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Chapter 5 - American Embassy

Jonas and LtCdr Sterling arrived at the embassy just before noon. Sterling had gotten him an appointment with the political officer, Roger Grant. Grant welcomed them and had Jonas sit.

“I’ll leave Mr Bernard in your capable hands,” Sterling said. “I told you about his family’s problems with the current regime’s unrest. His wife will need an emergency visa.”

“Plus she doesn’t have any kind of passport and most of her docs were burnt in the fire in our home,” Jonas added. “I do have her national ID card, though.”

Grant nodded and said farewell to Sterling, then turned to Jonas. “Okay then, let’s start with your own situation. You’ve run afoul of the government somehow?”

“No sir, not the government; my wife was threatened by a powerful—witch, I guess you’d say—not only a priestess—that’s a Vodou manbo, but in Vanessa’s case, she’s a caplata, or what we call a choché, a servant of the bad spirits. She’s a Vodou priestess who wants to be the queen of priestesses, but she’s got influential associates and I guess she’s tied into a group trying to take over the government. We were lucky to get a recording of when she met with her ‘hit squad,’ I guess you’d call them. Do you know French? They’re speaking French.”

“Yes. I’m fluent.”

He played the recording.

Grant sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Hmmm... We’d heard that there was something brewing but we have nothing that’s concrete. This is terribly useful info. May I have a copy?” Jonas nodded. “Thank you. Now, I assume you have your own ID?”

Jonas opened his backpack and took out a packet. He then laid out a Haitian passport, birth certificate, Florida driver’s license, high school diploma, Marine ID card, and DD-214. Grant examined them. He picked up the DD-214.

“Marines, Afghanistan combat. Oh my, Navy Cross, Silver Star, Bronze Star with ‘V,’ Purple Heart, and Defense Meritorious Service Medal. Medical retirement as E-6 staff sergeant,” Grant said as he read the official discharge document. “So you’re a highly decorated Marine, I see. Thank you for your service. I’m guessing that’s why you have the slight limp.”

Jonas grinned wryly. “Metal rod in the leg. I’m not as spry as I was as a teen.”

“All right then, no U.S. passport?”

“Ah, now that’s quite a story. After I completed my physical therapy and was mustered out, I decided to return to Miami. I actually didn’t have anywhere else to go and I was born and grew up there. My mom and dad were Haitian, they were asylum seekers who had to flee Haiti to get away from Baby-Doc Duvalier. This was during the time of the Cuban Mariel Boat Lift. Both of them were politically powerful but they were trying to push for a more representative government. Baby-Doc’s hitmen tracked down my father and assassinated him when I was maybe two or three.

“Mom had a half-brother who lived in the U.K. and worked for a security company. He got a gig through his company to work a job in Miami, so he lived with us for seven years or thereabouts before he had to go back to England to take another job. Before his security job, he was with the British Royal Marines and served in Korea and his Marine stories fascinated me. I kept in touch with him for years, but maybe eight years ago, I heard that he died, he had diabetes like my mom, his sister, did.

“When I was in junior high, I met a kid whose dad had a junkyard and shop and I talked to the mechanics there—long story short, I restored a junker back to operation and got real handy with cars and tools. But just before I was graduated from high school, my mom died from diabetes complications, so when I was graduated, being a U.S. Marine was an obvious choice for a career. When I was wounded and after I was separated, I checked and found that the shop where I worked at in high school was still in business. It had a new owner, but they said the old timers remembered me, that I was good, and I could have a job there, filling in while I looked for something more permanent.

“While I was living in Miami, I discovered that I hated the noise, traffic, all the people. I was still jumpy and hyper-alert from my combat tours. I needed quiet—so I decided to try to see if I had any Haitian roots left. I searched for possible relatives both by computer and talking to the old folks in Miami’s Little Haiti. I looked using my surname and Mom’s maiden name. It took time but I did find a third, maybe fourth cousin and he actually owned an auto shop! You know, mechanics are important there because the absolute poverty in the country needs people who can keep cars running as long as possible.

