Sally Boy (21 page)

One evening after receiving a high priority
radio transmission requesting the CIA’s involvement in a field
interrogation, Wilson, Smith, and Sal got on a chopper and
lifted-off into the darkening sky above Laos. Wearing jungle
fatigues without name tags or unit affiliation, each man carried an
M-16, an ammo pouch, and a knife, standard-operating-procedure
while in the field.

Curiously, Wilson carried a small pack that
he had securely slung over his shoulder. Having learned that
anything these extremely regimented men did that was out of the
ordinary had significance, Sal stared suspiciously at the bag
because he didn’t recognize it.

Their highly classified mission was to
conduct field interrogations of VC infiltrators suspected of
conducting reconnaissance missions for a major NVA offensive along
the Cambodian border. However, no training in the world could have
prepared Sal for what he would witness and reluctantly take part
in.

The Huey touched down in a remote clearing
ten-meters from a hut in which the North Vietnamese POW’s were
held. Jumping out of the chopper, Wilson, Smith, and Sal made their
way into the hut. Gagged with cloth and bound to chairs with rope
were the four men designated to be questioned. Their wrists were
tied to the armrests, and their lower extremities were secured to
the front legs of their chairs. Standing behind them clutching
M-16s were two young, strong-looking Special Forces E-5 Sergeants.
Having already been subjected to punishing interrogation
techniques, the prisoner’s faces were bruised and cut. In charge of
the prisoners was a handsome, muscular Special Forces Captain.
Proceeding up to the Captain and extending his arm to shake, Wilson
said congenially, “I’m Wilson.”

“I’m Captain Rand.”

“Have you ascertained any information from
the prisoners?” Wilson inquired studying the captives’ faces.

“No sir. We were in the process of
interrogating these men when we were ordered to stand down and
await your arrival.”

“Excellent. Which one of these individuals
is the most expendable in your opinion, Captain?”

“What exactly do you mean by
‘expendable’?”

“Which one do you believe knows the least
about their operation and is of no use to us?”

Pointing to the farthest prisoner on the
left, the Captain stated confidently, “That one there. He spilled
his guts already. But the others, they’re much more disciplined and
better trained.”

“Good,” Wilson said politely. “Maybe you
gentlemen should wait outside.”

The battle-tested Special Forces soldiers
rolled their eyes. Confidently the Captain replied, “Well stay. We
need to hear everything these monkeys have to say, anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Wilson opened his bag and
laid its contents out on a tabletop. Long, sharp, dangerous-looking
cutting instruments were neatly tucked into individual pouches.
Each covered by clear plastic so every ghastly implement could be
identified. Taking out one long, gleaming blade with a steel
handle, Wilson slowly walked over to the POW the Captain had
pointed out. With one clean stroke, Wilson sliced the man’s throat,
severing the jugular vein and carotid arteries. Everyone in the
room but Smith was nauseated by the stream of blood flowing down
the front of the man’s chest. Feeling his evening meal starting to
come up, Sal quickly began breathing exercises he had learned to
steady his nerves.

Horrified by what they had witnessed, the
three remaining prisoners squirmed and rocked in their seats
causing their chairs to lift off the floor and slowly bounce across
the room.

“I think they may be willing to discuss the
specifics of their mission with us now, Captain,” Wilson declared
as he pulled down the first man’s gag and asked him in Vietnamese.
“Are you ready to talk to us?”

“No!” the man shouted.

Grasping a handful of the man’s hair, Wilson
used it like a handle to hold the man’s head very still. Raising
the blade, Wilson then loped off the man’s right ear. Blood sprayed
the floor as the man shrieked. Without conscience, Wilson hacked
off the man’s other ear and then asked calmly, “Do you feel like
talking now?”

The captive still refused. Taking hold of
the man’s right hand Wilson steadied it, and then skillfully
severed the man’s pointer finger at its second knuckle. The digit
fell to the floor as blood shot out from what remained of the
finger.

“You only have nine more chances left to
answer my questions. Then I have to start at your feet and work my
way up,” Wilson gleefully pointed out to the suffering man.

Clearing his throat loudly, the Captain
suggested, “I think maybe my men and I should wait outside after
all.”

“That’s a good idea,” Smith fired back
sarcastically.

