“Child killer,” muttered one of the long-haired graduate students in a loud stage whisper to no one in particular.
Despite his reservations about the ambience of the Oasis, Sevson bit down on his cheeseburger and found out that Mike was right; this place did have some social redeeming value. Mike said, “I used to come here once or twice a week, don’t you agree it’s great?”
“I guess so,” grunted Sevson, biting down on his cheeseburger.
After completing his first gastronomical experience at the Oasis, Sevson washed it down with another Anchor Steam Beer.
As Sevson and Mike got up from the bench and started out the door, a young Asian coed dressed in dungarees and a red Stanford University sweatshirt intentionally brushed against Mike as he walked toward the front door and whispered loudly, “Banana.”
Sevson noticed that with that remark, Mike’s face stiffened, his jaw became set and his eyes narrowed and focused on some distant point.
“What was that about?” asked a perplexed Sevson.
“Apparently, the young lady didn’t like my uniform,” said Mike, shaking his head as if to throw off the stinging remark. “A ‘Banana’ is an Asian who wants to be Caucasian: Yellow on the outside, white on the inside.” Mike’s personal war was fought on many battlefields.
“Oh.”
After the meal, Sevson and Mike walked out into the cool summer evening, got into the rented Ford Falcon and backed out of the parking lot. On the radio was Simon & Garfunkel singing “Cloudy.” After a short drive, the two reached their motel and checked in for the night.
The persistent knocking on his door woke Mike from a sound sleep. “Who’s there?”
“Open this door!” demanded the deep male voice.
Mike got out of bed, put on his pants, and went to the door. Opening the door, he was confronted by two Caucasian males, dressed in civilian suits. Both men were heavy set, their shirts yellowed with age, and suits ill-fitted. Pushing their way into Mike’s room, they started to move about the room casually looking at Mike’s possessions.
“Who are you and what do you want?” asked an obviously peeved Mike.
“We’re from the D.I.A.,” said John Thompson, flashing a gold badge and identification card at Mike. D.I.A. was the acronym for the Defense Intelligence Agency of the Department of Defense.
“I don’t care who you are. You have no right to barge in here and paw through my belongings,” said an increasingly angry Mike. “I am a Navy officer, and I will not stand for this treatment from you or any one.”
“Look, boy. I’m not going to argue with you. Just get dressed, you’re comin’ with us.”
“What?” asked a shocked Mike. Then he saw the handle of a .38 caliber Police Special poking out of a holster strapped to the waist of the D.I.A. agent. “Am I under arrest?”
“Just come with us.”
All that the two Defense Intelligence Agency agents allowed Mike to do was to put on his dress shirt, shoes, and socks. They took Mike out to an unmarked army green sedan and placed him in the rear seat. As the car pulled out of the motel parking lot, Sevson opened the door to his room and noticed that Mike was being driven away by two men in what appeared to be an army sedan.
“Operator, can you get me 213-661-4555,” said Sevson.
The young seaman picked up the ringing telephone, “Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh’s Office.”
“Is the Commander in?”
“One moment, Sir. I’ll see if he is busy. Who may I say is calling?”
“Tom Sevson, tell him it’s an emergency.”
“What’s up, Tom?” answered a worried McHugh.
“Two men in what looked like an army sedan just took Mike away from the motel,” blurted out Sevson. I didn’t like the looks of it so I thought I should call you.”
“You did the right thing, Tom. I’ll get right on it. Were they in uniform?”
“No.”
McHugh shouted out to his Yeoman’s Mate, “Billy, see if you can get the Provost Marshal at the Presidio in San Francisco.”
“Provost Marshal’s Office.”
“Please hold for Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, United States Navy,” said the Yeoman. “Commander, I’ve got the Provost Marshal’s office on the line.”
“Can I speak to the Provost? This is important military business.”
“This is Captain John Wilson.”
“Captain Wilson, this is Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, from NAVFAC in Port Hueneme. I just found out that one of my men, Ensign Aloysius Liu, was just taken into custody by two men driving an army sedan. Is there anything that you can do to help me find where they have taken Ensign Liu? He is on a confidential mission of the highest priority. Captain, if he isn’t found, there could be serious, serious consequences.”
“Commander, I’m not aware of any arrests of Navy personnel in my district. In addition, my guys usually do not go out in civilian clothes. It almost sounds like it could be someone from the Defense Intelligence Agency. I’ll try to find out something, what is your telephone number?”
After giving Captain Wilson Mike’s name and rank and his telephone number, McHugh returned the handset to its cradle.
It was almost noon before John Wilson was able to get back to McHugh. “Commander, as far as I can determine Ensign Liu was picked up for questioning by the D.I.A. For what reason, I don’t know. I don’t think he is under arrest, but he is being held by the DIA who are asking him about some information he was apparently trying to obtain.”
“Shit! Excuse me Captain, that wasn’t meant for you.”
“That’s okay, I understand. Is there anything more I can help you with?” asked John Wilson.
“Who should I talk to?”
“I gather the agent in charge is a John Thompson. He can be reached at 415-LI-1-4336.”
“Thanks for your help, Captain.’
“You’re welcome, Sir. If there is anything else, just give me a call.”
McHugh dialed the telephone number that Wilson had given him. “This is Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh with NAVFAC. Is John Thompson available?”
“This here’s John Thompson. What can I do for you?”
“I understand that you are holding one of my officers, Ensign Aloysius Liu. Can you tell me what the charge is?”
“Mister, I don’t know who you are. I got me a Chinee boy on suspicion of espionage.”
Fighting back the rising anger in his voice, McHugh stated in measured tones, “Mr. Thompson, I am going to make this very clear. If you continue to hold Ensign Liu on any charge whatsoever, you are going to be in shit so deep that your red neck will be brown. Am I making myself clear? In addition, Ensign Liu is an Officer in the Navy and is not to be referred to as a ‘Chinee boy’ by you or anyone else is that also cl….” — The line went dead.
Furious, McHugh called Jeb Tillingham, a classmate of his from the Academy, assigned to the Office of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C.
“Jeb, this is Bob McHugh.”
“Bob, long time no hear. Last I heard you were out west chasing porpoises and killer whales to make them into finny commandos.”
“Jeb, I wish I could chat but I’ve got some serious business.”
Tillingham quickly became quiet, “What’s up, Bob?”
“One of my officers, Mike, is in the Bay Area working with Tom Sevson of Western Light on that geomagnetic problem. I got a report that he was picked by the D.I.A. on some hoked up charge. I just spoke to a D.I.A. agent, John Thompson, who refuses to release my man. I have to tell you that this Thompson has a neck so red my telephone glowed.”