“So, how to get to Haiti? I didn’t have a U.S. passport but anyway, Haitian law only allows for a max of 70 days on a tourist or visitor visa. There are no business visas. And I didn’t want to spend the time for all the procedures necessary to get an immigrant visa.”

Grant nodded. “That’s correct. So what did you do?”

“Well, I did have my father’s Haitian one; I guess I had kept it for sentimental reasons. It was also my link to my heritage, I guess. Dad’s picture looked so similar to the way I looked and we had the same first names but different middle ones. So what the hell; I went to the General Consulate of Haiti office in Miami, paid the guy a bribe, and got a new one issued for my dad’s month and day of birth but the year I chose made me ten years older. I kept my father’s middle name.”

“That was ... I don’t know ... absolutely audacious! How did you convince the consular officer?”

“It was Dad’s name. When he saw it and looked at me, and the photo, and back at me, he couldn’t believe that I had come back from the dead. You know, Vodou is strong among Haitians, even the nonbelievers. Apparently, Dad was a big cheese there and people still remembered him and his assassination. So I played up on this guy’s superstitions and uncertainty and after a bit of a scare and a small bribe, he got me a new Haitian passport and I could stay here as a citizen. I was anyway, as a child of Haitians. Seems my folks had even registered my birth with the Haitian embassy—that’s probably how the hitman found him.”

“That all makes sense, in a twisted way,” Grant sighed. “Anyway, let me check to see what the folks back Stateside have for any of your records.”

He typed at his terminal for several minutes, stopping and reading the screen periodically.

“Okay, the stuff I found checks out but let’s see what this ‘Alert’ link on your record says... holy shit! Damn, excuse the French. Hell, man, the Department of Defense has been trying to find you for six... no, almost seven years. Holy Mother of Je... um, again, sorry, this says that you’ve been recommended to receive the Medal of Honor!”

Jonas was flabbergasted. He felt lightheaded, like he was almost detached from himself, almost in a dream state. He shook his head hard.

“How’s that possible? I already got the Navy Cross...”

Grant interrupted him. “Let me read what this page says.

“Alert. Department of Defense to Departments of State, Health and Human Services, Treasury, Education, Veterans’ Affairs, Homeland Security.

“Subject: Jonas Alexandre Bernard (USMC, Medically Retired)

“Date: (The date he read was from about four years prior.)

“Text: The subject has been recommended to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty.

“Action: If any representative of a federal department knows how to contact subject, please inform...”

It went on to give the contact information for the DoD representative.

Grant looked at Jonas. “Can I make the call?”

Jonas shrugged, still in a bit of shock. “Sure. But, more importantly, we need to get my family squared away.”

“To be sure. And even more so, given this incredible news. It’s certainly been an honor meeting you, Mr Bernard.”

Grant made the call and quickly reached a person who apparently knew about the hunt for Jonas. He spoke on the phone quickly, and then turned to Jonas.

“I’m putting this on speaker,” he said. “This is Under Secretary of the Navy Robert O’Rourke. Mr Secretary, Jonas Bernard is with me, sir.”

“At long last, Staff Sergeant Bernard, it’s an incredible honor and pleasure to finally get in touch with you,” O’Rourke said.

“Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say...”

“Well, first, please tell me how you went off the radar so completely. Maybe a year after you separated, you were gone, vanished without a trace.”

“I went to my parents’ birth home. Haiti.”

“Ah. That explains part of it. They are so isolated there, culturally, socially, financially... whatever. But we checked passport control, airlines, credit cards, social media, VA facilities, banks. The account where you sent your Marine pay was closed but where the money went is unknown; we tried everything we could think of. Nada. I’m thinking the CIA should get pointers from you.”

“I gradually withdrew the money in cash. I didn’t want to use U.S. banks while in Haiti; I wanted to appear like a poor local. Someone I knew from the shop where I worked knew how to get money out of the country to the Cayman Islands for a small fee. Then I set up an account in the Dominican Republic when I got to Haiti. Those places were safer than Haiti. I had saved most of my Marine pay, so in Haiti, I guess you could say I was well off, but never acted like anything other than just a poor auto mechanic.”

Jonas described briefly how he had gotten a Haitian passport and traveled under his father’s name.

