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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781415206591 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House South Africa |
| Publication date: | 03/10/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 288 |
| File size: | 320 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Finding Jack
A Novel
By Gareth Crocker
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2011 Gareth CrockerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-312-62172-8
CHAPTER 1
Death Valley, Vietnam
Six months later
6 July 1972
Only the top half of Fletcher's head was visible above the murky water. The rest of his body was submerged beneath the mud and thick reeds alongside the riverbank. He was drawing short, shallow breaths. From his position, he could make out three members of his platoon. Point man Mitchell Lord, radioman Gunther Pearson, and their lieutenant, Rogan Brock, were hidden in a classic L-shaped ambush awaiting an enemy patrol. They had been hiking up to a site three kilometers away to set up a landing zone when they were warned about them. Their information had the group at a little more than twenty soldiers — large by Vietnam standards. The fact that their own platoon numbered only half that was of no real consequence, as the ambush, coupled with their superior firepower, gave them a telling advantage. Their chief concern was that many Vietnamese patrols comprised small groups of soldiers staggered sometimes half a kilometer apart. There was a real danger that during the firefight, they would be outflanked.
Fletcher blinked away the sweat around his eyes and checked his rifle again. There was always a chance, however vague, that it would jam and leave him defenseless at the vital moment. As sniper, his job was to try to pick out the ranking officer and take him down first. Cut off the head, and the body will fall, the army taught them. It was the same modus operandi for both sides, and as such, none of the soldiers wore any insignia out in the field that would reveal their rank. But there were other ways of telling. Often the soldier consulting the map would be the ranking officer. Regardless, it was crucial that Fletcher allowed the point man to pass in front of him. If Fletcher fired too soon, the soldiers would have a chance to scatter and find cover. Another problem was that both the North Vietnamese Army and the Vietcong, or Charlie, as U.S. soldiers nicknamed them, were extremely smart and notoriously elusive. On one of Fletcher's first tours, several weeks before, they had set up an identical ambush on a patrol of sixteen Charlie, yet several of them had escaped. Given their position and superior firepower, the trap had seemed watertight, but there was a leak somewhere. An unseen hole through which some of the soldiers had managed to disappear. By the time the last of the rounds had been fired and the rifle smoke began to lift, only twelve men were left dead on the ground. In fact, so slippery was Charlie that some U.S. troops had been on tour for months and had never even seen him, although most had felt him. He was small, nimble, and blended seamlessly into the jungle. His tactics were to attack and retreat — basic guerrilla warfare. No helicopters, gunships, or bombing campaigns to support him. Just cunning and cutting. He would stab you and then withdraw into the shadows. Charlie was a ghost that never slept. He made traps that intended to maim, not kill. Traps that would slow down platoons and gnaw away at their spirit. In the jungles of Vietnam, Charlie was a highly formidable enemy.
Faint voices.
Fletcher narrowed his gaze to hide the whites of his eyes. He remained perfectly still, the area around him disturbed only by a swarm of flying insects breaking the surface of the soupy water with their wings in an attempt to lure out prey.
It seems everyone's hunting, he thought grimly. The body of his gun was covered with mud and rotting leaves to guard against reflections. Only the open barrel — the killing eye, as they called it — was visible to the trail.
Footsteps and voices. Louder now.
A soldier, barely five feet tall and wearing a worn pith helmet, emerged over the rise. Holding his breath, Fletcher curled his finger around the trigger of his M16 and followed the diminutive figure as he approached the ambush. Something slick and heavy swam between his legs. Still no sign of the rest of the patrol.
Waiting ... waiting.
Fletcher flinched at what he saw next. An American soldier wearing the distinctive emblem of the First Air Cavalry Division appeared into view. His arms were bound over a wooden pole behind his back, and his face bore the obvious signs of interrogation. As he limped forward slowly, he was kicked from behind by one of his captors.
Fletcher looked to his lieutenant for instruction. Through a series of hand signals, Rogan ordered him to take out the two soldiers directly in front of and behind the hostage. This would minimize the chance of the American getting shot in the firefight. He then signaled for the rest of the platoon to switch from automatic to single fire. He looked back at Fletcher and held up his fist, waiting for the right moment.
