That hadn't always been the plan. But the threat of commando raids aimed at rescuing POWs had made the director decide that someone should be available for recapture.
Then, too, he was unsure of the extent and efficacy of the CIA networks in the North. He feared a constant, unexplained depletion of prisoner populations would alert the enemy. As it was, the operation limped, crippled by balky, obstinate Vietnamese officials. The middle echelons, it seemed, cooperated as little as possible.
Security was the reason, of course. Only Ho and General Giap had ever been in the know.
Graduates were kept quarantined, doing post-graduate work, being brought ever more into line. The hypnotic treatments, needed to make the majority ignorant of what they were, was delicate, took ages to perfect, and occasionally needed reinforcement.
Michael spent another hour introducing Snake to his new world.
"Mike, I've had it," Cantrell finally protested. "I've got to sleep."
Cash harkened back to his own long, harrowing plane ride. "Sure. I understand. Go ahead. I'll see you in the morning."
Michael retreated to his own room, a bedroom-office off the dormitory. He lay on his bunk a long time, staring at the concrete ceiling.
Snake was still Snake. He was still Michael Cash. But Time had been nurturing one of its infamous treasons. The old bond, wrought between men who had helped one another survive a prisonward hell march, had worn.
He hadn't been there to share and ease the pain when Snake had taken the injuries to his leg and soul. Snake hadn't been here. They just hadn't shared in too long.
A single tear dribbled from Michael's right eye. He brushed it away irritably. Then he moved to his desk, to lose himself in his language studies.
Little of his graduate work was Marxist. The director wanted his special men to have skills making them suitable for the widest possible employment. Michael was pursuing a curriculum ranging from hard science to the softest liberal arts. It was more intense than any he had known in college. And he had his duties as well.
This was higher education without the beer parties and football. And girls.
Michael hardly remembered what a woman was anymore.
In that way the institution mirrored its director thoroughly.
The first class Monday was a simple and honest, if incomplete, lecture describing the academy and its purpose. Michael sat at the back and made notes. Each little reaction went down. A committee of instructors would review them before making course assignments.
The next session was an introduction to Marxist thought. The twenty students fidgeted under a barrage of ideas they found offensive. A navy flier named Jorgenson thundered "Bullshit!" during a cataloging of the crimes of American capitalist-imperialism.
The instructor peeped over round-lensed, wire-framed glasses quizzically, glanced at Cash, continued.
Jorgenson came to Michael during lunch.
"Lieutenant, you said tell you our problems. I've got one. The Chink cocksucker on the chow line won't let me have any coffee or cigarettes. How come? He let everybody else."
Cash glanced at the man's tray. Standard meal. Water to drink. Good. He nodded, ignoring Jorgenson's defiance. "So I see."
"Well, how come? Why me? You said-"
"Mealtimes make good times to reflect on our shortcomings. On our egoisms and willful errors. Reflect while you eat."
Michael caught Snake's thoughtful look. He understood.
Jorgenson ate in silence. He had figured it out too.
These early lessons would be gentle, subtle. Resistance, the director felt, could be more easily disarmed that way.
From that luncheon on Snake was the worst offender. And Cash knew he meant to ease the pressure on the others. He could handle the shit. It had nothing to do with any feud with the Chinese Communists. He loathed them no more than other Statists.
Orientation week dragged.
Michael had a tough night Saturday. His assignment recommendations were due.
Snake was his best friend in this half of the world. Not once had Cantrell condemned him for his change of faith, nor had he been less friendly than in the past, despite the new distance between them. But the man wouldn't let their friendship shape his behavior.
Therefore, Michael decided, neither could he.
And he had to protect himself…
He finally signed that last bitter recommendation.
Snake now faced what the staff called Intensive Reeducation.
Snake, being Snake, would understand. And probably not hold a grudge. He was, himself, a disciple of the doctrine of doing what had to be done.
He was still in Intensive when, a month later, on the eve of the arrival of his next class, Michael finally found the nerve to check on his friend.
They had put Snake into the Crystal Palace, a hexagonal, furnitureless, featureless cell where all the surfaces were mirrors. One-way. Snake couldn't see out but his tormentors could see in. Powerful kliegs pushed enough light through to keep the interior blindingly bright. Sometimes the technicians added deafening white sound, though they preferred recordings of Snake's own mad ravings. Sometimes they turned up the heat, or starved him, or made him do without water. They never actually touched him, let him see them, or did him physical harm. Harm was forbidden by the director. The goal was a broken will, not a broken body.
He had to be made to feel alone. Naked and alone. Not a stitch of clothing, never a human touch or word. That had pushed many a stubborn man past his limit.
But Snake had been alone all his life.
While he was on a no-sleep program the technicians would give him an electric shock if he threatened to drift off. Or they might set the gimbled cell slowly spinning and tumbling.
He was supposed to lose his belief in the fixity, the predictability of his environment, and in elementary concepts of fairness. He was supposed to begin hating the men he saw reflected wherever he looked. Once he wanted rid of the old Snake, the academy staff would begin building him a new one. In a more useful mold.
But Snake had been through all that before, on his own, and had put himself together in his present form.
"How's he coming?" Michael asked the technician on duty.
"Slow. Can't seem to reach him. He just takes it. You know him. Any ideas?"
"I never knew him under normal conditions. From what he told me, he never lived normally. His father was a wife-beater, child batterer, and child molester. He just hid back inside himself so far that nothing could reach him. Before he ever got to high school, let alone the army."
"Is he afraid of anything?"
"Not that I know of. I don't think he even cares if he stays alive. If you kill him, he figures he's beaten you that way too. He's never had anything to lose. How do you get a handle on a guy like that?"
"Every man holds something too precious to lose." The technician consulted his charts, pushed a button. The Crystal Palace began tumbling slowly. "Next time he passes out I'll move him to the Closet. See how he likes that. He's got me ready to start experimenting."
"Why not bring him out, shape him up, and run him through orientation again? See how he reacts to a chance to get into a less rigorous program. Let the contrasts sink in. If he doesn't reform, give him the Closet at the end of the week."