“But how did I come to be recommended for that medal? Getting the Navy Cross was an incredible honor, but why the Medal of Honor, sir?” Jonas wondered.

“The request for the review of your heroism came from outside the military, Sgt Bernard, not through the channels which recommended the Navy Cross. One of the Marines you risked your life to pull to safety and to get medical aid was the son-in-law of a senator. The son-in-law gave a complete accounting of that combat operation and both he and the other Marine you pulled to safety described how you risked your own life to save them. They were in exposed positions and wounded so badly that they couldn’t move. They also saw you in combat, how you directed the Marines in your unit and how you personally accounted for a dozen or so enemy in close combat. Also, the rapid response and effective blocking action your unit achieved under your leadership undoubtably protected the U.N. encampment and the Afghan village too, saving hundreds of lives, and it was due solely to your leadership that your defensive mission succeeded.

“Senator Carlson of Maine requested that your commanders review your actions and have testimony collected from as many witnesses as could be located. All through the chain of command, the recommendation for the honor was sustained. They completed the review about eighteen months or so after your separation, but lo and behold, you were nowhere to be found. Your final records showed that your last known location was in Miami but you seemed to have no permanent address.”

“Yeah, the shop in Miami where I had a temp job had a little room behind the office, I put a mattress in it and they let me use it till I got myself straight. They paid me under the table too. I was there for just six or seven months. When I got my flight to Port-au-Prince, I used my dad’s updated passport.”

“I see. No wonder you slipped away from sight. Now, there was a possible timing issue too. There’s a requirement that a Medal of Honor needs to be presented within five years of its authorization. But that requirement was neatly sidestepped by Senator Carlson. He introduced a resolution in Congress that suspended that requirement in your case until you could be found. Now, we need to make arrangements for you to receive the honor from the president.”

Jonas interrupted. “One second, sir. I’m here at the embassy trying to arrange to get my family some medical treatment in the States; they both were badly injured in the earthquake here. Can we hold off discussing that until after they get surgery or whatever they need? My wife doesn’t even have a passport; she’s Haitian and never needed one.”

O’Rourke exclaimed, “Hell, we can fix that. Mr ... um ... Grant, I want to get emergency diplomatic passports issued for Sgt Bernard and his family. Do I need to get State to authorize that or can your ambassador do it?”

“Sir, it’s best from the State Department because of the developing political situation here,” Grant replied.

“Okay, please get whatever ID you can for them ready in high-quality electronic form. Someone from the State Department will be in touch later today,” O’Rourke said. “I’m calling the secretary’s office as soon as we disconnect. Sgt Bernard, it’s been an honor and pleasure talking to you. Many thanks for your service to our nation and your heroism on our country’s behalf. I look forward to meeting you in person when you’re able to get to D.C. I hope all goes well with your family. And think seriously about that job with the CIA,” he joked as he disconnected, chuckling.

As soon as the phone was free, it buzzed and Grant answered.

“...”

“Yes, word gets around here very fast,” he spoke into the phone. “He’s here, and his family needs to get out of Dodge, like yesterday.”

“...”

“I know. You heard from the Navy commander what this is about?”

“...”

“Well, we just found out he’s been recommended for the Medal of Honor too.”

“...”

“Absolutely true. Come talk to us. He needs to hear that.” Grant hung up and turned to Jonas. “That was our diplomatic security special agent, William Cowley. We call him ‘Wild Bill’ because he’s Texan and likes to wear ten-gallon hats. He’ll be here momentarily and needs to talk to you.”

A few seconds later an imposing body filled the door frame, followed by an imposing, booming voice, drawling out, “Weel-a, Ah guees congrats are in orda, Mr Bernard, for yoar honoa...” then he chuckled. “So I’ll skip the Texas drawl and talk like a cultured Foggy Bottom feeder. Seriously, I think your problem has come looking for you.”

Jonas looked at him in alarm. “Vanessa’s people, you mean?”

“We don’t know who’s behind it, but there are people going through the field hospitals, showing these pictures...” He displayed photos of Cassandra and Fabienne. “They’re asking to have this phone number called if anyone sees them or can tell them where they can be found.”

