'Mark on top,' I said, as a small cluster of structures zipped by me on the monitor. 'I want another look at that. Maximum magnification.'
Lab Rat slaved the J-TARPS to that geographic spot and asked the pilot to orbit overhead. He did so, and the picture was remarkably stable.
It was a small cluster of huts, along with one main building built out of wood. Smoke from the fires was drifting into it, and I could see people running and probably screaming, their mouths moving and wild expressions on their faces. Where they were going, I had no idea. The fire was moving up on them rapidly, and I could see no place nearby that they'd be safe.
'Who is that?' Lab Rat said suddenly. He jumped up and pointed at one figure on the screen. 'She's not Vietnamese.'
'Get in closer,' I said. 'Now ? Jesus, now.'
The picture flickered, then zoomed in hard on the figure that had caught Lab Rat's attention. It was a woman, a tall white woman, clearly distinguishable from the families of Vietnamese flooding past her. Unlike her counterparts, she was facing toward the fire, pointing and talking to a large man in her company.
There was something about her posture, about the way she moved, that reminded me ? oh, dear God.
'It's Pamela Drake,' I breathed, scarcely daring to believe it myself. 'God damn, Pamela Drake, the ACN reporter. And that man must be part of her video crew.'
'What's she doing in a small Vietnamese village?' Lab Rat said, his voice beyond surprise and into sheer shock. 'She's gotta get out ? Admiral, the fire's moving that way and she's not making any effort to get to safety.'
'She wouldn't,' I said grimly. 'Pamela Drake is as bad as any fighter pilot. She's invulnerable, don't you know? Just like all of the rest of them.'
And indeed, that had been the case in most conflicts that Ms. Drake had covered. She'd been a continual pain in the ass to both Tombstone and me, but her sheer, raw courage and tenacity had always evoked a grudging admiration from both of us, even when she interfered with military operations.
'Finally ? she's leaving,' Lab Rat said. Pamela had turned away from the fire and was following the path of the Vietnamese. A few had remained behind, dragging at her arms and urging her to leave the area. 'But where are they headed?'
'See if the pilot can follow them,' I said.
Lab Rat spoke in the radio, relaying my request. The pilot's voice was doubtful.
'They're disappearing into the trees, Home Plate. I may fly low, but I can't get that low. I can't see them under the canopy, and there's no indication of a road.'
'Is there anything around? Anything that can provide them shelter?' I demanded. 'Water? Some stretch that's bare of vegetation?'
'Nothing I can see. Hey, Home Plate, glad to oblige you guys' ? the pilot clearly had no idea of who he was talking to ? 'but I gotta get the hell outta here. My visibility's getting obscured and this rising hot air is playing havoc with my low levels. So, if it's just the same with you guys, I'm outta here.'
'Tell him to go ahead,' I said to Lab Rat.
The picture stayed locked on the burning village as long as the J-TARPS pod was capable of doing so, but eventually it wavered and then slaved back to the forward view from the aircraft. I had Lab Rat freeze the last frame of the village on the screen.
The flames had crept to the edge of the clearing, and were now nibbling at the small building inside it. There were no people anymore ? they'd all fled. One pig wandered around the compound, confused and lost.
Where had they gone? The villagers had looked as if they'd known where they were going, but what refuge did they have from the flames there? What was it I didn't know about these mountains, these hills?
Another worry intruded. Where was Tombstone? I knew he was on the ground in Vietnam, but the circumstances and conditions of his mission meant that he was completely out of touch with us. Was he anywhere near the burning airfield, the fire spreading out in giant plumes around it?
I could only hope and pray not. Collateral damage to this small village that I'd watched was bad enough, but the possibility that I'd just torched my old lead was almost more than I could bear. The devastation that nuclear weapons would wreak on this beleaguered country was just beyond imagining.
One thing I knew for certain. If Pamela Drake was around, Tombstone couldn't be far.
7
After two days in camp, I'd uncovered far more than I'd ever thought possible about the lives of the men who'd lived and died there. At first, the cryptic markings meant little, other than the comment from my own father to 'go west.' Even that was open to interpretation ? how far west? Russia, as I'd originally thought? Or another camp to the west somewhere in this part of the world, perhaps Laos or Cambodia?
The other messages I found scratched into wood and etched in concrete were less meaningful. Some were clearly parts of prayers, left to encourage either the writer or others that followed. Others bespoke immense pain, anguish beyond anything I could imagine. There were simple ones 'I am dying.' The longer I stared at that particular one, the more I began to see images of the man who must have written it.
I'm not some New Ager that believes in ghosts and channeling spirits from the other world, but I've had some experience with the inexplicable. The scratchy feeling I always get along my spine right before I hear an enemy fire-control radar. The impulse to wake up and tour my squadron in the middle of the night, back when I was in command, only to find something that had gone wrong and needed my attention ? or just a sailor who needed to talk. Call it ESP, call it command instinct, or just call it survival skills. Whatever it was, I knew about it. This was something different, and I chalked most of it up to my imagination. The longer I stared at those words, the more a face began visualizing in my mind. Gaunt, terribly drawn. Stubble clipped short along the jaw. A massive bruise along the right cheekbone, spreading over to encompass a black eye shot with purple and yellow around the eye.
I imagined him to be a man slightly shorter than myself, the same sort of build when well fed, but emaciated now from lack of food. He would be a brave man, although I doubt he would have believed that himself. The face I imagined bore scars from repeated beatings, the body bruised and welted in an ominous, indiscernible pattern. One arm looked as though it had been broken and reset badly, with a limited range of motion.
This man ? I had no name, merely this vision I created in my mind ? was a survivor. I imagined him bearing up under pain beyond anything I'd ever experienced, yielding only when it drove him completely out of his mind into sheer survival desperation. Then the words would come halting, slow, revealing as little as possible as he tried to lie. They would have known that, when he started lying, and the beatings would have gotten worse.
Still, he would have never broken completely. He would have been one of those men of incredible depth who are able to face their own limits, go past them, and rebound into some form of resistance. He would have brought strength to the others imprisoned there by his sheer determination and example. Had he been very senior? I considered the matter, then decided not. No, there have been others who'd taken command in the close-knit POW community, others who'd borne the ultimate responsibility for the performance of the men held captive there. But this man, the one who'd scratched those simple words on the wall, would have been one of their mainstays, the example that they held out to the others.
Had he died here?
Probably. I'd read the reports of the POW camps that were examined thoroughly, and I'd never found one that matched this location. But his message seemed more one last calm attempt to convey information than the anguished howl of a man who knew he would not survive.
But why had he not signed his name? Why not add that one word, just a last name, that would have identified him to the rest of the world?
Perhaps he wrote those words not just for himself, but for those men around him who were made of lesser
