The Farewell Medallion

Chapter 7

At one hundred twenty knots the nose of the MD-80 lifted off the runway.  For the second time in three hours American flight 1221 from Dallas to Los Angeles was airborne.  Between the two events Grant had felt his attitude take off from a smooth surface of moderate anxiety and climb to turbulent heights of extensive irritation.

He had been eating the ninth of the thirteen honey nuts the flight attendant had given him when the Captain announced that they were turning back due to the failure of an essential piece of equipment.  Grant thought it would normally be sufficient to call it mechanical difficulties, but today, the failure of something essential seemed appropriate.  Recalling the hour in the terminal waiting for a replacement aircraft and the twenty minutes on the taxiway waiting for a substantial portion of the day’s air traffic to clear, he drummed a plastic aspirin vial on the armrest, waiting for a drink of anything.

It had only been six weeks since he stood in the Kansas City suburban cemetery watching Betty’s silver coffin lower into the ground.  The reality of passage had become far more troublesome than Grant wanted to admit.  It was difficult to escape the gray shadow that had hung over their marriage for twenty-four years after he returned from Vietnam.  Even after he retired as a Navy Captain he had continued to substitute the satisfaction and sociability he achieved at work for what was missing from his marriage.

Four years ago, when Betty’s illness began to require full time care, he had brought her back to the red brick two story antebellum pretender that Betty had moved into shortly after he was listed as missing in action.  He had always been uncomfortable with the notion that it was beyond his salary range at the time and that Betty’s father had made up the difference.  In time he felt more and more out of place living in the neighborhood that Betty had grown up in.  Her mother still lived in the family home, which stood guard at the end of the cul-de-sac.

After Betty’s death he suddenly realized he had lost his taste for the studies and reports that he fed, through a Washington based company called Integrated Logistics Management, to the already fat bureaucracy.  At the funeral Sam Crosswhite, his boss, had said, “I’ve made it clear to the old man himself that you are largely responsible for the success of the DOD Strategic Support Contract and that you deserve some time off to get things together.  Take all the time you need.”

“Don’t worry Sam,” Grant had replied.  “I’m not interested in watching the moss grow.”  In reality he knew it was the moss in his soul he had to worry about.

There are so many things that we just can’t bury he thought.  He had never understood Betty’s sense of loyalty.  The note on the back of the photograph was confusing.  Why should Art’s failure to return overshadow in Betty’s mind the reunion that they were about to experience?  “Oh well, let the past comfort the past,” he said to himself.  “Hell, I’ll be doing good just to face the present.”

“Whatever you want.”  The voice of the flight attendant interrupted his uncharacteristic mood of preoccupation.

“Oh, sorry.  I guess I was somewhere else.”

“I hope the delay hasn’t been too much of a problem for you.”  The attractive young woman motioned to the cart she was herding down the aisle.  “I asked if you would like anything to drink.  Whatever we have.  It’s on the house.”

“In that case, make it a Bloody Mary.”

“Make that two.”  The frizzy haired lady next to the window stuffed her romance novel in the seat pocket.  Turning toward Grant, “They ought throw in a steak dinner after that hassle with the planes, don’t you think?”

“I won’t hold my breath,” Grant said, forcing a smile.

“Honey, you have to demand it.  It doesn’t mean a thing unless they feel our pain.”

“Pain?”

“Sure.  Made me three hours later getting home to see my two-year-old grandson.  Don’t you have someone meeting you or a big event to go to?”

“Actually, I am trying to link up with some people.”

“See what I mean.  Travel’s my business.  I worry about these things all the time.”  She handed him her card.

Sandy Beach – New Adventure Travel - Anaheim, Ca.

“I work out of my house, low overhead.  Call me if your travel plans change and I’ll fix it right up for you.”  She finished her drink and retrieved her novel.

Grant pulled the note with Tracey’s phone number on it from his pocket.  After studying the instructions on the phone attached to back of the seat in front of him, he ran his credit card through the slot and dialed her number.

On the second ring, “Hello.”

“Tracey?  Grant.”

“Oh, you’re at the airport?”

“No, somewhere over west Texas.”

“Sure is a slow flight.”

“Well we didn’t do it right the first time.  Had to start over.”

“Maybe Salt Lake City wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

“Or Phoenix, as in the flight of.  Have you met with Jasper yet?”

“As we speak.  We’re getting ready to go to the airport so he can catch his flight.”

“I hope you didn’t give him the money.”

“That what it’s for.”

“That’s crazy!”  Grant’s voice doubled in intensity and pitch.  “What makes you think he knows more about the fate of the MIAs than the government?”

“I appreciate your expression of confidence Mr. Tiger.  However, I would rather not discuss this on the phone.”  Tracey’s normally warm voice suddenly acquired a frosty edge.