“This is bad,” Jonas said quietly. “We were really only seen at that field hospital at the port authority while they were setting up. Would anyone there be able to identify them?”

“With the number of people they treated, and the very brief contact, it’s highly unlikely...” Cowley started, and then the phone buzzed.

Grant answered. “It’s State. They want images of your docs. I’ll be right back; going to the secure comm room.”

Jonas asked Cowley, “What do we do now? We need to disappear... hey, here’s a thought. Can we make it look like they died in the quake?”

“Now there’s a whoppa of an idear!” Cowley exclaimed, almost lapsing into a drawl again. “Sure... we have secure medical staff with the Navy ship here, plenty of cadavers, probably with no one to claim them... let’s do this! I’ll call Commander Sterling and get the Navy on board with it and we’ll make arrangements with the field hospital over there at the airport. They’ve been getting some of the worst victims. Do you have anyone local who can keep their mouth shut and do the burial arrangements? Do you have a burial plot?”

Jonas stopped to think. “Well, our practices are complicated. Normally I, as the senior family member, would plan the funeral. After it, we observe a mourning period for seven to nine days with rituals to honor the dead person and there’s a lot of socialization of family and friends. On the ninth day, when we believe that the soul is free from the body, there’s an observance similar to the funeral. Clearly, we can’t do most of that now, especially with this disaster.

“We have no family, either close or distant, except my friend Henri Benoit who I work for. We share the same two-greats-grandfather. The town where I lived was virtually destroyed; most of the buildings there are damaged, I heard. My friend’s shop, where I worked, had minimal damage, it’s in Lafiteau, maybe three clicks south of my home. Cassandra has no family at all. I think Henri and his wife can organize a funeral and try to gather Cassandra’s serviteurs—ah, she’s a Vodou priestess—as mourners. I’ll give him the money for it. I think he can make it look real. And, you know, we’ll need to make believe that I was hurt bad enough to need to go to the States, which would explain my not organizing the funeral.”

