P. O. W. by Donald E. Zlotnik Page B

Reggie Junior doing?”
    “Fine. He lost a lung and is going home to be discharged.”
    “Sorry to hear that…”
    “He’s alive, Jack; my wife and I are thankful for that.”
    “So! What do you want to know about Barnett?”
    “Well, has he been taken prisoner, and is he still alive?” Colonel Sinclair looked over at his classmate, who was trying to
     act busy, but was very interested in the conversation. “And are you going to try and form a snatch team?”
    “You know, Reggie, this is a very interesting telephone call. I know you work for the chief of staff back at the Pentagon,
     but Barnett and James are
very
hot items right now in-country.”
    “We’re on a secure line, Jack, and I have a clearance that is about as high as you can get….” Sinclair left the sentence open.
    “Oh! I’m not worried about that, Reggie!” There was a pause and then Seacourt sighed over the line. “Shit! Let me brief you
     quickly on it. My staff can wait a few minutes.” Seacourt’s voice settled in for the story. “Last week a young Montagnard
     boy—about ten years old, maybe younger—came out of Laos to the Special Forces camp at A Shau. He demanded to see the American
     camp commander and presented the captain with a Polaroid snapshot of Barnett and James.”
    “A photograph? Were they alive?”
    The general paused and then spoke in a very low tone. “Yes, they were alive. Barnett was tied to a bamboo pole and James was
     whipping him with a bamboo rod…. At first we thought the photo was an NVA-staged shot, but experts have blown the photo up,
     and you can see the actual pain on Barnett’s face and…” The general paused to swallow. “And the… expression of sheer enjoyment
     on James’s face.”
    “Enjoyment?”
    “I’ve had a lot of experts look at the photograph, and
all
of them agree that James would have to be one hell of a good actor along with Barnett to pose a picture like that. We had
     the portion where Barnett’s feet were exposed—actually, we could only blow up a portion of his left heel up to the ball of
     his foot, but it was enough to see that Barnett’s feet had been severely beaten.”
    “How did the Montagnard boy get the photograph?”
    “This is
very
secret, Reggie… I don’t even know if I should say it over this secure telephone… but… the boy said an American gave it to
     his grandfather and asked if he would deliver it to the Americans at A Shau. From the boy’s description, we think the American
     was an Air Force colonel who was shot down quite a while ago.”
    “Are you planning a mission?” Sinclair was getting excited.
    “Yes. We think they’re being held near the Laotian village of A Rum, about three miles inside of Laos.” Seacourt nodded again
     at the captain, who stood impatiently waiting. Sinclair had no way of knowing the meeting concerned exactly what they were
     now talking about on the telephone. “I’ve got to run, Reggie. My staff’s been waiting for me.”
    “Just one more thing, Jack… A
big
favor.”
    “Sure. Ask it.”
    “There’s a young soldier in the First Cavalry who was with Barnett when he was captured. It’s very important that he gets
     on the mission team.”
    “I’ll see what I can do. What’s his name?” Seacourt picked up a pencil.
    “Specialist Fourth Class David Woods. He’s with the First Brigade’s Recon Company.”
    “David Woods… got it. I’ll have him involved with the rescue operation in some way. I understand what’s going on…. I may be
     a politician, but I still understand troops.”
    “Thanks, Jack. I owe you one.” Sinclair hung up the telephone and felt good about his day’s work. He knew that he couldn’t
     mention the telephone conversation to Woods because it was highly classified, but if he knew Seacourt, Woods would be picked
     up before sundown and be briefed even better than Sinclair himself had been as to the extent of the mission.
    Master Sergeant McDonald sat on the nylon mesh