The Farewell Medallion

Chapter 6

It was never the same.

To be sure, each morning Tracey Halberson clung strictly to the same starting rituals: the warm-up calisthenics, the walk-around pre-flight inspection routine she had inherited from Tim, and finally bumping the bike down the steps to the street.  Then at that point, her right foot punched the pedal; the rubber stroked the road and the daybreak bike-ride rapidly developed into the unique occurrence that would most likely set the tone for the rest of her day.

It was startling how brightly in focus everything seemed this Saturday morning.  Rounding the corner that wrapped tightly around her hill, she looked down to see waves gently break against the rocks that stair-stepped out into blue water.  From there, her eyes skipped toward the horizon where Catalina Island stood out so clearly she imagined she could see movement on the streets of Avalon.  The hint of a breeze and a bank of distant cumulus clouds to the north accentuated an unblemished sky.

She let the silver Cannondale cruiser accelerate downhill turning north to parallel the Coast Highway.  Then she found the exhilarating rhythm of a fast cruising pace that would comfortably see her through the route that she had chosen in about twenty minutes.

At this point a special part of her brain took over the routine tasks, such as avoiding the early morning jogger ahead.  But Tracey wasn’t aware of that.  She was much too involved with her inner dialogue.  Ordinarily the dialogue would be about what was going on in the book she was working on.  Today she was preoccupied with the dream she had last night.

It wasn’t that the dream was unusual.  In fact, variations of this same dream reoccurred regularly; sometimes as often as two or three times a month while at other times it didn’t happen for several months.  As near as she could remember this was the first time she had the dream in five or six months.

In the dream world she was talking with her brother and her parents about the exciting news that her husband was coming home from the war.  The strange part of the dream was that the man wasn’t Tim.  It seemed perfectly normal that she would be in the waiting room of an airport that she could only remember from other dreams, while a C-140 medevac airplane taxied toward the ramp with another husband from another war.  She thought it was extraordinary that she always felt good in the dream and then awoke with a pleasant feeling even though no one ever got out of the plane.

She was still musing about why she continued to have the dream when she approached the bottom of her hill and began down shifting for the climb.  Two short beeps from the horn of the black Mercedes behind her took her out of her reverie.

When she looked, the driver, Craig Stottlemire waved for her to stop.  “Let’s go have coffee.”

“No way honey, this is my street image.  I have to dress for the coffee shop.”  She spoke with a southern velvet drawl that lengthened certain single syllable words.

“Your place then?”

She shrugged feigning annoyance.  “Okay, come on up.”

She had known Craig casually for about ten years.  Recently their social orbits had spun closer together.

Craig had been lucky in real estate development and was now busy setting the stage for a future political career.  Last year he had financed a trip to investigate emerging markets in South East Asia.  On the junket, which involved three state senators, he had met a small group of expatriates who resolutely told of the existence of prisoners still being held from the Vietnam War.  Since his trip he had become an overnight authority on the subject, denouncing the government policy as an abandonment of our servicemen.

Through his South East Asia contacts Craig had heard many reports of bold efforts to locate the missing servicemen by a former Special Forces sergeant named Broderick Jasper.  He had fashioned an alignment with MIA Families in the area to support Jasper’s efforts to locate missing POWs.  Tracey had become a sanction for his efforts and his point of contact to raise money for a rescue mission.

Well, there goes the plan to finish my eleventh chapter today, Tracey thought, as Craig explained why she, rather than he, would have to meet with Jasper while he attended an emergency session of the County Development Commission concerning a property dispute.  They sipped coffee side by side at the rounded end of the polished granite bar in Tracey’s efficiency kitchen.  Like the rest of the house the casual orderliness of her kitchen was a mark of the self-reliance she had developed in the seventeen years she had lived there.  She wondered how Craig always seemed to guide that self-reliant determination in directions that would advance his goals.

“It’s all set,” he said.  “We met yesterday and went over the entire plan in detail.  His flight leaves this afternoon at about four.  All you need to do is take this envelope to the bank where they will have the money and traveler’s checks ready at one o-clock.  We won’t get the check from the family in Sacramento until in the morning.  Just make sure he knows that we will wire it to him through his hotel.  Then simply drop him off at the airport.”

“I’ll drop him as simply as I can,” she said, amused that he could regard a drive to the Los Angeles Airport International Terminal as trivial.

He turned toward her, leaning back with his elbow against the bar.  “I know you’ve worked hard to get this thing going.  It’s hard to believe it’s really going to happen.”

“And you still have confidence in Jasper?”

“Rod?  Oh sure.”

She narrowed her gaze.  “I still worry about all the money the families have raised for this effort.  Do you really believe his chances for success are as good as he wants you to think they are?”

“Well he’s been in country as much as anyone and seems very competent.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Whoa, do I detect subtle resistance?”

