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.”