Sensing an impending split in conversational cohesiveness, Grant paused and took a deep breath.  “Look, I’m sorry.  I’m a little upset that things aren’t working out.  I’d really feel better though if I could talk with Mr. Jasper.  What time does the flight leave?”

“Four.”

Glancing at his watch, “Damn,” he said to himself.  Then into the phone, “Okay, I should be able to get there by then.  Could you meet me at the gate?”

“If you’d like.”

“What’s the flight number?”

“Hang on a second.”  The voice remained cool.  “It’s Northwest 7587 to Vancouver.”

“Okay, I’ll see you there.”  He signaled to the flight attendant for another Bloody Mary.

He leaned back seeking a retreat from the monotonous whine of the jet engines.  He had to get there before the flight took off so he could talk to him.  Jasper would say something that he would catch, something that would expose the rescue scheme as ill planned or perhaps as an intentional fraud.  The jet engines finally came into synchronization as the pilot adjusted the throttles.

Ordinarily Grant was disdainful of any passengers who were so impatient they thought they had to be the first ones to get off the airplane.  When flight 1221 eventually pulled into the Los Angeles gate at three thirty-five, that applied to all one hundred nineteen on board.  Grabbing his well-worn black canvas carry-on from the overhead, he stood his ground while Ms. Beach wrenched her tote bag from under the seat.

About three city blocks, that was his estimate of the distance from where he exited the gate in Terminal Four to the Northwest Airlines gates in Terminal Two.  He had spent the last fifteen minutes of the flight studying the layout diagram from the in-flight magazine.  Ruling out the shuttle bus as too unreliable and deciding not to waste time looking for an underground passageway, he exited the jet-way ramp, conveyed his regards to Ms. Beach’s grandson, disregarded his checked luggage and began to sprint through the terminal area like a car rental commercial.

Past fourteen magazine stands, through two security gates, across twenty-two lanes of traffic, twisting and dodging around three thousand glassy eyed passengers with seemingly no idea of where they were going, he almost made it.  His mistake was in trusting the man at the information desk to know which way he should go to the appropriate gate.  By the time he had gone to the wrong one, discovered the mistake and corrected it, he could only watch as the Boeing 737 backed away.  He rested his carry-on bag against the chrome rail, caught his breath and massaged the back of his neck contemplating his next move.

“You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a flight to Salt Lake City would you?”

He turned, caught off balance by the lady next to him with the twinkling brown eyes and dark shiny shoulder length hair.  “Tracey?”

She extended her hand with just the hint of an inquisitive smile.  “And you must be the eminent and slightly out of breath Grant Tiger.”

“Guilty as charged, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m glad you finally made it.”

“A bit late it seems,” he said motioning toward the airliner, now turning away.

“Jaz was eager to meet you.  He waited until the last call before boarding.  What was your game plan if you had gotten here in time to talk to him?”

“To find a reason to get back the money for Lorna and the others.”

“And where do you get all of this insight about how they should use their money?”

“I don’t let my emotions go chasing after shadows.”

“Shadows are deepest if we look the other way,” she said.  “They want the money to be used to find resolution in the shadows.”

“Do you think - what’d you call him?”

“Jaz.”

“Do you think Jaz will give them resolution?”

“All I know is, he seems to have the desire.”

Grant looked around at the now almost empty terminal area then back to Tracey.  “I’d guess you’re no more excited about airline terminals than I am.  Could we go someplace to have a drink and maybe continue this conversation in more pleasant surroundings.”

“Okay,” she hesitated.  “I can’t stay too long.  I think there’s a place on the way out”

“Actually, if you don’t mind a short walk, how about the restaurant under the crossed arches.  I haven’t been there in over thirty years.”

“You’re one up on me, I didn’t even know about it.”

In the early days of the jet age the sweeping white concrete arches created a landmark image for the Los Angeles airport.  It had been the most prominent feature of the landscape symbolizing everything exciting about air travel.  Recent growth of air traffic and the resultant construction of mammoth terminal buildings and parking garages transformed it from centerpiece to center of congestion.  The restaurant that Grant and Tracey entered beneath the arches was a different place from the restaurant that he and his squadron mates from the replacement air group had their last meal before going on to San Diego and the rigors of survival school.  He finished telling the story after the waiter ushered them into two overstuffed leather chairs with a view toward Century Avenue and took their order.

“I had a chance to call Lorna earlier this afternoon,” Tracey said.  “She’s very excited about her visit with you and thinks you’re very special.”

“The feeling’s mutual.  It’s uncanny how much she resembles her mother.”

“Really?  She’s known only her adoptive parents until recently and the MIA idea is totally new to her.

“That’s what has me worried.  But you said you had confidence in Jaz?”

“I said he appeared to be sincere about helping.  That’s from his reputation through some other people I know and the five hours I spent with him today.”

