The Year of the Locust, page 42
“The Sea Stallion was built to take forty combat troops but nobody knew how many evacuees—most with just the clothes they were wearing and two of them relieved of their gold bars—the chopper was holding. A hundred—maybe more—were crammed on board, heading for a US aircraft carrier waiting offshore. Given the overcrowding, it wasn’t surprising Mom couldn’t see me.
“She struggled through the crush and started calling my name but the pilot had powered up hard and as the skids left the ground the evacuees gave a huge cheer, drowning out everything.
“Mom kept yelling for me, but there was no reply, and the chatter between the evacuees, mostly in Vietnamese, faded as they realized something was wrong. Mom pleaded with them to find her son but, of course, I wasn’t there.
“The only response was a murmur: he’s not with us. Mom had to admit what had happened—I didn’t get on board.
“She saw the load officer and got hard in his face. ‘Go back?’ he said to her. ‘No can do, lady. He’ll have to catch a ride on the next lift.’ ‘He’s seven, you idiot,’ she replied, and pointed at his headset. ‘Tell the pilot—he has to turn around!’
“The load officer reported back. ‘He can’t, there’s a chopper on the pad and he ain’t circling. He says he’s gonna contact people on the ground, tell ’em to look for him.’ ”
Corrigan shrugged again, fatalistic. “Mom knew that even if the pilot could contact anyone at the parking lot, who would do the looking? Would they even care with the embassy on fire and the North Vietnamese at the gates?”
CHAPTER 17
I watched Corrigan bend to the drawer again, imagining what it must have been like for a boy alone, lost behind enemy lines.
He handed me a yellowing paper folder and I saw it was an old CIA file, probably retrieved by him from the Tomb years ago. In it was an account of the final moments before the embassy fell. I couldn’t be sure but I suspected it was written by the agency’s then–station chief, Walter Corrigan—the father of the man sitting opposite me. I started to read.
It said that smoke from the fires in the embassy garden swirled up the side of the six-story building and across its roof. Located up there was the ambassador’s private helipad, and the document said a silver-and-blue Huey—a Bell Iroquois chopper—operated by Air America, the predecessor of GreenEnergy Inc., was on the pad with its rotors turning, ready for a quick escape.
The pilot was a twenty-eight-year-old maverick called Pete Wrigley—call sign Eagle 420—who had all his attention focused on the door opening onto the roof. He saw it burst open and the CIA head of station and his five remaining agents come barreling through. Two of them immediately swung behind the fifty-caliber door guns and flicked off the safeties, and the chopper lifted off and swung hard across the embassy compound.
The seven men on board looked down at the crowd swarming the parking lot to try to board another overloaded Sea Stallion. Outside the perimeter wall, it was far worse—the mass of people was huge, someone had found a garbage truck and was using it to smash a hole in the wall, and the marine guards, carbines at the ready, were setting up a defensive ring around the chopper.
Walt Corrigan was in the copilot’s seat, looking through the windshield. He had once seen the Irrawaddy River in full flood and miles of jungle turned into a moonscape by Agent Orange, but that didn’t compare to a city in its death throes. “Jesus,” he said.
“I guess the Viets must have heard,” Wrigley yelled back.
“Heard what?” Walt asked.
“Two more uplifts, then it’s Americans only.”
“Says who?” Walt asked, shocked.
“Kissinger. Twenty minutes ago. For the South Vietnamese, it’s now or never.”
“Didn’t we say we were never going to abandon them?” Walt asked bitterly.
Wrigley laughed. “You believed that shit?”
“I did once,” Walt replied. “I thought that was what we were fighting for.”
“I guess we’ve all done grown up,” Wrigley replied. “What does it say in the Bible? ‘For now we see through a mirror, darkly; but then, face to face.’ We see the truth, ain’t that what it means?”
Walt turned and stared at him: he had known Peter Wrigley for four years and he had never thought of him as someone who could quote the Bible.
