Air Force Eagles (38 page)

Price shook his head as he listened to the governor. After a while he let the receiver dangle, spinning on its cord; Ruddick could hear the governor's droning voice. Price flipped the receiver to his hand, mumbled, "Uh uh, uh uh, yes, sir," and then cut in. "Governor, ah don't want to interrupt, but remember, you've got a meeting in the Capitol building in two minutes. With the folks from TV A? Remember? Yes, sir. Good-bye, sir."

"Well, he's not satisfied with just having the Klan and the National Guard supporting him on segregation. He's upset about the progress the Air Force is making with integration on Little Rock Air Force Base. Wants you and me to go out and straighten out the base commander."

"Stupid move; the base commander doesn't owe him anything. He's not going to ruin his own chances for promotion, just to butter up the governor."

"Well, you know how he is, he gets an idea, he holds on to it like a tick in a hound's ear. I told him the best thing was to let me work on a local level. There are some people out there I can talk to, Southern boys, maybe we can get some token support. But that's not why you asked me to come in."

"No, I wanted to get your take on Josten. I'm worried that I've let him go too far, that I'm losing control over him."

"I don't think so. You've let him have his way, you had to do that to get the kind of enthusiasm he has. But you can get rid of him tomorrow. I think letting him run things is to our advantage. If something goes sour, we can walk away from it, point our fingers at him."

"He's a clever bastard. Mean as a snake, too. That's why the Klansmen love him."

"Yes, but without us, he's got no financial support. He sure as hell couldn't run the Klan by collecting dues. Besides, I don't think he's out to take over the Klan. He's got something else on his mind, something personal. I get the feeling that this job is just a holding action for him, something to keep him busy while he sorts things out."

Ruddick relaxed and went to the side bar. "Damn. No wonder you're running the state, Dixon, you've always got the take on things. Let me fix you a little drink—you've earned it."

*

Pyoktong, North Korea/August 15, 1953

Since asking his first question about Choi, John Marshall had not said another word, fearing more interrogation. There had been none; instead he had been isolated, in contact with no one but U Eun Chur. The guards did not speak to him, even in Korean. Yet in the last few weeks, his treatment had vastly improved; he was allowed to bathe once a week, and the last two times there had been a sliver of brown soap. His rations had increased to two bowls of rice a day, along with some kimchee and about two ounces of the amorphous, indefinable substance that passed for meat. He ate it greedily.

As he sat dozing in the spot of sunshine at the door to his hut, the. routine noise of the camp was suddenly broken with blaring march music and the sound of cymbals and drums. A ragtag procession of Chinese soldiers and Korean natives was marching through the center of the camp, carrying large pictures of Comrade Mao and Comrade Kim II Sung.

"Good show, eh, Marshall?"

Alan Burkett was standing beside him, dressed in the same unmade-bed outfit of baggy brown pants, plaid shirt, and argyle sweater that he'd worn to their lunch.

"Au contraire,
my friend. The war has been over since June; you're one of the last captives. They'll be shipping you out as soon as you are fattened up a bit."

"And I'm glad to tell you that I was able to inform your wife and family about the happy news. I sent a wire this morning. They probably already have it."

*

Washington, D.C./September 1, 1953

Erich Weissman walked out the prison doors, contrasting the last ten months of relative luxury with the years he'd spent in concentration camps. To call this a prison, with three good meals a day, a bunk, a library, even medical care.

But it was good to be out. He'd been picked up a week after the attempted shooting, still driving the Chevrolet. The police had not made the connection between the assassination attempt and the car theft, but he'd drawn a year's sentence.

An old friend was waiting outside for him. He got in the car—a Chevrolet, not unlike the one he'd stolen, and Jacob Goldberg, tall, thin but board-hard, arms folded over the wheel as if he were clutching the reins of a team, said, "Welcome, Erich. How was it?"

"Better than Dachau, worse than Coney Island."

Goldberg sat for a moment pulling on his thin driving gloves; Weissman had never seen anyone do that before. Goldberg adjusted the mirrors carefully, checked his tie in the process, then carefully moved out into traffic. He was a fashion plate, a regular Adolphe Menjou, Weissman thought, but a neatnik.

Silent for a moment, trying to quiet his resentment over Goldberg's patronizing smile—the man had been born in New York, lived in the United States all his life, what did he know?—Weissman said, "You had me shooting at the wrong man. I should have concentrated on Josten—we are fellow alumni from Nordhausen. I want another chance at him."

He could see that Nordhausen didn't mean anything to the man. "Perhaps . . . but not for a while. You recuperate, investigate some records for us. Then we'll see."

Weissman stared straight ahead, pursing his lips. He would go along with this for a while. If they didn't give him a new assignment, a new try at Josten, he'd go off on his own. It's a free country.

***

Chapter 8

Pyoktong, North Korea/September 15,1953

Dangling his legs off the wooden table, Marshall surveyed his battered body with some contentment. No doubt about it, he had put on some weight and most of his wounds were healing.

"Ready?"

He nodded and looked away, concentrating on the white medical table with its array of chipped enameled bowls, bottles of red and blue fluids, and the neat kit of surgical instruments marked u.s. army, wondering why they all looked unusual, then realizing it was because they were serving their intended purpose. Almost everything else in North Korea was improvised and make do: boards torn from railway cars to make buildings, stoves made from truck fenders, clogs made from tires. No wonder Dr. Liu seemed so proud of his office.

