Phantom Leader Part 48

"Just don't fart. Whatever you do, don't fart."

"Don't you." Flak started to giggle. "We'd never make it through the day."

"We'd be outta here like corks from a bottle." Frederick had a hard time suppressing his laughter. "Say," he said, suddenly serious. "You don't have diarrhea or anything, do you?"

"No, thank G.o.d. Not anymore. How about you?"

"Yeah," Frederick said, glum now, "I've had some trouble."

Flak Apple sniffed. "Personally, I don't think it would make any difference. These clothes smell like s.h.i.+t anyhow."

They lay still a few minutes.

"You think we're going to make it to the Emba.s.sy? What about the guards? They're probably Viet," Frederick said.

They spoke in low voices.

"We've made it this far. d.a.m.n near twenty blocks. Only a few more to go. As for the guards, we'll create a diversion.

Throw a rock or something. Then climb over the wall into the compound.

POC.".

"POC? What's that?"

"Piece of cake," Flak said.

"I'll tell you, this is it for me. I'm not going back into jail.

I'm going to make it out of here one way or the other."

Frederick's whisper was a harsh rasp.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I get away, completely away, or I'm dead. Simple as that. I'm not going back. I can't take anymore."

Flak had heard on the fighter pilots' grapevine that Ted Frederick was a hard man, a resister. A man of Maine toughness who gave no quarter and asked none. He had been surprised Frederick had been so compa.s.sionate and understanding with him, especially his shame and misery at signing the statement. But they had spoken through the tap code for long hours on the wall and Frederick had, Flak thought, revealed himself as a gentle man whose toughness had come through in his abiding faith in his G.o.d, his country, his fellow POWs, and himself. Frederick had given Flak guidance and tender succor as he had come to grips with the harsh facts of his shootdown, his wounds, his captivity, and-worst of all-the reality that Americans both at home and in Hanoi were siding with the enemy to condemn him and his fellow POWs as, if not war criminals, at least as dupes of a fascist government.

"Sure you can," Flak said. "You can take anything.

You're too tough to give in."

"Who said anything about giving in?" Frederick snapped.

"If I'm caught, I'll fight the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and take as many with me as I can."

Flak checked the screwhole. It was bright as a tiny bulb.

"We've got about fifteen hours of daylight to go, 0 mighty warrior. What say we log some Zzs?" Frederick agreed. Flak had to turn away to face the wall so they could squirm and double up spoon fas.h.i.+on and be moderately comfortable. A jar sc.r.a.ped the rough concrete.

"Hey," Frederick said behind Flak's back. "One of us should stay awake.

Sort of pull guard duty. Wouldn't do for both of us to be c.r.a.pped out at the same time. I'll take the first watch."

"Good man," Flak said over his shoulder. "Wake me in a few hours with some tea, will you, old boy?" He folded his hands together under his cheek and tried to sleep. The gray eye of the screwhole above his head glowed like an electric eye.

First the hard concrete bit into his hipbone. He wriggled slightly to take the pressure off. Then the mold of the crumbling walls a.s.sailed his nostrils. It reminded him of the damp and mildew he had found as a child when he used to play under the front porch of the home where he had been raised in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. "Allie," he heard his mother call as he fell asleep. "Allie, where are you? Dinner's ready." He slept, seeing the mounds of food on the Thanksgiving table before him. Food he could see but not touch.

He awoke with a start. He guessed it was close to noon.

Frederick was nudging him. He tilted his head back.

"Somebody out there," Frederick whispered into his ear.

"Take a look."

Flak raised up on his elbow and pressed his head to the tiny gray hole.

Something was moving just outside the tomb entrance. Something close, too close to focus on, a black and-brown blur. Then he heard snuffling and a whine.

"Oh G.o.d," he breathed to Frederick. "It's a dog. I can see it now.

d.a.m.n near a puppy." They heard the dog whine and make scratching noises with his paws as it dug at the door.

"Oh s.h.i.+t, it smells us."

"See anybody with it?" Frederick hissed.

OEM.

"Can't tell. It's too close. Blocks the hole." The dog made impatient yips as it pawed and clawed the door.

