| Subject: The Anguish of Angels 2 |
Author:
Rox
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: 15:23:53 01/04/02 Fri
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "The Anguish of Angels (Sequel to Shadow of Simone)" on 22:01:11 01/02/02 Wed
It was late, but Michael couldn’t sleep. He paced the floor in Etienne’s room. He’d thought he would be over Simone by now and his son’s death. He thought at least time would lessen the pain of it all, but recent happenings had raked up old and bittersweet memories.
He went downstairs and turned on some music, and dug out his son’s photo album. Pouring a glass of red wine, he sat on the floor and visited old ghosts. . .
“Your turn.” Simone crooked her finger at Michael.
Michael stepped closer, looked over her shoulder and wrinkled his nose. “Now? Can’t my first diaper be a wet one?”
“You made him; you change him.” She said, dimples showing, as she handed Michael his son. “And don’t forget powder.”
Michael gingerly took his son’s tiny squirming body into his arms and laid him carefully on the bed. Etienne looked up at him with slightly unfocused eyes and waved his tiny fists in the air, as if excited at seeing his father.
“Talk me through the sequencing?” Michael begged his wife.
Simone laughed. “Okay. Step one--get a clean diaper. Step two--undo the dirty one, but don’t--
“Don’t what?” Michael asked, uncovering his son and getting a startling eyeful of pale, yellow liquid.
“Umm, uncover him--yet.” Simone mashed her lips together to keep from laughing. Her dimples gave her away however.
Michael first looked disgusted, then laughed. “Anything else I should know before I continue?”
Simone smirked and gave him a box of diaper wipes, “Just remember two things.”
“What two things?” Michael asked, wiping his face before turning aside and carefully lifting the diaper once again.
“It’s always loaded--and everything washes off.”
Memories sweet and terrible. Michael fingered the wispy lock of his son’s hair that Simone had put in the photo album. God, he missed them. Missed them both.
Everyone ever dear to him was lost. All except Nikita, and because of him, she grieved over a child of his making. A child most wanted, but who had had no future from its conception. He’d been a fool to take such chances with Nikita’s happiness, not to mention, her life!
Michael closed the album angrily and tossed it on the couch. It hit the edge and fell on the floor, dislodging several photographs. Wearily, he reached over to fix the mess he’d made, only to pause upon finding a sealed envelope addressed to Operations, written in Simone’s hand.
Fear and curiosity mixed in his gut as he unsealed the envelope and drew out a wrinkled photograph and a hand-written letter. It read:
Dear--scratch that. You aren’t “dear” even if you are my father. However, after our discussion yesterday, I must at least say thank you for my baby’s life. Sorry to have disturbed you with the news that you were ordering the death of your grand-child, but it couldn’t be helped.
I’ve hated you most of my life. I hated that you never bothered to marry my mother. I hated you for leaving before I was born. I hated you for deserting us in Viet Nam and forcing Mama into prostitution. But these things can’t be changed. They were bad times; bad years. They are over now.
Did you know Marie was murdered? It’s all right. I murdered her murderer. Strange, isn’t it? That’s what put me into Section. God does have a sense of humor.
I remember the first day I saw you. Your hair wasn’t brown anymore, but I had this picture of you and the face was the same. Grey eyes. It hurt that you didn’t know me, but then why should you? You left before Mama knew she was pregnant with me.
This letter is to tell you not to worry, I won’t let anyone know of your youthful indiscretions. (I’m not even sure I will get brave enough to send this to you.) All I want from you now are the lives of my husband and my child. No more. No less. I think you owe me that much, mon pere. For the sake of my mother, who died with your name on her lips, I forgive you. Go in peace. Simone
Michael stared at the photograph in stunned silence. Simone was Operation’s daughter and he knew it! He knew it and still kept her in Section! He knew it and still sent her on missions! He knew it, and still allowed her to prostitute herself!
The photograph showed a much younger Operations with his arms around a Vietnamese woman, who looked like slightly plumper version of Simone. He wore the fatigue uniform of an American Army captain. On the back of the photo was an inscription in French: Captaine Paul Wolfe et moi, Saigon 31 Mai 62.
