The Mangrove Coast (11 page)

That kind of stubbornness. Her father had been like that….

I was looking at her face, her hands, learning what I could about her: she’d once had braces, had had an eye surgery, was right-handed, a nonsmoker, had a pencil callus on the inside of her middle finger—probably meant that she was
an artist or wrote in a journal. She kept her nails short, polished, too … but it had been a while. No dates recently. No one to look nice for, maintain all the little hygienic details.

Maybe the woman had little emotional shelters for every occasion.

So what choice did I have? I told Amanda that I would share what I knew. By which I meant that I would tell her all that I was allowed to tell her about our time in Southeast Asia … and maybe hedge a little bit by telling her more than I was allowed to tell. But not much more.

I explained to her that, in the years following the Vietnam war, the United States maintained a military presence in places such as the Philippines, South Korea, places in Indonesia and Malaysia, so it wasn’t so unusual for her father to be pulling operations in places like Thailand. I didn’t mention that Thailand abuts Cambodia and I did not mention that an ethnic and political component of that nation, the Khmer Rouge, was slaughtering millions of its countrymen in nightly raids and in some hellishly one-sided firefights.

Let her look at a map, read some history if she wanted to put the pieces together. It was all there; plenty of photographs of all those skulls piled up. How many millions had died?

Something else I did not mention was that some very savvy and competent American intelligence officers—Bobby Richardson being one of them—were investigating the possibility that at least a few and, perhaps, several dozen, American servicemen listed as missing in action after Vietnam were actually being held in prison camps in the eastern regions of Cambodia.

Bobby and his team didn’t necessarily believe it, but they were investigating: MIA guys too deeply hidden to fuel the rumors, but they were there, just across the border of Vietnam.

Or so a few powerful people seemed to suspect….

The MIA guys, that was Bobby’s pet project. I was
never much involved, simply because I doubted that such camps actually existed. Why would the Cambodians or the Vietnamese invest sizable amounts of time and money to secretly maintain American POW camps? There was no political leverage to be gained, no monetary profit. The premise sailed all the familiar red flags that I associate with conspiracy theories, and I do not believe in large-scale conspiracies. If I ever meet more than three or four people who can actually keep a secret, then maybe I’ll reconsider.

So … Bobby and I were both working in Cambodia. Along with his MIA project, he was assigned to train and lead guerrilla groups made up of a mountain people known as the Phmong. I was assigned to gather intelligence relating to the support or lack of support among Cambodian academicians for Pol Pot, leader of the CPK, the Communist Party of Kampuchea.

That Bobby and I would be thrown together and work some of the same missions wasn’t in our official orders, but it was something that two Americans, alone and in Asia, would naturally do. It was a brutal, brutal time in a fascinating area, and had anyone discovered what we were doing and why we were doing it, there was no doubt about how we would have been dealt with.

The story I had told Amanda about decapitation was true.

And there were other scenarios. Worse things to fear …

So, yeah, I watched Bobby’s back and he watched mine, and after just a few months we were buddies and confidants to a degree experienced only by those who have shared the uric-fear of being isolated and under fire in a foreign land.

His letter home was quite correct: After what we’d gone through, a couple of decades changed nothing.

I told Amanda Richardson, “Your father didn’t die in Thailand.”

We’d found a quiet spot off by ourselves at the very end of the dock complex. She’d plopped down on the boards
and sat with her legs dangling over the water like a kid sitting on a bridge.

Now, as I spoke, she sat back a little and said, “Oh,” listening very closely.

I pressed ahead. “Bobby … your dad … was killed in the mountains of Cambodia. It wasn’t on a training mission and it wasn’t because he was screwed up, made a mistake and stepped on a mine. He was a high-level intelligence officer—some said brilliant—who knew exactly what he was doing … who knew the risks involved. He died fighting for what he believed was a …” I paused. How to say it honestly? Bobby was a patriot in his way, but he was no toy soldier, he wasn’t naive. He didn’t believe in noble causes or that war was a contest between good and evil. Bobby was a pragmatist; a professional. Finally, I said, “He died fighting for what he believed was reasonable and …
right.
Few men have that honesty of conviction. As his daughter, you should be proud of that; be proud of him and the work he did. Something else is … what I hope is … that you’ll respect the code of silence that his work required. And still requires.” Looking at her across the table, I added, “Do you understand what I’m saying, Amanda? What I’m asking?”

