Never Say Die Read Online Free Page A

own mortality, you made a lousy soldier.
    Eventually, he'd become a lousy soldier.
    He was still astonished that he'd survived. It was something he'd never fully understand: the simple fact that he'd made it back alive.
    Especially when he thought of all the other men on that transport plane out of Da Nang. Their ticket home, the magic bird that was supposed to deliver them from all the madness.
    He still had the scars from the crash. He still harbored a mortal dread of flying.
    He refused to think about that upcoming flight to Saigon. Air travel, unfortunately, was part of his job, and this was just one more plane he couldn't avoid.
    He opened his briefcase, took out a stack of folders and lay down on the bed to read. The file he opened first was one of dozens he'd brought with him from Honolulu. Each contained a name, rank, serial number, photograph and a detailed history—as detailed as possible—of the circumstances of disappearance. This one was a naval airman, Lieutenant Commander Eugene Stoddard, last seen ejecting from his disabled bomber forty miles west of Hanoi. Included was a dental chart and an old X-ray report of an arm fracture sustained as a teenager. What the file left out were the nonessentials: the wife he'd left behind, the children, the questions.
    There were always questions when a soldier was missing in action.
    Guy skimmed the pages, made a few mental notes and reached for another file. These were the most likely cases, the men whose stories best matched the newest collection of remains. The "Vietnamese government was turning over three sets, and Guy's job was to confirm the skeletons were non-Vietnamese and to give each one a name, rank and serial number. It wasn't a particularly pleasant job, but one that had to be done.
    He set aside the second file and reached for the next.
    This one didn't contain a photograph; it was a supplementary file, one he'd reluctantly added to his briefcase at the last minute. The cover was stamped Confidential, then, a year ago, restamped Declassified. He opened the file and frowned at the first page.
     
    Code Name: Friar Tuck
    Status: Open (Current as of 10/85)
    File Contains:
    1. Summary of Witness Reports
    2. Possible Identities
    3. Search Status
     
    Friar Tuck.
A legend known to every soldier who'd fought in Nam. During the war, Guy had assumed those tales of a rogue American pilot flying for the enemy were mere fantasy.
    Then, a few weeks ago, he'd learned otherwise.
    He'd been at his desk at the Army Lab when two men, representatives of an organization called the Ariel Group, had appeared in his office. "We have a proposition," they'd said. "We know you're visiting Nam soon, and we want you to look for a war criminal." The man they were seeking was Friar Tuck.
    "You've got to be kidding." Guy had laughed. "I'm not a military cop. And there's no such man. He's a fairy tale."
    In answer, they'd handed him a twenty-thousand-dollar check—"for expenses," they'd said. There'd be more to come if he brought the traitor back to justice.
    "And if I don't want the job?" he'd asked.
    "You can hardly refuse" was their answer. Then they'd told Guy exactly what they knew about him, about his past, the thing he'd done in the war. A brutal secret that could destroy him, a secret he'd kept hidden away behind a wall of fear and self-loathing. They told him exactly what he could expect if it came to light. The hard glare of publicity. The trial. The jail cell.
    They had him cornered. He took the check and awaited the next contact.
    The day before he left Honolulu, this file had arrived special delivery from Washington. Without looking at it, he'd slipped it into his briefcase.
    Now he read it for the first time, pausing at the page listing possible identities. Several names he recognized from his stack of MIA files, and it struck him as unfair, this list. These men were missing in action and probably dead; to brand them as possible traitors was an insult to their memories.
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