Part One: 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 making 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 33 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 to himself, 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 their main course.

Altogether the soldiers made an intriguing sight. Were they going to war? Some of the men were heavily armed. 

No, this was 1999—America and North Vietnam had been at peace for twenty-six 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 mountains.

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 now, North Vietnam has been assisting the United States' government 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 are there—somewhere—but exactly where?

For a lot of 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 river 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.

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 and tie your rope to it 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. Take a look at those  two tree on that cliff over there.  What do you think it will be like up ahead?"

Pulling some aerial 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.'

"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 last month, 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.'

"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 a jungle just like this one—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 that one of the men 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, all 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. 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 like and 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 that much 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, 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 has covered it up pretty good."

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 the fact that large parts of it were covered by a thick layer of jungle debris, Sutton knew that he had found his bomber.

Tracy was the first to inch his way into the small opening. He then motioned for Sutton to enter. He wanted him to take the lead. Careful not to cut himself on any of the jagged metal that guarded the entrance, the Major 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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