"Hold still." Then, to distract him from the pain, "You friend Burkett coming today."

Apprehension shot through Marshall, as cold and cutting as the scalpel slicing away the proud flesh from the wounds in his side. He winced, even though the pain from Liu's blade was not great.

"He's not my friend, Dr. Liu. You're my only friend here."

Burkett's past visits had marked turning points in Marshall's prison life. The first time, Choi had almost beaten him to death; the second, he was told he would be freed. It had been six weeks since their last talk, and things had continued to change for the better. They'd hauled him back from Manpo to Camp 5, by the beautiful lake, then on to this empty main prison camp on the Yalu. It had been in turmoil when he was here before; now it was strangely quiet, as charged with memories as a dead parent's home.

They still kept him isolated, but now there were no other prisoners to be seen in the distance, to yearn to talk to. Silence muffled the camp like a cloak of wet felt; bugles didn't blow, the loudspeaker no longer crackled its malevolent signals of bad news; there were no soldiers herding prisoners along the crooked streets.

His personal treatment had improved tremendously. Dr. Liu, who had examined him at Manpo, now saw him every day, treating his wounds with sulfa drugs and giving him vitamin pills. The doctor was learning English—and perhaps surgery, judging by his eagerness to practice on Marshall at every opportunity.

"How you bowels?"

"Still sick, much diarrhea."

The word was difficult for Liu, and he repeated it several times. "Diarrhea, diarrhea, like dysentry. Well, you try this, good medicine. You say."

Liu shoved the box in Marshall's face, who read aloud, "Sulfa-guanidine."

As Liu tried unsuccessfully to repeat the word, Marshall regarded the package with suspicion. It was obviously from American stores, but he couldn't be sure what the medication was, or what it was good for. Still, he knew he had to gain strength, to convert the better rations he was receiving into flesh on his bones. In the past he'd been given only a noxious mixture of ground charcoal and tannic acid that didn't cure the diarrhea and made him violently ill. He decided to accept it unless Liu wanted to administer it with a hypodermic—he was still unwilling to submit to that, afraid that they would give him some sort of truth serum.

"Shot?"

The doctor's smile was genuine. "Drink!" he said, and, wiping a tin cup carefully with his dirty handkerchief, shook the sulfa into it, filled it with cold tea, and stirred it with a spoon he had tied on a string around his neck like a stethoscope.

Three hours later, when he saw Burkett shambling toward him, Marshall felt strangely strong and comfortable. For the first time in months, his knees didn't tremble or his stomach convulse with the need for instant release.

"Burkett, you Commie bastard, I'm going to live! I'm going to get out of here."

Burkett, his face puffed and swollen from drink, leaned against the entrance. "Of course you are, dear boy, and soon, too." Marshall hated his affected accent.

"What have you heard?"

"You're to be moved south to the so-called 'Freedom Village.' That's where most of the transfers have taken place. But do come along, I've arranged for you to go to the cinema."

Somehow it didn't surprise Marshall—after months of brutality, he had food, medicine, and now, entertainment.

They went inside a hut that once had been an orderly room, judging by the notices still pinned to the wall, and a derelict desk and chair. At one end of the room a sheet of white cloth had been hung as a screen; at the other was an ancient 16-mm film projector.

There were no lights to turn off, but the shutters on the one window were pulled and, outside, a generator was started. In a few minutes the projection light snapped on and the opening titles flickered, first in an Oriental script, then in English. He felt his stomach clench as he heard the words "United States Air Force Captain John Marshall confesses to germ warfare." The voice was unmistakably Alan Burkett's.

When his image appeared on the screen, Marshall was appalled at the way he looked, furious that he had been filmed without his knowledge.

"How did you do this, Burkett?"

"Simple, old chap. They shot through a hole in the wall. Too bad there's no sound track for your comments; I believe you are in the midst of your famous 'Wanna buy a duck?' routine."

Marshall scanned the screen closely, hoping he could see his lips move, so that later the film could be slowed down and his lips read by someone, but the shot had been taken from the side. The film switched to show some damaged drop tanks and a native funeral procession, with Burkett's voice coming in loud over the squeak of the projector's take-up reel, droning on about germ warfare and its cost to innocent civilians.

Marshall couldn't believe how poorly it was done; he glanced at Burkett, smiling at the screen with pleasure as he heard himself say, "And so Captain Marshall, having confessed his complicity in germ warfare, signs his confession."

On the screen his shattered body slumped on the chair. God, how bad he looked, hair almost white, knobby elbows protruding. A guard stepped forward and prodded his arm, and he signed the papers placed before him. The lights flickered brightly, and Burkett turned the projector off.

"We'll have that edited and be releasing it throughout the West just about the time you get home."

"Burkett, why are you doing this to me? You're an Englishman! You know that it is all lies!"

"I don't know anything of the sort. I know you confessed, and I know that your precious United States Air Force will make you pay for doing so."

Marshall swung at Burkett, his arm looping ineffectually. The reporter moved back, laughing.

"Don't do anything foolish, my dear Captain. You'll be home in a few weeks, and then you'll see how your friends treat you. Maybe some of the things we've tried to teach you will sink in then."

"No one will believe I confessed; you know the sort of garbage I wrote."

"They'll find ways to believe, Captain. As the late Colonel Choi used to say, you are only a nigger to them."