‘Simone!’ Michael thought in anguish. He remembered their last moments together. It had been such a shock seeing her so changed--her beautiful, long hair roughly severed; her once perfectly manicured hands, bent and broken by torture; her smooth, honey-colored skin scarred with cigarette burns and worse. ‘Oh, God! Simone! And Operations knew!!’
* * *
Operations sat at his desk and stared at the face of his enemy. Lt Col To Nhan, now General To Nhan. and the darkness of the past closed over him as he remembered. . .
Thanh Hoa Prison, North Viet Nam, December 1963
It was the screams that woke him--his own. Paul had fallen asleep, something he had thought impossible to do, squatting naked in the three foot square bamboo cage. He had had no food or water for three days and no sleep for longer than that.
Someone had opened the cage dumping him into the slimy, fly infested pile of his own excrement that had collected beneath his hanging prison. The sudden rush of blood to his bluish legs was excruciating. He was kicked twice in the kidneys for good measure, to encourage him to be silent.
“Ang ten zee?” Came a question from the uniformed North Vietnamese officer, standing over him.
From behind, a gentle voice repeated the question in softly accented English, “He wants to know your name, sir.”
Paul wrapped his bare arms around his bare legs to keep them from further unfolding.
“Who are you?” Paul asked of the voice behind him. He couldn’t turn around, or bear to move.
“Lt Tran Quac Hung, Nimbus Team, South Vietnamese Army.”
“Where are we?”
“Thanh Hoa prison.”
Another kick, this time in Paul’s ribs reminded him he had other guests.
“Tell that rat f--k my name is Paul S. Wolfe, Captain, United States Army, and he can guess my goddamn serial number!” He groaned.
“I shall be most honored to tell him that,” Tran replied, with a faint edge of humor to his voice, and did so.
The officer looked severe, “Toy kung hey-oh.”
Paul smiled grimly. Tran had indeed addressed the officer as “rat f--k”, and the officer was saying he didn’t understand.
“Do you think he would believe “rat f--k” is a title of praise?” Paul asked, with a grim smile. He never heard Tran’s answer. The next blow caught him in the back of the head and pushed him into unconsciousness.
“Sir?”
There was tapping on the wall. ‘Morse code?’ Paul opened his eyes and was immediately sorry. The light from a single naked bulb overhead stabbed through his head like a shard of glass, so painful, that he felt nearly overcome with nausea.
“Sir?” Came the voice again. Then the tapping continued.
“What?” He finally managed--anything to stop that tapping!
“Are you all right?”
Ignoring what he thought to be a totally stupid question, Paul asked, “How long have I been out?”
“Nearly a day.”
Paul swallowed the saliva that kept filling his mouth, trying not to throw up.
“Who’s the senior officer?” He finally managed to ask.
There was a pause, then came the soft answer, “You are, sir. Now.”
Even the pain couldn’t keep an ironic smile from flitting across his face. “Great. Just f’ing great.”
Burned into his brain by his senses, Operations remembered the sight of terribly young faces, gaunt and hopeless; the smell of unwashed bodies, urine and feces; the sour taste of fermenting rice and rotten fish heads; the sounds of screams, and prayers and the giggles of those long insane. And Lt Col To Nhan. His jailer and nemesis. A chess master as well a master SyOps tactician. The son of Satan himself! A re-match at last!
Back rushed the hours that were all the same, horrible for their mind numbing routine, broken only by torture and interrogation. Hours and days. Days and weeks. Months and Years.
And always he and Lt Col To Nhan remained.
“I can’t keep the flies away.” The young Marine wept silently as he watched them swarming around the open, festering wounds on his chest and broken arms.
“You want them there, Greg.” Paul said wearily, from his adjoining cell.
“Why, sir?” Pale blues eyes blinked back tears as he struggled to be brave.
“They’ll lay their eggs in your wounds and when the maggots hatch, they’ll eat out all the dead tissue. Keeps you from getting gangrene.”
Paul listened to the nineteen-year-old Marine sob himself to sleep. . . and knew what it was to hate!
* * *
It had kept him alive and seared him to his soul. All those long, dark years ago. And now fate had arranged for his revenge! Operations smiled in savage anticipation.
* * *
“So, tell me,” Nikita said, sitting down at
Walter’s workbench. “How do you know the General?”
Walter rubbed the back of his neck and paced for a
oment before he looked at Nikita. “I was a guest of his, in Viet Nam.”