And that is how the deception actually was carried out. With the assistance of U.S. Navy medical staff, two unclaimed bodies were quickly located, that of a woman and a girl, both burned too badly for recognition. Both Jonas and Henri signed certifications for their identification and Henri took the documents to the official registrar, where it actually took more than two months before death certificates were issued. By that time, of course, the family had long been in the U.S.

~~~~

When he finished up at the embassy office, Jonas’ mind was whirling. Medal of Honor? Couldn’t be happening; I’m not a hero.

He was just doing what his training required. “Until they are home, no man left behind.” That was the Marine imperative, and it applied even more strongly to the men he was responsible for leading; they were his brothers.

As Jonas walked through the lobby to the exit doors, he heard a loud, “Detail! Ten-HUT! PRE-sent HARMS!”

It was all he could do to keep from coming to attention himself, even after all those years. He looked at where he was headed and saw four Marines standing at attention next to the doors, saluting. He looked around; there appeared to be nobody of particular note behind him. Then a gunnery sergeant from the detail dropped his salute and quick-stepped over to him and resumed his salute.

“Gunnery Sergeant Severopolis and detail, SIR! We honor your service to our nation and honor to the Corps for your heroism in saving the lives of our brothers in arms, sir.”

Jonas returned his salute and said, “Thank you, fellow Marines. You can stand at ease. I’m honored more by your recognition than any piece of metal can convey, regardless of the ribbon it’s attached to...”

He was interrupted by, “Ooo-RAH! Semper Fi!” by the group.

Jonas motioned them again to stand at ease.

The sergeant said, “Sir, we’re on duty...”

People had begun to fill the lobby when they heard the loud voices and had come to see what was happening; several men came over to the Marine detail, two in military uniform.

One of the men, who was wearing an Army uniform with a lieutenant colonel’s silver oakleafs, and an Army major, came up to Jonas and saluted him, then they shook his hand.

“Our heartfelt congrats and thanks for your heroism,” the colonel said and the major echoed him.

Then the colonel said, “It’s okay, Gunney Sev, this is important. We’ll cover your security detail while you greet your comrade.”

“Thank you, sir,” he responded, and the four Marines came over, shook hands as they introduced themselves, and gave their own personal congratulations.

Then they excused themselves to return to their duties while the rest of the crowd in the lobby greeted and congratulated Jonas. It was an hour later that he was finally able to leave; the embassy even provided a ride back to the ship. Before he boarded the ship, Jonas tried his cell phone to call Henri and after his making several attempts, the call was finally connected.

“Henri, it’s Jonas. How are the arrangements going?”

“I dropped off the body ID statements with the records department. Who knows how long they’ll take to do the official certificates of death. How’s the family doing?”

“I saw them yesterday. About what you’d expect. Fabienne needs surgery to fix her fracture and Cassandra needs a number of treatments to heal her burns and time for her broken leg to heal. Fortunately the burns aren’t bad enough to need any grafts. So it’s okay for now.”

“Good. I got the money that you transferred to my bank—it was way too much...”

“It’s all good. Keep whatever you don’t use and fix up any of your shop’s damage with it. Hear from any of Cassandra’s congregation members?”

“Julianna has been spreading the word. She told me that maybe twenty people were known to have died and about ten still haven’t been located. We’ve told everyone that you’ve already been taken to the U.S. for medical treatment. The funeral itself is in two days. There won’t be much of a celebration of life and everyone agrees with that. We’re also doing an in-ground burial—against the custom, I know, but we need to keep sneaky digging hands away, if you catch my meaning. It’ll be like an in-ground mausoleum, actually. Their grave chamber will have a three-metric-ton cement slab on top. Plenty of those around after the quake. We’ve already arranged having that done.”

“Can you check our compound for anything salvageable? The ounfò looked like it was flattened, apart from one corner and the fire probably took care of the insides, but Cass had personal stuff in there. Look for any Vodou artefacts, if they survived. Also check our home, if it’s safe to look. I don’t care about furniture, clothing, or other stuff that’s replaceable. It’s the personal things we need. Oh, and Richard LeFontaine died in the ounfò; please see that he gets a proper funeral too.”

“Certainly. We were out at your place already. The fire at the ounfò is out but the concrete is still too hot in a lot of places. Listen, when the guy moves the slab for the graves, I’ll get him to go over there and shift some rubble around to see if I can locate anything personal, okay?”

“You’re a great friend, Henri. Thanks so much. Send love to Julianna. Our flight leaves tomorrow. When we know where we’ll be at, I’ll send you the info. Good bye for now, my friend.”

“Pòte ou byen, Jonas.”

He disconnected.

Dang Kreyòl, he thought. Pòte ou byen? Must be from “porte tu bien”? Ah, sure, “farewell.”

There was nothing more that Jonas could do in Port-au-Prince, so he walked over to the ship gangway, checked in with security, and boarded. With time on his hands until 1800, he went to mess for lunch and decided to see if he could find Bronson. He saw an ensign at a nearby table so he walked over.

“Excuse me? How can I get in touch with Master Chief Bronson?”

“Ah? You know the chief?”

“We go back a lot of years, Ensign.”

The young officer peered at Jonas carefully.

“Sir, you have that look. I’m guessing a Marine?”

“Got it in one, Ensign,” Jonas grinned. “Does it show a lot?”

“I’m from a family of jarheads and sailors. Something shows in your eyes, your body. Always alert, your eyes never stop checking around you. Your posture is like you’re ready to move in an instant. The body never forgets that training. Yes, I think it shows.”

“Well, thank you, I think. Anyway, the master chief?”

“Sure. I’ll make a call; if he’s free, he’ll meet you here.”

The ensign went to a wall phone. A minute later, he turned. “Master chief said, be five minutes. Nice meeting you, Mr Bernard.”

Jonas grinned. “You were pulling my leg all along, weren’t you?” he chuckled.

“Actually, I knew your name only because the master chief just told it to me when I described you. You truly have the ‘look of an eagle,’ as my people would call it. A warrior. I’m a native American.”

He walked out with a parting wave while Jonas shook his head with disbelief.

What’s going on here? He wondered. First the Marines at the embassy, now this ensign, all treating me like—I don’t know, some kind of superman? I sure don’t feel like one...

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