|
For your reading
pleasure ~
Compliments of the
author!
Please share with your friends!
(www.cedarpost.com)
|
Acknowledgements
I want to take a moment to personally
thank, Iman Maleki, of Iran, for letting me
use a few pictures from his gallery.
Iman was
born in 1976, in Tehran. He has been
fascinated by the art of painting since he
was a child. At the age of 15, he started to
learn painting under the mastery of his
first and only teacher—Morteza Katouzian—who is the greatest realist painter of Iran.
Meanwhile, he began to paint professionally.
I know that Iman will be very happy if you
visit his website:
http://imanmaleki.com/index.htm
• The Shining Lotus Orphanage does not
exist. However,
Alessandro Vannucci has taken many
beautiful pictures at the Osborne House,
which is a real orphanage, located in
Cambodia. As you read further and discover
Alessandro's adorable photos, you are always
invited to visit the
Cambodian Orphan Fund. So a big thank
you is extended to Alessandro.
•
I
want to again say, thank you, to all the
talented photographers over at
Flickr
who have given permission to use their
photos. Use of their imagery is not an
endorsement of my book. Clicking on the
photographer’s name will take you to their
Flickr Photos.
Feel free to browse.
•
PBase
is another Internet
photo-sharing community where I was
introduced to
Nick De Marco and his great
photographs. So a big thanks to Nick
for letting me use some of his photos.
•
Christopher Cotton has a
very impressive collection of photographs
stored over on
Picasa Web Albums. Spending time at his Cambodia gallery
(or any of his galleries) would be a
worthwhile use of anybody's time. I
owe Mr. Cotton a huge, thank you. He
knows why. Thank you, again!
•
Wikipedia has been a valuable source
for finding Public Domain imagery.
•
The
Bhaktivedanta Book Trust deserves much
praise for preserving the art and wisdom of
ancient India, as well as actively
encouraging many new projects to unlock her
great past.
•
I want to thank Kris Carlson
who gave me some ideas on how this difficult
story could be told. Without his input I doubt that I would have
written any of this.
•
On a personal note, I want to
acknowledge the following: My sister,
Ava Harrison; Charles Berner; my lovely
wife, Kay; The Pilgrim; Joan Grant and her
book, Winged Pharaoh, Shrila
Prabhupada; and the worldwide Vaishnava
society of saints, sadhus, and scholars, led by
Mahaprabhu dev.
Abandoned is not in print
- Never for sale |
|
This novel is dedicated to
my friend, Carl Merchant
who died in Vietnam. He was from
Corinth, NY.
[2nd from right] |
|
This book is completely free for
your reading enjoyment.
Throughout the book
the author has interjected as
many historical facts as
possible to make his book
something more than total
fantasy. For example, in
part two there is a story about
a hunting accident. That
actually happened—not
to the character in the book,
but to Mr. Boutelle.
Furthermore,
in 1991 during the aftermath of
the horrendous Oakland Firestorm
that devastated so many homes in
California, the disaster-relief
agency mentioned in Chapter 7
was, in fact, on hand and
feeding as many as they could. |
|
 |
• Coming Soon •
CyberSubsidiary is currently
in the process of
formatting, Abandoned
for cell phone
reading. Once again, there
will be no charge.
|
Abandoned can be read
in a few hours
|
Forward
Before my book begins, I would
like to say a few words. First, please excuse me. I have never claimed to be much of a writer.
I like to tell my friends that when I do write, I perceive the process
as creating an onion. After I have the story, I
just sit down, for however long it takes, and in one gigantic sweep
of the pen, out it comes, just like a big, fat, yellow onion; skin
and all.
In many ways, this is the easy
part. What follows is where the real challenge begins:
proofreading. The outer covering included, each layer of the
onion has to be removed until the center is reached.
Call that perfection if you want. Exactly how each layer is removed
involves reading the story. Starting with the outer
skin, it takes an entire reading to remove it. The corrections
are what remove it, thus revealing a fresh, new layer. But
alas, each new layer is riddled with its own set of faults. If
only I was half a writer, I would have reached the center long ago.