“You were a POW?”
Walter hesitated, then nodded.
“Was it very bad?” Nikita asked gently.
Walter didn’t answer, but looked at her. His eyes told Nikita, the answer.
“This mission seems to be very important to Operations. Do you know why?”
“He and the good General go way back. They spent eleven years in each other’s company.” Walter’s voice had a sarcastic edge.
“Then you knew Operations, back during the war?”
“No. We never met while we were in Nam. But I knew of him. He was at Thanh Hoa; I was sent to the Hanoi Hilton.”
“How did you know of him, then?”
“From transferring prisoners, mostly. He was notable for keeping the men in his command alive and their morale up. I heard one tale where the Gooks took a group photo of his men to use for propaganda purposes. Operations ordered them to cooperate and even to smile for the camera. It wasn’t until the photo hit the wire services in the States that “Charlie” realized they’d been had!” Walter laughed briefly.
“Why? And who’s Charlie?”
“Charlie--gooks--VC--all names for the North Vietnamese Army. And, well, along with the smiles, the men were all ‘shooting the finger’ at the camera. It was private message to the folks back home not to believe the propaganda of good treatment. The treatment we got, sucked, to say the least.” Walter’s expression went from amused to bitter in seconds.
“What happened?” Nikita asked gently.
“Look, Sugar. I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Walter, I only asked because I care.” Nikita touched his cheek.
“I know.” His weathered hand cupped hers against his face. “But understand this, what happened over there was a waste. We fought a war with no rules, and no honor. We killed and died for objectives that were nothing more than lies and broken promises. Our government sent our best and brightest to their deaths, and betrayed some of the finest men I’ve ever known. It’s done now and can’t be changed. But I’ll never forget as long as I live . . . “ Walter’s voice broke and his eyes filled with tears.
“What, Walter? Were you tortured?” Nikita put her arms around him and held him as he had done for her.
He squeezed her tightly once and broke away. Wiping the tears away with the heels of his hands, he sniffed once, then continued through grit teeth, “Tortured? That was the easy part. No, what I can’t forget are the looks on the faces of the ‘Yards when we were repatriated.”
“The yards?”
“Our allies, the mountain people; the Montagnards. They were the gentlest, kindest, most courageous people I’ve ever known. All they wanted was to be free of Communist oppression. They are a racial minority in Viet Nam and the Commies used them for slave labor. We told them we would help them get free and they gave us everything they had to give--they bet their lives on us and we simply left them to their fate. They pleaded with us to take them with us! They begged us to at least take their children. They ran to our helicopters holding up their babies, trying to hand them to us as we took off--but our government had signed a deal for our release at the Paris Accords and it didn’t include the disposition of the Montagnards. We wrote them off! We just wrote them off, like equipment abandoned in place.”
“I’m so sorry, Walter. I didn’t know.” Nikita felt overwhelmed, and started to cry.
“Yeah, well, like I said. It’s over now and no one wants to hear about it anyway.” He turned his attention to something on his workbench and Nikita knew it was time to leave him alone.
* * *
“Nikita!”
Nikita turned to see Birkoff in a broken run. “What Birkoff?”
“Have you see Michael? Operations is looking for him.”
“No. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.” And that was strange, now that Nikita thought about it.
Birkoff looked worried, and ran a hand through his
short hair, “Well, no one’s seen him since yesterday.”
“What do you mean?” Nikita asked with alarm.
Birkoff lowered his voice, “I’ve been trying since early this morning to raise him on his cell phone and he’s not answering. I’ve been covering for him all morning--he has a briefing at 0900 and now Operations is looking for him.”
“Did you check his quarters?”
“That’s just it--he didn’t stay in quarters last night.” Birkoff said, looking around to see if anyone could overhear their conversation.
“But we were on close quarters standby--”
“Yeah, I know, but Michael went home.”
“That’s not like Michael.”
Birkoff shook his head in agreement and shrugged helplessly. “What do I do?”
“Stall for time.” Nikita said pulling on her jacket, “while I go look for Michael. He must be in trouble.”
“Stall! What do you think I’ve been doing???” Birkoff blustered.
“I know you’ll think of something, Birky, you always do.” With that Nikita left, leaving Birkoff half pleased in her confidence in him, and half angry that she had asked him to do the impossible.
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 