The young pilot pointed to a broad swath of darkness below. It was the Saigon River with what looked like hundreds of fireflies on its surface. “Sampans and their lanterns,” he said. “They’re sailing out to try to find the Seventh Fleet. Sampans in an ocean in the middle of a storm. God help ’em—”
He suddenly held up his finger for silence: a message was coming through his headphones. His face turned ashen. “Roger,” he said, and clicked off. “Hold on!” he yelled at the door gunners, and executed a stunning combat roll and headed back toward the city.
“What the hell are you doing?” Walt yelled, trying to catch his breath.
“Going back.”
“Back?! Why?”
“Someone’s been left behind, some kid,” Wrigley yelled.
“Shit,” cursed Walt, and then, a second later, a huge orange fireball lit up the horizon as the entire Long Binh ammo dump exploded.
“You know that Saigon’s finished—we could die back there?” Walt asked.
“I know,” Wrigley replied.
“Whose kid anyway?”
“Yours,” Wrigley said, pouring on the power.
CHAPTER 18
“I was small for my age,” Corrigan said once I had laid the old agency file down.
“Before long, the crush of people trying to reach the choppers meant that I was trapped in a courtyard near the parking lot, trying hard not to cry. I had called for Mom so often my voice was hoarse and I had given up. Meanwhile my polo shirt was torn, and that had upset me badly—the shirt was new and Dad always got mad if I didn’t look after my things.” He smiled.
“The crowd kept surging, pushing past me, but somehow I reached the safety of a frangipani tree in the corner of the courtyard. I stared into the crowd and tried calling for Mom again. People ignored me but I knew she’d come. In my seven short years of experience, that’s what mothers always did.
“I would have kept calling, too, except that very close—on the other side of the perimeter wall just behind me—there were several explosions and, a second later, the sound of people screaming in agony. Years later, when I read the files, I learned that two men on motor scooters had driven into the crowd outside the gates, throwing hand grenades. Whether it was at the South Vietnamese they figured were US collaborators or to a clear a path for themselves into the compound, nobody ever discovered.
“The rain swept in harder, drenching me, and—trying to avoid the worst of it—I grabbed an American flag somebody had dropped and put it over my shoulders. In the air, Wrigley told Dad that Mom had said she thought I would probably be in the parking lot or close by, searching for her.
“Wrigley turned on the chopper’s searchlight and bathed the parking lot in white light. The mass of people were scared, trying to back away, and almost immediately a marine officer on the ground called through to the chopper, yelling at Wrigley to turn the damn light off: ‘I don’t need some idiot in a chopper attracting a hail of incoming,’ he said.
“Wrigley lied like a champion: ‘No can do, Major. Priority uplift—direct order of flag officer, Seventh Fleet. Talk to him.’
“Dad was barely listening, trying to find me among the crowd. He had no success and realized that with the surging mass of people, a Sea Stallion on the pad, and buildings surrounding the parking lot, the Huey—with a rotor measuring fifty feet across—was going to have a problem. He shouted to Wrigley: ‘You can’t land. Put her on the roof. We’ll go down on foot and find him.’
“Wrigley told Dad to keep looking. ‘Find him first, let me worry about the rest.’ Dropping lower, he kept the craft moving across the parking lot, approaching a small courtyard. Then, on a night that had seemed cursed in every way, a piece of luck…
“The rotor wash from the descending helicopter blew deeper into the courtyard until it reached the frangipani tree, blasting the leaves and blooms off the branches. Dad, searching the crowd, glanced across at the flying foliage.
“Through the stripped branches, in the back corner, huddled under the tree, he finally saw me. ‘Got him!’ he yelled, pointing.
“Wrigley shouted to the guys in the rear: ‘Gunners ready. Safety on.’ He sure as hell didn’t want anyone getting shot. ‘Now aim at the crowd.’
“He hovered over the courtyard and spoke into his headset mic. Loudspeakers on the chopper’s skids broadcast his voice in English and Vietnamese: ‘Stand back! That is an order. Stand back! We will open fire.’