A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of Fletcher's nose, paused for a beat, then dropped into the water. With one eye on Rogan and the other straining toward his two marks, he again held his breath. C'mon ... c'mon ...
Rogan dropped his hand.
Fletcher squeezed off two rounds in quick succession. Before the second soldier even hit the ground, the rest of the platoon opened fire. The sound was devastating. As Charlie tried to return fire, point man Mitchell Lord burst out of his hiding place, tackled the U.S. hostage, and dragged him down an embankment. It was typical Lord. He was every bit as brave as he was crazy. Toward the back of the patrol, three of the soldiers had managed to find cover, but they were quickly flanked and taken out. In less than a minute, twenty-three Charlie lay dead in the burning sunshine of Vietnam.
Just another day in hell.
CHAPTER 2After a quick sweep of the area to ensure that there were no splinter patrols nearby, Fletcher's closest friend in the platoon, infantryman Travis Tucker, untied the hostage. He appeared badly dehydrated; his tongue was so swollen, he could barely speak. Only after several generous sips of water was he able to relay some basic information. He was a helicopter pilot who had been shot down while dropping a platoon into a hot zone. He was the sole survivor. He had been held hostage for more than a week and taken to three different camps, where he'd been interrogated and tortured each time. Sometimes they would ask their questions in Vietnamese, knowing full well he couldn't answer. In Vietnam, the most horrific things passed for humor. His hands were shaking so badly, he could barely hold the water canister up to his mouth. Each sip seemed to improve his pallor though, as if the canister wasn't filled with water, but rather a skin-toned ink that was being infused into his body.
"Easy with that," Rogan warned. "He'll bring it all up." From a physical perspective, few men registered a more imposing presence than Rogan Brock. Although tall and heavily built, he was not the largest man in Vietnam, but there was something deeply unsettling behind his stare. There was a sense of raw aggression lurking beyond the black centers of his eyes. His shaven head and pitted face added additional threat to his appearance.
The pilot wiped his mouth with the side of his torn sleeve. "I can't tell you how grateful I am. Jesus ... thank you. I'm pretty sure they were going to kill me today. From what I could make out, we had one more stop to make. One more interrogation, and they were going to put a bullet in my face. How'd you know where to find me?"
The question saddened Fletcher. In his delirious state, the pilot believed that what had just transpired was a planned rescue. The truth was that the U.S. was having enough of a battle just trying to keep a foothold in the war without having to coordinate rescue attempts for POWs.
"Forget about it. The important thing is that you're safe now. We'll have you back at base tomorrow morning, where you can get some rest. The name's Travis, by the way. Travis Tucker."
"Will Peterson," he replied, accepting Travis's hand.
"Let me introduce you to the rest of the Fat Lady."
"The Fat Lady? I've heard of you guys. You were part of the company that survived that shitstorm outside Kon Tum. The story I heard had you outnumbered eight to one."
"More like four to one, and we didn't all survive. We lost three men that day," Rogan fired back. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear."
Travis moved quickly to defuse the moment. "This, as you might've already guessed, is our lieutenant, the charismatic Rogan Brock. The man sitting next to you is probably the third best sniper within a hundred yards from here, Fletcher Carson."
"Definitely top ten." Fletcher nodded.
"Radioman Gunther Pearson ... squad leader Wayville Rex ... weapons specialist Kingston Lane ... infantryman Arnold Keens ... medic Edgar Green ... and infantryman Craig Fallow."
More handshakes and nods.
"And this," Travis continued, "is the madman who dragged you down the embankment. The finest point man in all of Vietnam: Mitchell Lord."
Mitchell stepped right up to Will's face so that their noses almost touched. His eyes were open wide, unnaturally so. "Please call me Mitch. Only the ladies call me Lord ... or Jesus Christ, if the feeling grabs them," he said, winking one eye then the other.
"Well, thank you ... Mitch, that was some brave shit you pulled there."
Mitchell frowned, as if he didn't understand the comment, and turned away.
"All right, ladies, now that we've exchanged phone numbers, we need to get moving," Rogan cut in. "There's still a fucking war going on here."
They picked up their gear while Fletcher and Travis helped Will to his feet. As they moved out, Kingston Lane began to hum a tune. A few of the men joined in.