"We've no choice. We've got to open the door and pull it in here and hope to h.e.l.l no one is out there with it."

"Then what?" Flak asked.

Frederick didn't answer. He rolled over on his belly and raised to his elbows. Flak did the same. In the dark they felt for the small door and slowly tilted and eased it down. Gray light flooded the small enclosure. The dog backed away and began yapping at the two men more from playful invitation than aggressiveness. It was a terrier, runty and full of mange.

Frederick lunged through the opening like a striking snake, grabbed a front leg, and pulled the startled dog into the tomb and under his body.

"Quick--close the door," he said, his whisper grating with strain. Flak quickly pulled the door in place. He hadn't seen anyone outside in his narrow field of vision. In the sudden darkness, the dog was squirming and scrabbling under Frederick and making a series of sharp yips.

Frederick made a quick motion and the noise was choked off. There was the sound of labored breathing, then the crunching and snapping of cartilage and frantic scrambling that slowly stopped.

Then one small convulsive movement. Then silence. Frederick made a keening noise in his throat.

"Ah G.o.d," he said quietly. "That was awful." He swallowed. "I think I'm going to throw up." His body convulsed twice, then subsided. "I'm okay now," he said, and took some deep breaths. He paused. "You hungry?"

Flak couldn't contain himself, and giggled. "G.o.d, Frederick, but you are rotten."

"To the co-wah," Ted Frederick said in a thick Maine accent. Rotten to the core.

They both froze as a knock sounded on the small door, then another.

Before they could move, the door fell open, revealing a figure looking in.

The gray overcast formed a backdrop for a little Vietnamese girl in the white blouse and blue skirt of a schoolchild. Short black hair and bangs framed her quizzical face as she squatted, arms on knees, peering in.

"Diia b?- Puppy? she asked in Vietnamese. "Puppy?"

She seemed undaunted by the presence of two foreigners in a hfiyet.

Maybe she thinks we're friendly spirits, Flak thought insanely as he stared at her tiny feet encased in thongs. Then he felt the still-warm body of the puppy pressing against his side. He twisted his head suddenly to look at Ted Frederick. Frederick met his gaze with a sudden wild look, his round pupils black and unreadable in a sea of white, mouth contorted in a rictus of fear and loathing, lips drawn back in a silent snarl. Frederick snapped his head around toward the little girl.

He bunched his legs and arms under himself. Flak gaped at him in horror.

"Ted, oh my G.o.d, you're not-" He was cut off as Frederick bolted out of the h6yet and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the little girl in his arms.

, 'Run, " he shouted as he spirited the little girl away from the tomb and toward the side of the cemetery farthest from the boulevard. "Run, Flak," he shouted over his shoulder.

"It's your only chance. Haul a.s.s."

Flak sprang from the tomb, his mind working. As he turned to flee, he saw in a tableau that Ted Frederick had stopped with the now-crying girl near the far fence and was trying to soothe her terrified sobs.

Pedestrians were gathering outside the fence, yelling in singsong voices and waving at armed men across the street. So far, in the confusion, Flak hadn't been noticed. He spun around the crumbling hfiyet, leaped another, and all but ran up the fence separating him from the boulevard.

Arm pain deadened in the shock of adrenaline, he vaulted down from the top, scattering pedestrians and bicycle riders, and dashed across the wide street.

He darted behind a military truck, almost collided with a pedicab, and splashed through the gutter parallel to a sidewalk, heading toward a corner. Small people plucked ineffectually at his sleeve as he ran by.

Singsong voices rose in an excited babble. On he ran in long strides.

He turned up the side street he was sure headed toward the British Emba.s.sy. Here the sidewalks were even more crowded with scurrying Vietnamese. He ran to the middle of the road, dodging the bicycles and pedicabs. His breath was coming hard now, and he heard himself panting as he sucked air into his burning lungs. Two armed men, soldiers, came around a corner and aimed rifles at him, screaming something in Vietnamese. He veered toward a knot of people as a screen and ran on.

Another corner and he knew he was close to the Emba.s.sy. His turban started to unravel and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his head and flung it away.

