a five gallon can of coffee grounds off the shelf and avoided looking at him as he stood in the door. As I squeezed past, he glared at my every move, then jabbed me with his finger, Move outta my way.

Alone in the dining room at the twin five gallon coffee urns, I poured several pounds of coffee grounds into each of the cloth filters.

Ben walked by whispering, Gibson, you better not fuck up. Jeez, what an asshole.

Tell me! He’s been on my case ever since I put cinnamon in the French toast batter and everyone raved about the improvement.

Dropping the large case of assorted breakfast cereals on the floor behind me, he ripped it open. Last week the asshole jumped down my throat ‘cause I forgot to turn on the toaster for lunch, Ben bitched with his Jersey accent. He held up a box of Frosted Flakes, You want it?

Naw. Snickering, I screwed the lid back on the can of coffee. Ain’t you lucky. You and him getta go out in the field togeth— Glancing around, I cut myself short, Hey, you clean today? I got a random in my pocket that Carl wants by eight.

Ben stopped placing the small single serving cereal boxes on the steel table in front of him. What’s wrong? You’ve always managed to avoid piss tests. 

Yeah, I know, I whispered, while reaching up and twisting the urn lid to make sure it was on tight. But Tom brought back a half kilo of Morphin’ Green from Munich yesterday. Ater we cut the brick up, I wanted to test its quality. Then we...kinda forgot to give Carl his cut.

Oh yeah? Where was I?

You an’ Chris were at the EM club. I held out the plastic bottle. So can you?

No can do. Harry from the eighty-first,was down at the club... . Ben picked up a box of Cheerios glancing at it before he shoved it in his pocket. He had some purple pyramid. We didn’t get back on base till an hour ago. Sorry, man.

Jerking the can of coffee grounds off the counter, I set it on the floor. I don’t see what you guys get out of doing that acid crap.

Ben went back to stacking cereal boxes. Why don’t you ask Pisano?

Hell no! Last time I did, he had so much alcohol in his system that it cost me two cartons of cigarettes for Carl to doctor the report.

Ben gave me a funny look. I heard a rumor about that.

Shrugging, I walked away. I’ll think of something.

Walking past the bread rack, I reached up, turning on the portable radio someone in years past had donated. It was tuned in to the Armed Forces Radio Network, the only English speaking station available. They played the same format every day, except Sunday. Two hours of elevator music followed by two hours of big band, followed by two hours of Mexican mariachi, by two hours of Sinatra and so forth. Listening to something my parents liked was difficult, but it was harder to work in silence. After an hour of silence, even listening to the propaganda messages the AFRN played every hour on the hour, became tolerable.

Do you know why you’re here?

It’s to protect a way of life  Without you, Russia would sweep 

Through Europe without any resistance.

You’re here to prevent that from happening...

CHAPTER TWO

April 10 th , 12 noon

Foreign Trade Ministry

The Palace of the Republic, East Berlin

Senator Bernard, pulled into the far end of the Palace’s empty parking lot and sat for a moment looking at his new passenger. Finally, with a smile he retrieved a passport from his breast pocket and held it out to the woman. Remember you are my secretary. Don’t say anything unless I look directly at you.

Nodding, she swallowed.

He cupped his hands around hers as she took hold of the passport. You’ll do fine.

She smiled and nervously exchanged the passport for a pair of white gloves from her purse. Meticulous about how she pulled them on as the senator drove the car toward the front of the building. When he put it in park, she remained silent and fidgeted with their fit while he got out. Satisfied, she waited for him to open her door, and together the two walked up the worn granite stairs to the front door.

A staff member, waiting at the door, whisked them to a modest meeting room lined with a mural of communist life. With no one at the large table, Senator Bernard seeing no cues for the seating arrangement, walked over to the most prominent chair and laid his briefcase in front of it. Looking around and satisfied with his choice, he glanced over at the minister’s aide and asked in flawless German, for a container of water with two glasses. The aide nodded as he glared in disdain at the senator’s companion and continued to stare at her, ignoring his request until she lowered her eyes. Even then, he didn’t move until the senator cleared his throat.

Before the aide returned, the Minister of Foreign Trade came into the room with a smile that quickly left when he saw the senator in his chair. But true to his political stature, he walked over and held out his hand, How may I help you, Senator?

Thank you for seeing me, Minister. Bernard rose to his feet and pumped the minister’s outstretched hand. As you know from my correspondence, I am concerned about repatriating the remains of American soldiers from the war, and I’m here on a fact finding mission about the possibilities.

The minister slid his finger along the surface of the large rectangular table as he walked silently around it to a chair with an over-sized picture of Stalin behind it. He fixed his eyes on the senator, then slipped into the chair and posed the question, What makes you think there are any American remains in the Democratic Peoples Republic of Germany?

Minister, the senator rolled his fingers into a fist, popping several knuckles, you know as well as I, that many American bombers were shot down over Berlin during the war.

The minister, pulling a silver cigarette case from his vest pocket, focused on his effort to carefully extract a cigarette from it. After he had succeeded, he forcefully tap the end of the cigarette against the case. Flamboyant with his act of lighting it, he deliberately blew the smoke in the senator’s direction. When the smoke dissipated without a reaction from the senator, the minister waved his hand around in circles as he responded to Bernard statement. Those planes have already been made into monuments honoring our glorious leaders.  Pointing to the bust of a soldier, Such as that one in the corner. So we have nothing that is important—

The minister’s aide interrupted him by placing the tray of bottled water in the center of the table, then sliding a folded slip of paper in front of the minister.

As I was saying, Senator... the minister reached over the note and poured himself a glass of water, we have nothing important that belongs to America.

Bodies! Bernard emphasized the word by tapping the table. He then picked up a bottle and poured part of it into a glass. We’re talking about bodies, Minister, not machines. I don’t care about the damn planes. He passed the glass to his companion. There are possibly over one hundred fifty airmen whose remains have not been accounted for. I’m here to try and get closure for those families.

The ash on his cigarette becoming the focal point of the minister’s attention during the senator’s speech, he slowly reiterated, Many of the Nazis’ prisoners of war were returned to you after their liberation. Careful with his movements, the bureaucrat leaned forward toward the ashtray in the center of the table. Tapping the ash into the glass container, he then casually ground the butt out. With a bored look on his face, the minister shifted his attention back to Bernard. However, what do you have to offer if we should find any remains?

I can’t negotiate for the American government, but I’m thinking possibly, that Congress could lift more trade barriers before our embassy is completed. That is, in exchange for repatriating our missing soldiers. Or they might possibly persuade some businesses to sell you new technology through a third party. That’s why I am here, to find possible options.

"All I see is a lot of extra work from my department for a maybe, Senator. It takes money