"What's this?"
"Every time we make it through a firefight, Kingston hums this hymn," Fletcher replied.
"Like some sort of victory song?"
"It's really just to give thanks that we didn't lose anyone and to let off some steam."
"It sounds familiar."
"It's an old Christian hymn called 'By His Hand.' "
"I like it."
Fletcher smiled, but chose not to reply. Instead, he allowed the tune into his heart. It couldn't cure their ills, he knew, but it sometimes helped dull the pain.
"Tell me," Will asked as the hymn ended, "why do you call yourselves the Fat Lady?"
"Wayville, why do we call ourselves the Fat Lady?" Fletcher called out.
"Because Vietnam ain't over, baby ... till the Fat Lady sings! Hoohah!" They all laughed until Rogan spun around. "We having fun, platoon? Should we light a few flares to make the VC's job a little easier? Carson, I don't want to hear another goddamn word from you until we hit the LZ. Do you understand me?"
Fletcher tipped the brim of his helmet, sarcastically so.
Rogan had a habit of singling him out for abuse whenever he was unhappy with the platoon. The reason, Fletcher suspected, was because a mild dilution of Asian blood flowed through his veins and because he bore some, albeit fleeting, resemblance to the Vietcong. In the outside world, his good looks opened doors for him. But this was Vietnam, and given the side he was fighting on, occasionally his olive skin and coal black hair incensed his countrymen.
After a while, Fletcher whispered ahead to Gunther Pearson, who was radioing through news of the ambush and subsequent rescue. "How much farther to the landing zone?"
"Around two clicks."
"How far?" Will asked quietly.
"Two kilometers. Do you think you can make it?" Travis asked.
"Make it? I'll fucking race you there."
CHAPTER 3Using entrenching tools, the platoon had soon dug several foxholes and rigged the surrounding area with trip wires linked to mines and flares. Fortunately they were in a clearing on top of a small hillock and didn't need to remove any trees. Most of the soldiers constructed hooches above their foxholes — makeshift tents created by zipping two ponchos together. Once all the work was done and their coordinates radioed in to base for the morning pickup, Rogan called the platoon together for a short debriefing. Afterwards, he turned his attention to guard duty. "Fallow and Green, you're on watch until 2200. Carson and Tucker till 0300. Rex and Lane, you relieve them till sunrise."
Travis raised his hands to his head. "C'mon, that's two nights in a row."
"On second thought, Rex and Lane, you're only to relieve Mrs. Tucker and Mrs. Carson at 0330." He waited for a response and, when there was none forthcoming, rubbed salt into the wound. "You should be more selective of the company you keep, Tucker. The people you side with can really bring you down."
"Then may I share a foxhole with you, lieutenant?" Travis asked.
Rogan had already turned and was walking away.
"Please, sir, can't I sleep with you tonight? I'll give you a back rub. A foot massage. We can even share my sleeping bag! Let's see where it takes us."
Rogan raised his middle finger and kept walking.
"Shit," Travis sighed. "I'd like to shoot him in the ass."
Fletcher shook his head. "Fucking graveyard again."
Mitchell Lord stood up and ran his fingers through his long black hair. How he was allowed to keep it that length was something of a mystery. "I'll take over for you guys."
"Thanks, Mitch, but if Rogan finds out you're covering for us, he'll piss himself," Fletcher said.
Mitchell was hardly ever assigned to guard duty, not because Rogan necessarily favored him, but because they couldn't afford to have him tired in his position as point man. Running point required an inordinate amount of skill and concentration. It entailed going ahead of the patrol, checking for traps, ambushes, enemy patrols, animal tracks, and even searching for secure pathways. It was also physically taxing, as he had to navigate and hack his way through long stretches of dense jungle with a machete. To have him up on watch was not only unfair, but also risky for the platoon. One of the reasons they had suffered relatively so few casualties was because of Mitchell's ability to sniff out danger.
At their foxhole, Travis removed his boots and sat down next to Fletcher, settling into as comfortable a position as he could find. He pushed his glasses onto the top of his head, which apart from a light sprinkling of wispy brown hair, was largely bald. Although not a particularly handsome man, he was blessed with piercingly blue eyes and a kind and open face that people responded to. For a while they spoke about Will Peterson and the firefight, but gradually their conversation meandered away from the day's events.