“And your gut feeling from that is?”

“Well, he’s a strange one.  Not your conventional James Bond type.”  She paused while the waiter came with her glass of white wine and Grant’s Glenlivet on the rocks, and then continued.  “When you consider the obscurity of the situation though, perhaps he fits.  Why are you so negative when you haven’t even met him?”

“I was there, in the midst of the realities of war watching the oriental mind at work.  Live prisoner evidence has worn thin over the years, leaving only unrealistic hope.  I see Jaz as a parasite feeding on that hope in the name of patriotism.”

“I hope you’re wrong.  He seems genuine in his commitment and he does have recent information.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“I guess nothing that proves anything.  It’s the way he presents it.  Like when he showed me the gold pendant today.

“Gold pendant?”

“Yes, it seemed so believable when he said it came from an American prisoner.”

“What kind of pendant?”

“It was a work of art really, made up of Chinese characters.”

“Was it like the one Lorna has?

“That’s it!  I knew I had seen one like it before.  How did you know?”

He slowly moved his head back and forth with an expression of total perplexity.  “Good grief!  After thirty years we’re suddenly inundated with gold Chinese medallions.”

She let the wineglass stay at her lips during a long thoughtful look.  “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either,” he said.  “It’s starting to get my attention though.”

Remembering he still had to retrieve his luggage and find a place to stay overnight, Grant excused himself to the phone on the back wall to call Scott.

“I’m glad you called,” Scott took over the conversation.  “I came home to throw a few things together.  We’re on orders to leave in about three hours on a mission even I don’t know very much about.  If I had to guess we’ll be back in two weeks.  Make yourself at home.  ‘ Sorry about the busted visit.  Maybe we can get together when I get back.”

When he finished his call, Grant made his way back to the table where Tracey sat studying him and slumped in the chair resting his chin in his hand propped on his elbow staring down Century Avenue.

“Why so glum, chum?” she asked.

“Aw I just lost the reason for my trip.  Scott’s unit is about to deploy and he’s on his way out of town.”

“That’s distressing.  Is there anyone else you could visit while you’re here?”

“No, no backup plan, I’ll head back tomorrow.  I have several things to attend to.”

“Now why do I get the impression that you’re not real excited about that?  Since you’re here already - take a few days - relax - enjoy it.”

“Enjoy, Los Angeles?”

“Look, I’m not asking you to grovel in the urban blight.  Get a place on the beach.  Wiggle your toes in the sand, loosen up.”

He turned, captivated by the soft playful smile that suddenly disarmed his exasperation.  For the first time he realized how attractive she was.  Her dark eyes sparkled through the diffused late afternoon light.

“Okay, you’ve strung me along, I can buy into the beach thing, but I’ll need some help with local customs.  How about dinner and a chance to mingle with the natives?”

“Now?  Tonight?”  She looked at her watch.

He looked at his wrist and shrugged, “My stomach’s still back in Dallas.”

“All right.”

Once they had retrieved Grants scuffed leather suitcase and Tracey’s shiny hunter green Ford Explorer they began to relax on their way out of the intensity of the airport.  The traffic streamed southeast in the early Saturday evening.  When they were past Long Beach Tracey left the freeway for the more scenic coastal highway.

Conversation brushed lightly around the enchantment of the coastal area while they watched the sun cool to a deep red and dip into the soft haze near the horizon.  He talked about the times he had driven through when he was stationed nearby or was on his way to San Diego to meet the carrier.  She recounted how the coast had become a refuge during the time she was living at El Toro Marine Base undergoing the ordeal of a husband, at first declared missing, then later waiting for his body to be returned and finally her decision to settle in Laguna Beach.

Ordinarily Grant selected his hotel by the quality of neon in front.  Without Tracey he never would have found the Aliso Canyon Bed and Breakfast.  It had none.  She had selected it because it was conveniently close to her house and because a friend, who owned it, was good enough to make something available on short notice.  What it lacked in glitz it replaced with warmth and restful charm.
It had been a tiring day.  Tracey said she would need two hours to unwind and be ready.  He was grateful for the chance to relax.  When he entered his room he proceeded directly onto the private terrace, looked past the tall palms to the magnificence of the Pacific, removed his shoes and continued to the beach.

The restaurant Tracey chose was perfect, fashionable but not touristy, a view of soft moonlight skipping lightly across the breakers and a mesquite wood fire burned in the southwestern kiva style fireplace in the corner.  The special of the day was glazed swordfish steak with marinated vegetables.

Tracey tilted her wineglass letting the refraction of the candlelight play across her eyes while she painted a vibrant description of the book she was working on as a story about life and spirit in the face of adversity.  Grant listened attentively, then remarked on the impact that the news of Art’s medallion might have on the outcome of her book.  They were talking so animatedly about the improbability of the events of the past two days they almost missed the ring of the cell phone in Tracey’s coat pocket.