She didn’t respond for several seconds. Finally: “His death was no accident?” Shocked, but very calm about it.

“No. Not more than any other death in war is accidental … random.”

“Then how?”

“He was working as an advisor … no, that’s not true. Your dad was in command of a group of Phmong guerrillas who were on a mission to blow up—”

She interrupted: “What guerrillas?”

“The Phmong. It’s a generic term; not a very nice one, really. But the actual name of a tribe—well, there were two tribes—the Saochs and Brao from the Elephant Mountains and near the Laotian border. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. Your dad was leading a group of Phmong men on a strike against a munitions storage dump. Or some
village that had stockpiled a lot of weaponry. I’m not sure; he wasn’t specific when he talked about it. But somehow the government forces were tipped off and nailed your dad’s group with a mortar strike. It wasn’t a mine and it wasn’t a training mission. That’s how your dad died.”

“And this was after the Vietnam war ended.”

“Yeah. Way later.”

“But why? Were we ever at war with Cambodia? I’m no historian, but I can’t remember—”

“We weren’t at war with Cambodia. Not officially. There was this Communist army, the Khmer Rouge, that took over the country right after the U.S. pulled out of Vietnam. It was led by an electronics student, Saloth Sar, but he called himself Pol Pot. The Khmer slaughtered anyone who got in their way. So it was like a war. Maybe worse.”

“But why?”

“You want the truth? Sar’s army was made up of many thousands of teenaged boys who were pissed off about having their farms and fields and families bombed during the Vietnam war. They were uneducated and they hated anyone who was educated. They had the weapons and they had permission. So they started killing and kept killing. That’s what your father was trying to stop.”

“Then what you’re asking me, the thing you just mentioned, that’s why: a code of silence. Confidentiality is what you’re asking for. You don’t want me to repeat what you’ve just said.”

“That wouldn’t be reasonable to ask, so I won’t ask it. What I’m saying is, be very picky about who you tell. Your mother, she should know. She deserves to hear the truth.”

“When we find her, I’ll let you tell her.”

I liked the way she said that. The confidence in her voice.

I said, “And your children, they should know about their grandfather. Maybe your husband when you marry. But if you leave here in a huff and run to the newspapers crying
about how your government lied to you about the death of your father, then I’ll disappear from the picture. That’s the silence I’m asking you to respect.”

Another long, thoughtful pause. “You’re sure about this? Were you there when my father was killed?”

“No. I learned of it two, maybe three, days later. Some of the Phmong told me, the mountain warriors. They had tremendous respect for your father.”

“They’re the ones who brought back his body?”

I could have said, “What was left of it.” Instead, I said, “He was killed in a mortar attack. Yes. They were there and brought him back. It happened not too far from our camp.”

“If you weren’t there, then how do you know what they said is true?”

I could have said that I saw the hand, the foot, the flesh detritus of what remained. Instead, I said, “They would have lied to protect your father, but they had no reason to lie. With your father gone, they had no one they needed to protect. So why make up stories?”

She was asking some pretty good questions. Not suspicious, but careful—checking up on this and that to let me know she was keeping track.

“Something else you said, it bothers me. Not that I don’t believe what you’re saying, I’m just trying to be clear. The business about his being an intelligence officer. In every picture of him, he’s wearing a Navy uniform, but now you’re telling me he was like some kind of CIA person. What were you guys, spies?”

“I was what I am now, a marine biologist. Your father was with Naval Special Warfare, the SEALs, and attached to Naval Intelligence. He was a very gifted man. We became close friends quickly. Bobby was smart, funny, tough … a good person; a good guy. He had a photograph of you, a Polaroid, that he loved. At night, just sitting, talking, he’d bring out this picture and pass it around. We had Coleman lanterns for light. It was you in a yellow party dress.”