A famous author once said that
even a hundred proofreaders are welcome. Oh, it's not
that I haven't been helped, because I have.
Still, I am not 100% satisfied. I know mistakes
still exist. For this I apologize. Is perfection
ever reached? I wonder. Like I said in the beginning,
please excuse my obvious shortcomings. Instead, I ask that you
appreciate the story.
I have now set myself another
goal. As soon as possible I plan to release, Abandoned
again, but this time as
a free, smartphone edition. Along with the reformatting, I
will read my book several more times. Not only will I end up with the new
edition, I will discover and correct more mistakes along the way.
This is something I look forward to.
There's a great satisfaction when you finally reach the center of
the onion.
Finally, I want to mention, again,
that
the permission I have
received from various photographers to use their imagery should
never be taken as an endorsement of my book.
Thank You,
Ronald E. Boutelle
January 15, 2010
Canyon Lake, Texas
Note: 2.01.10 -
Entire book re-justification completed.
|
~
Part One ~
"Sunday morning I sat down to read a couple
of pages and
couldn't put it down until I
had finished it."
•
Avis
Christoff
The Drama Begins
Chapter 1: The Search
High
from their tree-top lookouts the monkeys were the
first to notice the noise. The babies clung even
closer to their mothers; the
older males moved
nervously as they
peered through the jungle canopy.
Down below, the flutter of startled birds could be
heard and on the ground the first man could be
seen—at first just an odd movement through a patch
of morning fog—swinging his machete—quickly moving
forward. Behind him, the next man and the next one
following him, and even the next one after him, all
had that unmistakable look of North Vietnamese
soldiers. Their AK-47s and uniforms made no attempt
to hide their presence. Altogether the column of men
snaking their way through the jungle numbered close
to twenty. Five of them were Americans—more than one
of them panting—trying to keep pace with the
swinging machete.
As for retired army officer Jimmy Sutton, this image
of the future would have been unthinkable years
ago—totally unthinkable. But there were also the
unmistakable connections between the past and the
present that struck Sutton like a sledgehammer.
First—the jungle. Near Laos—near North Vietnam. He’d
been here before. His right shoulder still ached at
times from the bullet that had hit him. Probably,
he thought, shot by that soldier’s
father, who was just a few yards ahead of him.
Wouldn’t that be one hell of an irony?
You would think that after so much time his arm
would have completely healed. But the bullet had hit
the bone. No wonder it still ached. Especially in
the damp. Especially in a damp jungle. More haunting
memories. Soon he would be struggling against other
familiar foes—the relentless attack from millions of
insects. Their only purpose in life seemed to be
taking part in a gigantic, never-ending feast. These
men were now the main course.
Altogether the soldiers made an intriguing sight.
Were they going to war? Most of the men were heavily
armed.
No, this story takes place back in the 90s—America and North Vietnam had been
at peace for many years. Still, they needed
the guards. After all, you never know what surprises
a jungle has in store for you.
No, this was a kinder and gentler group of men,
making their way toward the mountain.
Instead of sworn enemies, these men were officially
cooperating with one another. Even so, they were
still doing what soldiers do—searching for their
dead.
POWs—MIAs—abbreviations that had quickly turned into
words, almost too cute to describe Sutton’s grim
task. For a number of years, North Vietnam has
been assisting the United States in
locating the thousands of U.S. servicemen who had
been swallowed by this vast county, never to be seen
again. Of course, Uncle Sam knows they're out
there—somewhere—but exactly where?
|
The Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command (JPAC)
is a task force within the United
States Department of Defense whose
mission is to account for United States
military personnel who are listed as
Prisoners Of War (POW), or Missing In
Action (MIA), from all past wars and
conflicts.
|
So this explains the reason for the small column
of men slowly making their way
forward—frightening the monkeys. However, with
some luck they would find it. But it would take
a lot of luck—even if what they were looking for
was almost as big as a football field. That’s
just about the size of a B-52.
|
The Boeing B-52 Stratofortress
photo by: Adrian Pingstone |
For many good reasons, America was
looking for its dead, but for Jimmy Sutton,
his mission was even more painful.
