'I can't be programmed.'
Debatable. The man's a zombie, Thorkelsen thought. He stood as still as death, the weight of his bag unnoticed.
'And the others can be?'
'Yes.'
'Have they been?'
'Yes.'
A fountain of information here. 'How? For what? Would you explain?'
'Brainwashing. The best ever. Their mission is to resume positions in the imperialist armed forces and society, assuming positions of control as available, and await orders. Some will enter business or politics. Most are unaware of their status. They will be activated by a post-hypnotic key at the proper time. One thousand Trojan horses.'
Cantrell spoke without emotion or inflexion, as if repeating a message he had often rehearsed for this one telling.
'Not that many prisoners are being returned.'
'Some must be retained for other employment.'
'How can you tell me this? If the others can't?' There had never been a hint of such a thing, though it was clear the Pentagon was covering something. That, it was pretty clear, was simply a prohibition on discussing maltreatment while interned.
'I couldn't be programmed. They couldn't break me.'
Debatable, Thorkelsen thought again. Not much of a man remained here.
He had his major story. A story of the decade. A sure prizewinner.
If it could be proven.
Prisoners of war returned as Communist agents… Nobody would believe it. 'How come they let you go, if you're beyond control?'
A frown twisted Cantrell's face. 'Bureaucratic error. The kind of screw-up that happens whenever people saddle themselves with the idiocy of a government. I didn't set them straight.' He began to show a little animation delivering that remark.
'What do you plan to do with this knowledge?'
'Nothing. I've done it.' He seemed puzzled by the question. 'You ask. I have to tell. They succeeded that much. I talk. I talk. I talk.'
'Shouldn't somebody be warned?'
'Why?'
'I don't understand. Why not?'
'Because I don't give a fuck. The Chinese did this to me. But you put me where they could get their hands on me.'
The Chinese? 'A pox on both our houses?'
'Yes.'
Certain he was interviewing a madman, Thorkelsen shifted his questioning to the mundane. 'What're your plans now? What're you going to do with all that back pay?'
'Buy me a guitar.'
'Eh?'
'Buy me a guitar. They wouldn't let me have a guitar.'
'That's all? That's your only ambition?'
'Yes. It's been six years. I'll have to learn all over again.'
Thorkelsen was convinced. This pot wasn't just cracked, it was shattered. Maybe the VA could put the man's head back together again.
'Thanks for your time, Sergeant. And good luck.' He was so sure it would draw belly laughs he promptly forgot the whole thing.
It didn't come back to him till, three years later, while working for a Los Angeles paper, he noted an AP wire- service story about a navy captain, ex-POW, who was resigning his commission to run for Congress.
'Hey, Mack,' he called to his editor. 'You see this about this ex-POW running for Congress in the Florida primary?'
'Yeah. Need more like him. 'Bout thirty of those men in the House, we might start getting this country back to what it's supposed to be.'
'I don't know…'
'What do you mean? A few real patriots up there…'
'I mean he might not be a patriot.'