I thought that would please her. Instead she seemed momentarily flustered. “You mean a picture of when I was an infant.”

“Uh-uh. You were four, maybe five, years old. There were a couple of people in the background, maybe your mother.”

“Oh, that old.” She had her face turned away, looking out the window. Then I realized what the problem was: seeing the photograph meant that I had seen her before a surgeon had straightened her wandering eye. I knew what she had once looked like … probably what, in her own mind, she was supposed to look like … and the fact that I knew made her uneasy.

So I decided to confront the subject: “I remember telling your father that you had a wonderfully wise face. I loved your eyes.”

“You said that?”

“I did.”

Which earned me a snort of cynical laughter. “You’re telling me … you’re saying that you liked the fact that I was cross-eyed? I’m supposed to believe that? Maybe you have us confused. My mom’s the one with the gorgeous eyes.”

“Nope, I liked yours. A lot.”

“I’m supposed to believe that, just like I’m supposed to believe that the reason you were with my dad in Cambodia was because you were a marine biologist? Jesus.”

“Both true.”

“I’m sure.” Her tone said: bullshit.

“Cambodia’s on the Gulf of Thailand. There’s a species of fish there, the ox-eye tarpon that I was studying. There are only two species of tarpon on earth. And there are some interesting islands off a place called Saom Bay. Rain forest and thatched huts built on poles. Every afternoon at sunset, these giant fruit bats would drop down out of the high trees. When they extended their wings, you’d hear a popping sound, like parachutes opening. That’s how big they were.”

“You sound so reasonable.”

“I try to be. I was associated with a thing called the Studies and Observations Group.”

“I bet.”

“That happens to be the truth, too.”

“Oh yeah? So, if you worked near the ocean, then how did my father happen to be in the mountains when he was killed in a mortar attack? You said it didn’t happen too far from camp. You remember saying that?”

Smart woman. Not looking around at the boats now; was looking right at me, showing me with her expression that she wasn’t a child and she wasn’t a fool. Not angry, but stony; chilly and a little judgmental.

I said, “Not all mountains are inland. Some rise out of the sea.”

“And that’s where you’re saying your camp was.”

I thought about it a moment before I replied. “I guess if you were applying the thirty-second rule I’d be in big trouble, huh?”

“Unless you come up with something convincing in the next five or ten seconds. But yeah, it would have to happen pretty quick.”

“What I told you … it’s true, like I said. Factual, anyway. But it’s not entirely honest.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Fact only requires accuracy. Honesty requires disclosure.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Except the part about the Studies and Observations Group. And your eyes. The way you looked in that photograph, very wise for a little girl. I really did like your eyes. And they weren’t crossed, just off center.”

She said, “Uh-huh, a thing of beauty,” her tone saying once again: bullshit.

Her little white Honda Civic was parked in the feather-duster shade of a coconut palm. She said it got great mileage and had a decent sound system.

Two necessities of Generation X: music and considerations of mobility.

As I escorted her across the dusty parking lot, I told her to give me a few days; time to check with some people, think it over, maybe come up with a simple and productive course of action.

“What we might have to do is hop on a plane, fly to Cartagena and have a look around,” I said, “but let’s hope I can fit a few pieces together and narrow down the options.”

My saying it—we may have to fly to Cartagena—seemed to make the prospect real, and I could tell that it set her back a little. “Colombia,” she said, her tone a little less vivid. “That’s like one of the drug countries, right? Do you know anything about the place?”

“Some,” I said. “A little.”

The less she knew about my years in Central and South America, the better.

Something else I told her to keep in mind was, If we did find her mom, and if Gail still refused to leave Merlot, there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.

“I know, I know,” she replied. “All I want is a chance to get her alone and talk some sense into her. If we go, I can cover our expenses. I’ve got some money in savings and there’re some bonds I can cash in. Plus, Frank’s offered to kick in if things get expensive. The big spender, he’s so damn worried.
Right.
“She let that settle before she added, “The point being, I’m not asking you to pay your own way.”