Not just because he had fought here—but for
other reasons. More secret reasons.
Interrupted in thought by the sound of the
men up ahead he would have to come to grips
with his feelings later. Now a swift stream
brought the man with the machete to a
standstill. Soon all twenty men stood
watching, wondering how they would get to
the other side. Lt. Ngo assured everyone
that they would find a way.
Sutton motioned for his interpreter. "Tell
the Lieutenant that we’re going to take
fifteen while he sends the scouts out for a
look—thanks."
"Hey Scott, let’s have a smoke." Scott had
been poured out of the same mold as
Sutton—both retired military—both the same
age—both professionals.
But only Sutton carried the dirty little
secret. Or, so he thought. He had been
carefully hiding it since 1973. He looked at
Scott removing his pack and felt the shame.
"Good idea Major." Soon the other Americans
were pulling out their cigarettes, except
for the kid. Blake was selected as part of
the team because back in the States he was
considered one of the best mountain climbers
alive. And you’ve got to be young to climb
mountains.
|
Blake's Rock
Climbing Club
photo by:
Burtonpe
|
He learned the art after the war—after his
dad had been shot down over the North. His
Navy jet never quite made it back to its
carrier. The men felt bad that they weren’t
out there looking for him, but of course
they couldn’t. A tremendous splash in
Blake’s mind was all that was left to
remember his father's last moments.
Regardless of their difference in age, the
rest of the American team felt good having
Blake along. Besides the fact that they
would need him on the mountain, he reminded
the men of their own youth—of their own
hopes and dreams that had, so long ago, been
put to the greatest test of hide-and-seek
that any teenager could ever play—jungle
warfare. That’s right, they had been so
awfully young—not even twenty years old.
"Hey Blake, why don’t you just climb that
tree with your rope and we’ll all swing
across the stream like Tarzan?" Laughing at
the thought, Blake said that he might have
to if the scouts couldn’t find a way to
cross it.
"Major Sutton," Blake said, "we’re really
getting into some rugged terrain. What do
you think it will be like up ahead?"
Pulling some photos from his pack, Sutton
reached over and handed them to Blake.
"Yeah, you’re right about it getting tough,
kid. Take a look at that second photo. That
was taken by one of our teams three year ago."
|
 |
"Along the base of that mountain is
where we’re headed. The Air Force
thinks we might find their B-52
over there. But it’s really just a
guessing game. Before we came over
here I got a briefing from General
Samm but even he admitted that their
intelligence on this bomber is
almost non-existent.
It seems that when the missile hit
it, all its communications equipment
was knocked out. And from the height
it was flying, by the time it
finally hit the ground it could have
hurtled hundreds of miles in just
about any direction."
Trying to find a comfortable spot on
the ground, Major Sutton continued.
"The only reason we’re going to look
there is because of some sketchy
report they just picked up from a
villager in Cambodia who was told by
his mother of a huge American plane.
Supposedly his father had heard it
headed in that direction when he was
just a boy, digging tunnels for the
Vietcong. He said he heard it
crash. I guess they feel the
story is reliable enough for us to
check it out. All I know is that
this is one of the most remote areas
in all of Southeast Asia."
"Looking at these photographs, Major
Sutton, and looking at what’s
actually all around us, I’m really
surprised at how out of sync they
are."
"Welcome to Vietnam, kid." Pete
laughed out loud.
Pete was the jokester of the bunch.
Even the Marine Corps hadn’t beat
that out of him. He was the fourth
member of the team. He carried the
electronics.
They were all laughing now. Even the
North Vietnamese soldiers began to
laugh, although they had no idea
what the Americans were talking
about.