“The crowd saw the guns swinging into position and ran. The war had been so crazy for so long, nobody doubted what Americans in an unmarked chopper were capable of.
“Dad said softly, ‘God help us,’ as he realized—Wrigley was going to bring the chopper down in the narrow space between the buildings and land it in the courtyard.
“An even wilder rush for the exits began; the crowd were terrified that the chopper’s main rotor was going to touch the walls and send ten thousand pounds of metal, engine, and jet fuel plunging to the ground on top of them.
“In the cockpit, Wrigley focused on the space between the walls, trying to judge the wind and rain gusting across the rooftops, ignoring the screaming people on the ground, picking his moment.
“He dialed back the power and guided the helicopter between the buildings. Dad, looking at the tips of the rotors, didn’t think they had a chance, but he dragged his eyes away and saw that I had stood up, staring—like everybody else—at the chopper descending into the courtyard.
“Dad’s fear was that, not recognizing the unmarked chopper as American, I might run. ‘Stay there, Lucas. Stay there,’ he said.
“Without warning, the chopper lurched as a violent blast of wind that meteorologists call a ‘roll eddy’ came over the top of one of the buildings and hit the craft, but Wrigley worked the rudder and stick fast as hell and brought the machine back toward the middle of the gap: ‘My God,’ Dad always said, ‘the guy could fly.’
“Wrigley took a breath; the immediate danger had passed. ‘No go, weather’s turnin’ bad,’ he said to everyone. Then he spoke to Dad: ‘Ever ridden a hook?’
“Dad realized immediately it was the only hope. ‘Once,’ he replied.
“Wrigley laughed. ‘Good, so it’s not like you’re inexperienced.’ Dad scrambled into the main cabin as Wrigley hit a switch. A crane swung out from the side of the craft.
“I watched from the ground and it looked surreal: a helicopter hovering in midair, towers of storm clouds rising above it, rain squalls hitting the buildings, the searchlight’s cone illuminating a frangipani tree, and—dropping down the façade of the burning embassy—a guy in a flak jacket standing on a hook, being lowered to the ground.
“In the rain and searchlight’s glare, I didn’t recognize my father. It wasn’t until the man started yelling that I realized who it was. ‘Run, Lucas! Run!’ he called.
“Finally I saw his face. ‘Dad!’ I called, and ran fast across the courtyard, through the cone of light, and into his outstretched arms. I felt him hug me, so tight it was as if he was never going to let me go.
“He secured the harness and called, ‘Set!’ to the men above. The cable tightened and the winch started to lift us.
“The crowd on the ground watched Dad and me—still draped in the flag—rise toward the chopper. As it started to gain altitude, we were both dragged on board.
“Wrigley killed the lights and Dad leaned forward and put his hand on the pilot’s shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said quietly, unable to say more in case his voice broke.
“Wrigley shook his head. ‘Just tell your boy to remember me, tell him at least Pete Wrigley did one decent thing in this lousy war.’
“He banked the chopper hard toward the river. The fireflies were thicker than ever and we followed them out toward the Seventh Fleet, where Mom—standing on the deck of the USS Blue Ridge—was keeping vigil. At dawn a junior officer told her a chopper had just signaled it had her husband and son on board. Staring across the South China Sea, she saw the helicopter appear over the horizon and then, a few minutes later, land on the deck.”
Corrigan shrugged, his account over, and I looked at him in amazement. “Quite a man, your father,” I said after a long pause. “We all know what would have happened if the North Vietnamese had captured the CIA station chief.”
He nodded, not saying anything. “But that’s parents, isn’t it?” I continued. “It’s like Rebecca told me yesterday—there’s a reason why DNA is built like a chain.”
Corrigan stared at me. “She’s a smart woman—probably too smart for us,” he said.
I was relieved to see he started to smile, and I grinned back. “Remarkable story,” I said. “I guess the other hero was the pilot—not bound by blood, he did it out of decency.”