"About here, about here, about here," he started to chant in time with his thumping footfalls. Then a sandal tore loose and he went down, tumbling and rolling through civilians that were frantically trying to get out of his way. He tore the other sandal off and ran barefoot, sprinting on his toes and the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. He was weakening. Pain st.i.tched his side.

Then he saw a high wall with a polished bra.s.s plaque on the corner where the bricks came together. He barely caught the word EMBa.s.sY as he dashed around the corner, surprised a Vietnamese guard lounging against the wall, and flung himself past the small wooden guard shack into a cobblestone compound fronting a gray stone villa. A flag flew next to the large double doors. Behind him, the guard screamed in Vietnamese as Flak flung himself on the doors, beating them with his fists. Sweat was streaming down his face and body.

"Open up," he yelled. "Let me in. Open up!" He looked behind him as he hammered his fists on a panel, The guard was leveling a long rifle at him. The pain in his side and lungs caused the apparition to blur as he stared down the huge gun barrel, barely ten feet away. He felt himself graying out in the first dizzy fog of a faint. It got worse. The world turned gray as he fell to his knees. "Open up," he mumbled. "Open up."

The last thing he saw was one of the huge doors opening. He tumbled forward into the blackness.

He awakened to a feeling of incredible softness. Softness without definition. And coolness. Blissful coolness beyond compare. This can't be right, he thought. This can't be right.

Then awareness flooded his body. I made it, he thought. I made it. He blinked his eyes open. He could tell he was on a couch. Two men stood staring down at him, white men.

Caucasians. He struggled up on his elbows.

"I'm Major Algernon Apple, United States Air Force. Is this the British Emba.s.sy?"

The two men glanced at each other. "No," one said in heavily accented English. He was thin and had a narrow mustache. "I am Colonel Beaudreaux. This is the Consulate of the Republic of France."

Flak broke into a broad smile. "h.e.l.l, Colonel. France, England. What difference does it make? I made it. I'm safe."

Then he remembered Ted Frederick, "How long have I been here? Do you know anything of another American?"

The colonel with the mustache spoke rapidly in French to his companion, then answered at length.

"You have been here for about eight hours. Asleep. He cleaned you. The doctor"-he indicated the man next to him-"injected you. The other American, it was reported to us he was shot."

Flak Apple slumped back. "He saved me. He let me get free." He sat up abruptly. "Look, I've got to contact the American forces. I've got to let them know I'm safe. They'll get me out of here."

Colonel Beaudreaux drew back. "I am afraid, Major, that is not possible," he said in a stiff voice.

"Not possible? What do you mean, not possible? I'm an American. I've escaped from a POW camp. You've got to help me. I need protection."

Beaudreaux looked pained, like Maxim's headwaiter at a badly dressed patron. "It is as I said. It is simply not possible to give you any help or protection. We are under diplomatic protection, and under diplomatic agreement with the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. We cannot jeopardize these arrangements by taking in criminals "Criminals," Flak exploded. "Criminals! How dare you say that?" He jumped to his feet, head swimming. "You sound just like them. You sound just like the V. " He swayed.

The doctor took his arm and said soothing words in his ear.

Beaudreaux barked at him and took Flak by the elbow. Flak could see they were in a parlor furnished with couches, and chairs, and elegant tables. The colonel led him to the door at the far end. The doctor stood back. Flak saw a look of inestimable sorrow on the doctor's face as Beaudreaux opened the door to an anteroom and pushed Flak in where six armed Vietnamese soldiers were waiting.

The beating started immediately. They asked no questions, said no words. They simply took him to the k.n.o.bby room, put him in the ropes, hung him upside down, and started beating him. Two mcn, one with a leather strap, the other with flayed bamboo, beat him, on and on. When he began screaming, they poked a filthy rag in his mouth and continued beating. First one would strike, then the other. On and on.

Inside, deep inside, it was only the flame of hate that kept him alive.

He felt calmness flood over him. His pain, his screams, slowly faded.

He knew he was losing consciousness.

His last thought was if they hadn't killed him by now, they never would.

He would survive, and to survive was to triumph.