“There’s no subtlety here,” she replied.  “I want to be sure we’re serving the best interests of the Alliance.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning solve the MIA mystery.”

He paused for a sip of his coffee.  “Hmm, probably the best we can do is harness their frustration and utilize their energy toward more responsive government.”

“I want better than that,” she said.

Sensing that this was not his best time to make additional points with Tracey, Craig hurriedly finished his coffee while making sure she was clear on the details of where to meet Jasper and how to get the money for him.  He gave her a quick kiss on her cheek as he got up to leave.

“I’ll call you when I get back.”

“Right, don’t rush your golf game.”

She smiled.  He frowned.

It’s a good thing I’m not a slave to routine, she thought pushing the play-back button on her answering machine, while she sat down with her calendar to make a few notes: eleven o-clock at the Surf and Sand Hotel; one at the bank. .

“Hi Tracey, it’s Lorna, um, Friday night.  Exciting news, I’ve just met a man who was a close friend of my dad.  We’ve had a good talk.  His name is Grant Tiger.  I gave him your number, so he will probably call.  I think you will like him.  Give me a call when you can.  Bye.”

“Tracey, this is Alan.  You were sparkling at the Arts Festival fund-raiser.  I have two more pledges for you.  Catch you later”

According to the way things happen, the phone didn’t ring until Tracey was precisely midway through her shower.  She started to step out of the cloud of scented steam then decided it could wait.  It was ringing again when she was still drying off.  She quickly grabbed a terrycloth robe and tapped the speaker-phone button.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this Tracey?” the voice asked anxiously.

“Yes it is.”

“Tracey, good, this is Grant Tiger.  I’ve been talking to Lorna Trammble.”

“Oh, her message said you would call.  You knew her father.”

“Actually, I knew him very well.  We were shot down on the same day.  The weird thing is that I only met Lorna yesterday.”

“That’s remarkable.  She hasn’t had very much information about her father.  I hope you were able to tell her something about him.”

“I think so.  Listen, what I’m most concerned about is finding out about the plan to arrange some kind of prisoner rescue attempt.  Could you tell me a little bit about that?”

“Well, I’d prefer that we didn’t say much over the phone.  Let’s just say I’m involved in trying to help her find out what happened to her father.”

“Great, we’re in agreement on that.  You know, you’re right.  The phone is not the best way to discuss this.  Is there some place we could meet this afternoon to talk about this?”

“I don’t know.  What did you have in mind, Salt Lake City?”

He laughed, “Oh No, I’m on my way out there anyway.  I should be at the Los Angeles Airport in about three hours on my way to San Diego and could meet wherever you say.”

“We might be able to work that out.  I can’t promise where I’ll be in three hours, so let me give you my mobile number to call when you get here.”

“Okay, just promise you’ll wait to talk to me before you rescue anyone.”

“Of course.”

The formalities of ending the call were dispensed with when Grant told her that his flight was beginning to board.  She quickly gave him numbers for a cell-phone and a pager and barely had time to get out a “have a nice flight.”  She shrugged, punched the off button on the phone and returned to finish getting dressed.

At fifteen minutes before eleven she paused to adjust the collar of her rosewood cotton sweater in front of the oval mirror that hung just inside the entrance to the lobby of the Surf and Sand Hotel.  She reaffirmed her decision that the conservative casual mix of charcoal slacks and short buff jacket would be the most appropriate outfit in which to meet the outrageous Jasper and the unknown Tiger.

She glanced around the lobby to see if she might recognize anyone.  It was still an unusually relaxed Saturday morning.  An elderly couple ambled aimlessly away from the front desk appearing to have little interest in their destination.  In sharp contrast three girls in their early teens scurried from the elevator impatient to get to the beach.  Selecting a small couch with a view of the entry drive, she sat down and began to make some notes in the small journal she kept in her handbag.

After about twenty minutes she left her seat to stand near the glass doors looking out.  A seagull picked at an abandoned fast food container at the edge of the street.  The only disturbance was the sound of a distant siren.  Starting to walk away, she noticed the sound getting closer.  The doorman stood on the edge of the curb trying to see down the street.  She turned, expecting to see an emergency vehicle go by.  Instead she watched as two motorcycle policemen pulled into the drive riding abreast.  Close behind, forming the angle of the reverse V formation was a jet black Harley Low Rider.  Dual American flags flew from a pair of short masts mounted aft.  The driver, with his heavy reddish-gray hair and mustache flowing in the wind, had the weathered look of a Viking bringing his ship into homeport after a nine-month cruise.

“Oh - my – God!” Tracey exclaimed under her breath.  “Broderick Jasper has arrived.”

The three motorcycles dipped in unison as the formation came to a halt squarely in front of the entrance. The policemen on the right dismounted and shook Jasper’s hand.  The other turned, exchanged a brisk salute and they both departed as quickly as they had arrived.