“Yeah—a great man. Two weeks after the night in Saigon, Mom and Dad and I were at home in Washington when Dad got word about Pete. He had flown into the Mekong Delta on what was meant to be his last Air America mission—to bring out a South Vietnamese intelligence officer and his family who had been hiding out in one of the floating villages.
“I’ve looked through the files and it wasn’t clear whether it was an intelligence leak or even if the colonel was still alive, but shortly after nightfall as the chopper came in to land at an old coconut plantation, it was hit by four rocket-propelled grenades from a well-laid ambush.”
Corrigan paused. “Peter Michael Wrigley,” he said, “twenty-eight, the son of a pastor out of Possum Trot, Alabama, a young man who once said he liked dogs more than people, died as a secret soldier in a land he loved, on a flight to pick up a man who may have been already dead, on a mission that never existed.” He shook his head in sadness. “That’s the secret world for you, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 19
I kept looking at Corrigan, lost for words.
“You seem surprised at the story—you didn’t expect it?” he said, laughing. “You’ve gotta remember—this is the CIA, it’s full of secrets.”
I smiled and kept my eyes on his face; I couldn’t help but think that, stripped of his armor, he looked like one of the loneliest men I had ever met. He indicated my medical files. “Yes—as you suspected, I know about panic; so tell me—how often do you get the attacks?”
After the story he had recounted, I couldn’t see any point in evading it. “Once a week maybe, sometimes less.”
“Given what you went through, I had expected more. You should consider yourself lucky. Problem is, in your position, panic attacks present a risk. To you.”
“And to other people?” I said. “By that you mean you’re worried I might go postal?”
“Stronger people than us have,” he said. “There are always triggering events, and psychotherapy is considered the best way of controlling and treating them. But that’s not going to happen for someone sworn to secrecy, is it? I don’t see a spy sitting in group therapy. I could prescribe serotonin reuptake inhibitors but I don’t think you’d take them.”
I shook my head—no, I didn’t want to do that.
“It leaves one thing. As soon as the feelings of panic, the physical sensations—the elevated heartbeat and all the rest—become more familiar, they are usually less threatening and the attacks diminish. In other words, familiarity makes it fade. With a resilient person, time and rest—”
“What do you mean ‘time’?” I asked, alarmed. “I don’t have much of that, Lucas, I’m in the middle of… I mean, we’re tracking a man who is one of the most dangerous—”
“I know what you’re doing, Falcon told me,” he replied. “But you and I have discussed the symptoms—we know you’re suffering from a panic disorder. Okay, it’s not serious—not yet. But the Company’s guidelines are clear: I can’t allow you to return to active service.”
“No!” I said, starting to object, but he rode right over it.
“What do you want me to do, ignore the diagnosis? Forget the guidelines? I would never ask an intelligence agent to be unprofessional and you can’t expect it of me either, okay?”
I ran my hand through my hair but I could tell there was no use; the man wasn’t for turning. “How long?”
“Best practice says I should say we’ll reassess in six months. For you, I’ll call it three.”
Three months on the sidelines? I started to object loudly, about to slip the chain, but I came to my senses: Lucas was trying to help me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not your fault, I appreciate what you’re doing. It’s good of you…”
He smiled. “Thanks. Sounds like you might be the exception.”
“Exception to what?” I asked.
“You know what they say,” he continued. “There are only two types of people in the world. Those who hate Corrigan and those who haven’t met him yet.”
“Who says that?” I asked. “I’ve never heard that.”
“Thanks for lying,” he replied, laughing.
I laughed back.
“They’ll put you on light duties,” he explained. “Working on something from the past most likely.”
“I can still go to meetings?” I asked. “That counts as light duties?”
CHAPTER 20
I was already ten minutes late as I said a hurried goodbye to Corrigan and rushed out of the Original Headquarters Building heading for the Bubble. I pulled my cell phone out in midsprint.
As I expected, Rebecca—keen to hear the outcome of the meeting—picked up immediately. She didn’t even bother trying to hide how happy she was when I told her that I would be spending at least the next three months on the inactive list.