"Fletcher, there's something I've been wanting to ask you for a while now. I know I've got no right to ask it, and I'll understand if you tell me to shut up and mind my own business, but ... I —"
"You want to know about the crash?'
Travis nodded hesitantly, with the care of a man prodding a sleeping lion with a stick.
Fletcher propped up his rifle against the side of the hole and stared out over the jungle. "The Odyssey was billed as a revolution in air travel. Do you know that it took ten years to design and was capable of holding almost six hundred passengers?"
"I remember," Travis replied softly. "It was all over the press."
"You should've seen her, Trav. She was as big as a ship. Almost three hundred and fifty feet nose to tail, with a wingspan as wide as a football field. She had six engines and weighed just over five hundred and fifty tons. She was designed to fly supersonic at a range of ten thousand miles. Although," he said, trailing off, "they never did prove that ..."
"What brought her down?"
"A design flaw in the fuel system was the last I heard, but it doesn't matter. All that counts is that she came down. There were three hundred and twenty-seven passengers on board its maiden flight, and only nine of us survived."
Fletcher paused, steeling himself. When he spoke again, his voice seemed to flatten out and his eyes fixed on a faraway place, well beyond the jungle. "As one of the journalists invited to the launch, I was allowed to bring my family along for the ride. We had just reached our cruising altitude when the pilot invited all the children to the flight deck. Kelly was about to step into the cockpit when the door was slammed in her face and the children were all rushed back to their seats. The cabin crew told us to put on our safety belts and refused to say anything more. About a minute later, an engine on the right wing seemed to stutter — it felt like a cough — and then exploded. Another two on the left wing followed moments later. I remember trying to hold on to Abby and Kelly as the plane fell ... telling them that everything was going to be okay ... that the plane had backup systems, but I knew we were in serious trouble. And then ... and then there was nothing. I woke up still strapped to my seat, lying in someone's backyard. I remember the grass was freshly mowed; I can still smell it. A section of the plane's wing and one of its engines had landed no more than fifty yards away from me. The burning jet fuel had lit up a large oak tree in the corner of the property. Beyond it, through a collapsed section of wall, I could see what was left of the plane's fuselage. It was lying in an open field about a mile away. The flames were as high as church steeples ... I knew then that my girls were gone."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Finding Jack by Gareth Crocker. Copyright © 2011 Gareth Crocker. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Cover,Title Page,
Dedication,
Acknowledgments,
Prologue,
Part I: The Land of Ghosts,
Part II: Left Behind,
Part III: The Last Dance,
Epilogue,
Jack,
Author's Note,
Copyright,
Reading Group Guide
1. In the Prologue, Fletcher tells Marvin that between an individual and his family, "there is no line...You're one entity, and when a part of you is cut away, the rest of you slowly bleeds out" (p. 4). How does Jack influence Fletcher's notion of family? Do you think Fletcher would make this statement at the end of the novel?
2. When Jack approaches The Fat Lady platoon, Fletcher and Rogan perceive his presence quite differently. Rogan instinctually sees the dog as a threat, while Fletcher senses that Jack was "‘coming to us for help'" (p. 50). What do you think of Rogan's reaction? How does this conflict shed light on the war and its effect upon the soldiers?
3. How does the relationship between Fletcher and Jack resonate with you? Has there been a time when a dog (or other animal) "saved" you?
4. In the Author's Note, we learn that Gareth Crocker bases his story on the real Vietnam war dogs who were declared "surplus military equipment" and left behind. How do you feel about the use of war dogs in the military? In what ways does Finding Jack shape your views?
5. Finding Jack touches on a few almost "supernatural" elements. A fiery apparition of Fletcher's wife and daughter seems to lead him to safety, and Fletcher implies that Jack is the dog he intended to buy for Kelly. How do you interpret these supernatural occurrences? Are they products of Fletcher's damaged mind? What do they say about the psychology of war?
6. At the end of the novel, we learn that Rogan lives alone and works as a night-shift security guard at a chemical factory. Given Rogan's status in the war, and his achievements as a courageous leader, does this outcome surprise you? Why or why not?