“Captain, would you be kind enough to leave
us your canteen. These types of interrogations can parch a man,”
Wilson requested in a civilized tone.

Removing his canteen from his web gear, the
Captain placed it on the table. Opening the door of the hut, Smith
allowed the three Special Forces soldiers to leave and then slammed
it shut behind them. Sensing this may be his only opportunity to
get out, Sal dashed toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going, Scalise?”
Smith asked belligerently.

“I don’t think I need to be here. I mean,
there’s nothing I can learn from this.”

Rubbing his hands together, Wilson flashed a
sinister smile. “Oh, yes there is. This is part of your training,
Scalise. You once asked me what I’d be instructing you on. Well,
this is it, asshole: covert interrogation techniques and
procedures. Pick up a fucking knife.”

“Are you outta your fucking mind?”

With blinding speed, Smith snatched the
weapon from Sal’s hands and trained both his and Sal’s M-16 on him.
“Do as you’re told, Scalise, or you’re gonna be KIA as of right
now.”

Not believing the threat, Sal responded
fearlessly, “That’s fine with me asshole. Go ahead.”

Tightening his grip on the weapons, Smith
squeezed both triggers. Automatic gunfire shot up the floor and
chewed up the bamboo walls behind Sal. Bullets whizzed by Sal’s
head and body, narrowly missing their mark on purpose.

“You sick motherfuckers!” As smoke rose from
the barrels of the weapons, Sal’s eyes glazed over. “You wanna see
crazy? I’ll show you fucking crazy!” Snatching up one of the knives
from Wilson’s pouch, Sal approached the bleeding man, raised the
knife, and hacked off three more of the man’s fingers. Blood
covered the floor and shot up, spattering Sal’s face. Wiping his
eyes, Sal barked at the nearly dead man in Vietnamese, “Tell me
what I want to know or I’ll cut you to pieces!”

Defiantly, the man shook his head. As if no
longer in control of his senses, Sal savagely swung the blade,
slicing through the man’s throat. The spark of life drained from
the poor bastard as quickly as the blood now gushing from his
throat. With murderous eyes, Sal turned toward the next man ready
to do some slicing on him. “You’re next, asshole!” Sal threatened
loudly in Vietnamese.

The terrified man shook then unleashed a
tremendous groan along with large amount of fecal matter. A stench
immediately filled the room. Scrunching up his face as he sniffed
the air, Smith ordered. “Hold up, Scalise. We got a shitter.”

Taking the knife still clutched in Sal’s
strong hand, Wilson ordered, “Release the instrument, Scalise. I’ll
take over from here. You did very well. Much better than the last
man who was here before you.”

“You’re talking about Horan, Robert J. Ain’t
you?”

“How did you know about him, Scalise?”
Wilson asked, surprised.

“That’s classified, asshole!” Turning to
Smith, Sal demanded, “Gimme back my fucking weapon.”

Wilson nodded and Smith tossed Sal back his
M-16.

“Allow me to congratulate you on a fine job,
Scalise. This may seem ruthless to you now. But if you possess the
will to cut up a man like a piece of steak, it doesn’t matter how
tough he is, he’ll tell you anything you want to know. Now that
you’ve seen what I do up close and personal I’ll finish your
training back at our camp,” Wilson calmly explained.

“Sounds like a lot a fun.”

“Don’t dismiss the importance of our
techniques so quickly. Someday you might have to employ this
practice to save your life or the lives of your fellow
soldiers.”

“I don’t think so,” Sal mumbled under his
breath.

Covered in the blood of his comrades, the
third man was sweating profusely as tears ran down his face. Taking
down his gag, Wilson forced the man to sit in his own shit-filled
pants while he intensely interrogated him. Smith noted everything
the prisoner had to say about their mission, their objective, the
means in which they planned to perform the operation, and the names
of all conspirators.

When the prisoner was finished, the captive
politely requested a drink of water. Satisfied with what he had
learned, Wilson picked up the canteen off the table, loosened the
ropes restraining the man’s hands, and presented the prisoner with
the canteen.

After gulping several mouthfuls of water,
the POW reached up to hand the canteen back to Wilson, but
“accidentally” dropped it. Strangely, no one had noticed that the
man’s foot ties had loosened during this lengthy ordeal. When
Wilson bent over to pick up the canteen, the prisoner kicked him in
his face. The force of the blow sent Wilson flying across the
hut.