Tracey flipped open the phone, spoke briefly and handed it to Grant.  “It’s Will Branch.  Says he has some info for you.”

“Hi Will, what’s up?”

“Hey Grant, I see you caught up with Tracey.  She’s really something isn’t she?”

Grant grinned.  “At least she has good taste in restaurants.”

“Well, I hope this doesn’t ruin your meal.  I was able to come up with some stuff on your pal, Broderick Jasper.”

“Not too bad I hope, he left the country.”

“Umn, not good.  A friend in the bureau checked him out.  He was never in Special Forces.  Washed out of jump school.  As a matter of fact, didn’t even make it into combat.  Admin staff in Saigon was as close as he came, and as far as we can tell, he never even got his uniform dirty.”

“So does he have any qualifications besides liar.”

“Take a deep breath.  I’ve saved the best for last.”

“Okay, hit me.”

“Two years in California State Prison for driving the getaway car in an armed robbery.”

“Damn!”  Grant slammed his fist against the table.  Nearby conversation paused and the waiter scurried over to see if service was a problem.  “Well, what’s he done for us lately?”

“After parole he seems to be clean with the law, started running with a different crowd.  Over the past twenty years he’s developed other interests and contacts in South East Asia, but nothing illegal that we’re able to uncover.”

“Where’d he get his credibility with MIA families.”

“I don’t know.  They seem to want to believe in something and they’ve lost faith in the government.  He must have managed to achieve a mythical status by continually giving them something to grasp at and always telling them what they want to hear.”

“Un-be-lieve-able!  Okay, let me call you back in the morning.  Thanks for the report.”

It was apparent from Tracey’s expression that she was expecting the worst.  “Don’t tell me.  Jaz is not the Boy Scout we hoped he was.”

Grant recapped the conversation.

“I feel absolutely negligent,” Tracey moaned.  “Craig’s office checked his references and I called to confirm his service time, myself.  We obviously didn’t check deep enough.”

“You can’t blame yourself.  Why would anyone ask if he’s a convicted felon.  The question would hardly come up if he’s successfully passing himself off as a war hero.  Did Will say anything else when he was talking to you?”

She extended her lower lip in a little pout.  “Only that you’re a terrific guy and you would be able to take care of everything.”

“Great!”

They temporarily turned inward to their personal deliberation on the latest turn of events while the waiter bustled around removing plates, smoothing, straightening, retreating then reappearing with a glass of Remy Martin Cognac and a Kahlua on the rocks.

“Isn’t there something we can do?” Tracey asked, even though she knew the answer.  “Like get a warrant for his arrest?”

“Not unless he in fact does something fraudulent.  It’s not a crime to collect an advance even if you are an ex-con.  Not much chance of finding him anyway.”

“Actually,” she began then paused.  “Actually I know exactly where he should be on Tuesday and I’ve got forty thousand dollars that says he’ll be there.”

Grant could see the electricity build as she explained about the delayed payment and the arrangement she had to send the money to Jaz’s hotel.

“So who’s going to be there to confront him?”

“Look, all I had planned was to work on my book and if Jaz skips out with the money, there goes my premise.  By the way, I seem to recall your calendar has some open days.”

He held his glass under his nose and took a deep breath.  “This drink must be getting to me.  Or did a beautiful lady just ask me to go to Hong Kong with her?”

“Is your passport in order?”

“I believe it is, yours?”

“Uh-huh.”

Reaching into his wallet he removed a card and handed it across the table.  “May I borrow your phone.  Ms. Beach is standing by for my call.”

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Sandy Beach was ecstatic that her impromptu marketing technique had produced such immediate success.  She managed to arrange a convention rate package that included rooms in the Peninsula Hotel and round-trip transportation on Cathay Pacific from LAX to arrive at 6:55 AM, Hong Kong time on Tuesday.  Her only instructions, “If anybody asks when you check in, you’re ecologists who are greatly concerned about global warming.”  In the twenty-two hours before check-in neither Tracey nor Grant had time to mull over the entire consequences of the trip they were about take.

They talked of relaxing when they reached the international terminal but those thoughts were trampled when two busloads of nervous passengers unloaded directly ahead of them at the entrance.  Grant was fine after Tracey explained that happiness was all about standing in line, any line, and left him guarding the suitcases while she went for frozen yogurt.

Several suitcases lighter and an hour later they waited at the gate with two hundred and fifty coexistent travelers for the flight to be called out.  By the time boarding began their conversation had drifted from what they were thinking about the trip to more routine questions of personal history.

“Tell me about when you were shot down,” Tracey said as they stood in line to board the flight.

The line started to move forward.

“Okay,” Grant said, “I should be able to work that into a fifteen hour flight.”