Leaving his Harley parked in the drive; Jasper stood, straightened the permanent crease in his Levi’s, tugged at both sides of his black leather vest and strode into the lobby.

“Mornin’ ma’am,” He nodded to Tracey, still standing to one side of the door slightly wide eyed.

“That was striking,”

“Oh that?  I met those guys on the way into town.  We swapped a few stories.  The older one was in Nam about the same time I was.  Well, I just told them what I was here for, ‘course no details.  And I said I had this important meeting with you.  They know who you are - and Craig of course.  Craig said you would take care of everything.”

“I’ll do what I can.  Have you had lunch?  They have an excellent restaurant here.”

They turned a few heads on the way to the restaurant.  The contrast was much too striking to disregard.  Tracey looking like a model from a Norm Thomson catalog and Jasper like a cross between the Marlborough Man and Yosemite Sam.

On the way Tracey asked, “Do you prefer to be called Rod or Broderick?”

“I get called both and a lot worse.  As a matter of fact though, ma’am, you should call me Jaz.  My real friends call me Jaz.”

She was pleased when Tony, the headwaiter, greeted them at the entrance to the restaurant.  He knew the table in the corner with the commanding ocean view was hers, when it was available, as it was today.

“Hell of a view,” Jasper said, crossing his snakeskin boots on the low windowsill as he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.  “I think I could get used to this place.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Only two days.  Took two weeks in Idaho visiting my brother-in-law.  Best fishin’ in the world, that country.  I might retire there in a few years.”

“And now you’re on your way back to South East Asia.”

“Sure am.  Can’t seem to stay away from there.  Some folks that fought there don’t ever want to go back.  Some go back when they visit the wall.  I can’t face the wall.  When guys I was with died, I never could accept it.  When I’m in Nam I feel like were still fighting those same battles.  Seems to have some kind of hold on me.”

While he was talking Tracey was surprised to see the brash demeanor melt into a reflective Jaz that she was better able to relate to.  The mood vanished when the waiter arrived to take their order.  Jaz followed Tracey‘s lead and ordered the clam chowder and turkey sandwich.  When it came she was amazed at the efficiency with which he devoured his meal.  You wouldn’t say his manners were terribly bad, simply that his approach to eating was directed mainly at completing the task.

“Jaz, you impress me as a person who gets things done, a bit like the straight line that’s the shortest distance between two points.”

“Thanks ma’am.  I never was much good at geometry.”

“Neither was I.  Is everything still on track for a rescue mission.”

“Yes ma’am, we’ve had people monitoring the position of the camp while I’ve been away.  We’ll make final preparations as soon as I get back.”

“Will it be dangerous?”

“Well, you never can tell.  Some of my worst nightmares happened on missions that should have been milk runs.  Fortunately most trips to the woods work out the way you plan them.”

“Do you think you have enough resources to accomplish your mission?” she asked.

“If you’re talking money, we should have close to what we need when we get it all together, assuming no complications of course.”

“You know about the forty thousand that we can’t get until tomorrow.  We will wire that directly to you at your hotel.  You will have it no later than Tuesday.”

“Yes ma’am, that’s the Kowloon Stanford.”  He pulled a card from his inside vest pocket and handed it across the table.  “I’ll be waiting for it.”

“How about your men?”

“Well, actually our strength is in being small and mobile.  We plan to infiltrate the first team early to neutralize roads and radios, and then we come in balls to the wall at o-dark-thirty in the morning.  It’s the old element of surprise routine.  We’ll be okay.”

Tracey scrunched her face in puzzled thought for a minute.  “We heard before that you had surveillance equipment that could help you see the camp.  Could you actually see prisoners or somehow tell that they were there.

“Not exactly.  We can monitor movement and get some idea about who’s coming and going.  We get our intelligence about prisoners from other sources.”

He grasped the lapel of his vest and reached inside, opening the zipper to a pocket.

“Let me show you something.”

He took out a gold medallion and placed it on the table in front of Tracey.  It looked familiar to her but she couldn’t remember where she had seen one like it before.

“What is it?” she asked.

“This was given to me by a mountain tribesman who delivered supplies to the camp about six weeks ago.  He said he got it from an American.  Of course he doesn’t speak English but he thought he was supposed to get it back to the American’s family.  I’m hoping I can find that American so he can deliver it himself.”

“Wow,” she softly drew out the word.  “That’s a very electrifying idea to think about.”

She picked up the medallion rotating it in her hand as if she were reading the Chinese characters.  Handing it back to Jaz she said, “If we have time before your plane leaves would it be all right to meet and talk with a former Vietnam POW.”

“Sure, if we can.  Anyone who spent time in their prisons has my first level of attention.”

She raised her wineglass, “Here’s to the success of your mission, Jaz.”