Picking up a knife off the table, the crazed
POW rushed Smith, who was reading the notes from the interrogation
with his back turned toward the prisoner. With no time to spare,
Sal managed to raise his weapon and squeeze off a burst of
automatic-fire, striking the POW in his shoulder and the side of
his head. The rounds propelled the prisoner’s weakened body away
from Smith and he hit the floor. Seeing the knife still clutched in
the dead man’s hand, Smith realized that Sal had just saved his
life

“I guess I owe you one, Scalise,” Smith
remarked with humility.

“Yeah, a big one,” Sal gladly pointed
out.

Picking himself up off the floor, Wilson
ordered, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Stepping out of the hut, Sal quickly headed
toward their chopper. Disgusted by the ordeal, he hopped up into
the Huey, strapped himself in, and closed his eyes.

Approaching the Special Forces Captain with
the interrogation notes in hand, Wilson explained, “This is a
detailed report of everything the prisoner divulged. I’d put an
accuracy level of ninety-eight percent or better on this
information. There’s one more POW in there. We have no use for him.
He’s yours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Leading Smith away from the chopper, Wilson
asked quietly, “How did Scalise find out about Horan?”

“I have no idea, sir,” Smith said
shrugging.

“I don’t think it would be very prudent to
allow Scalise to ever get back to the world. He knows too much. We
can’t afford to have his stupid ass running around the states with
intimate details of our operation.”

“I don’t believe he’d be any kind of a
security threat to us, sir. All that poor bastard really wants to
do is go home.”

“When I want your fucking opinion I’ll give
it to you. Roger that, troop?” Wilson roared.

“Yes, sir!”

“We have our rendezvous with the Colonel
next week. I think that would be an opportune time for our I-talian
friend to go MIA. Wouldn’t you agree, Smith?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go.”

Climbing onto the chopper, Wilson and Smith
strapped themselves in, and the pilot lifted-off into the
night.

* * * * *

In the dark early morning hours Sal, Wilson,
Smith, Jones, and Murphy were deployed by chopper to a remote
region of the North Vietnamese jungle. Clad in jungle fatigues, and
faces striped with black camouflage paint, each man carried an
over-filled duffel bag in addition to their weapon.

Out on point, Wilson easily negotiated the
familiar terrain. After humping several clicks the team came upon a
village deep in the jungle. As they continued through the dense
brush into a clearing, Wilson was greeted by a North Vietnamese
soldier standing guard. Wilson exchanged salutations with the
sentry, and the team was permitted to pass. After leading his men
past several burnt out structures, Wilson and the team entered a
newly constructed bamboo hut.

Several NVA soldiers sat on crudely
fashioned benches and chairs with their trademark AK-47s firmly in
hand. Their body language suggested anxiety and they seemed to be
waiting for something to happen. Seated behind a big desk shuffling
papers was a distinguished-looking older Vietnamese gentleman
wearing a black silk robe over his NVA Officer’s uniform.

Wilson made his way to the desk and politely
addressed the man in Vietnamese, “How are you, Colonel Nguyen?”

Looking up, the Colonel smiled. “I’m doing
well. It’s good to see you again, Wilson.” The Colonel rose from
his chair and shook Wilson’s hands.

“It’s good to see you too. We have
everything you asked for.” Opening his bag, Wilson emptied its
contents onto the table. Nicely bundled stacks of US currency
overflowed the desktop. The Colonel ran his hands over the money
and then picked up a package of hundred-dollar bills. “Wilson, I
would like to ask you a question that has been troubling me for
some time now.”

“What would that be, Colonel?”

“Don’t you care at all that this money will
go for arms and munitions to kill your fellow countrymen?”

Wilson smirked. “Colonel, I don’t care where
the money is going. It’s entirely your business. I just want our
product so we can be on our way.”

Stepping out from behind his desk, the
Colonel looked Sal up-and-down with contempt. “You Americans
honestly believe that you are masters of your destiny. When this
struggle is over, our history will tell of how the People’s Army
defeated the once great American military. Even though you are a
superior fighting force, we will teach you a valuable lesson that
you won’t soon forget.”