"I’ll tell you what, Blake," Pete
said, "once, after the war, when I
was in Central America looking for
traces of a lost Mayan city rumored
to be in the jungle—we were given some aerial
photographs to follow and I never
got so damn lost in my entire life.
They had to send out the Honduran
Army to find us!"
Again all the men were laughing when
one of the scouts returned. Lt. Ngo
walked over to Sutton. The
interpreter said they had found a fallen tree that could
be used to cross the stream. This
was good news and within thirty
minutes the column of men once again
began making its way toward the
mountain.
Two more arduous days and mosquito
infested nights passed before
another morning greeted the tired
men—a new day—a new adventure that
promised to reveal what each had
come such a long way to find. The
greatest relief was that after
breakfast the tents could be
left pitched since Sutton had
decided to establish their present
location as their base camp. With
the mountain firmly planted beside
them, from there the men could break
out into teams.
For the next several days they would
systematically search for any signs
of the missing bomber. At least,
this was the plan. Blake and two of
the younger soldiers would explore
the mountain, itself. There was a
lot of territory to cover.
Tracy was the fifth and final member
of the American search party. He had
spent two tours in Vietnam with the
Army’s elite SOG unit, that operated
out of Kontum.
At the end of his first tour, his
best friend,
SFC Jerry (Mad Dog) Shriver,
was killed. That was in April of
1969. This legend of a man had
survived an unheard of 40 missions,
deep behind enemy lines.
Jerry Michael Shriver
The pencil pushers at Shining Brass
all knew that the men who made up
their SOG units seldom survived
beyond 20 missions. Anyhow, Tracy
had his reasons for coming back to
Vietnam. But revenge wasn't one of
them. When Mad Dog
disappeared during a fierce battle,
his body was never recovered. In
fact, some of the men thought he
might have been captured. Add to the
fact that Mad Dog had saved Tracy’s
life more than once—yes, he had his
reasons.
Sutton, Scott, Pete and Tracy—each
had lost friends in Vietnam and you
couldn’t help but respect
them for what they were doing. They
didn’t have to volunteer for any of
this. No—they wanted to. They
desperately wanted to. A good
soldier never leaves his fallen
comrades behind and with a chance to
correct the past, they were eager
for this new day. It wasn’t until
several days later, however, that
they got lucky.
And it doesn’t really matter who spotted the massive object
first, because Tracy and Pete were
both there when it was found.
Actually, it was one of the North
Vietnamese soldiers who first saw
the thing, quickly yelling for the
two Americans to come look. Hacking
their way through the dense
undergrowth to a small clearing, they stood looking at
it—a moment in time they would never
forget for as long as they lived.
Since they had agreed to contact the
entire team before investigating any
major artifacts, using his portable
radio to reach Sutton and the
others, Pete told them what they had
found. The Vietnamese came, too.
Within an hour everyone stood in
complete silence, looking at the
unbelievable sight resting on the
jungle floor.
"What do you think Major, is it the
B-52?"
|
 |
"It sure looks like it
Blake. Now that
everyone’s here, let’s
take a closer look."
The
jungle had covered parts
of downed bomber while
other parts of the
aircraft were clearly
visible. "My God, look at
that thing—how it's just sitting
there."
Professional soldiers
that they were, the
North Vietnamese spread
out to secure the
perimeter, leaving the
Americans to honor their
dead. Lt. Ngo remained
with the interpreter at
a respectable distance,
slowly smoking a
cigarette as he watched
the drama unfold before
him.
The enormous jet was in
surprisingly good shape.
At least what was left
of it. The wings and
tail section were
missing but other than
that, Sutton knew that
he had found his
bomber. Aircraft parts
were everywhere.
Tracy was
the first to inch his
way into the small
opening, careful not to cut
himself on any of the
jagged metal that
guarded the entrance.
Then it was
the Major who slowly
disappeared.
Scott was next, followed
by Pete. Suddenly Sutton
stopped dead in his
tracks, drawing his .357
from his holster—snake.
Outside, Blake could see
a slithering object off
to his right, obviously
disturbed by the
approaching men.
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