The Unwilling by John Hart
For Tommy Dobson, an admirable man
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s a strange thing, the genesis of a novel. Some ideas stick. Others don’t. Years ago, I read the story of Hugh Thompson, Jr., a helicopter pilot serving in Vietnam who, along with his Hiller OH-23 Raven Crew, was instrumental in stopping what’s come to be known as the My Lai massacre. If you’re unfamiliar with his story, you might want to check it out—an act of exceptional heroism backlit by what most consider the worst atrocity of the entire conflict. Having been too young to serve in Vietnam, I would never presume to write a story of that actual war, but the idea of this man’s unflinching courage—both physical and moral—has been with me for a very long time. My first acknowledgment, then, is to Hugh Thompson, Jr., and those who flew with him, Glenn Andreotta and Lawrence Colburn, heroes in the best sense of the word and the inspiration for one of the finest characters I may have ever written.
That being said, this is not a novel about the Vietnam War, but of an American city in 1972, of young men who served and died, and of the boys who grew to manhood in fear of the draft. It’s also a story of courage and sacrifice, of families and girlfriends and the sad, hard truth that acts of horrible violence are not relegated to war alone. Writing such a novel takes a lot of support, and I’d like to thank my family for all they do to help, not just my wife, Katie, and my daughters, Saylor and Sophie, but all of my family, fine people who keep me sane and make life a joy.
After seven books my editor, Pete Wolverton, remains a rock of encouragement and sound advice. Hannah O’Grady works at his side and has also been a blessing. I do love a beautiful book, so thanks, as well, to the production team of Vincent Stanley and Ken Silver, to Omar Chapa, who designed the book, and to Mike Storrings and Young Lim, who designed a lovely jacket. Only a writer knows how easy it is to embarrass oneself in print, so thanks to Sara Ensey, my copy editor, and to Ryan Jenkins, who proofed the manuscript—your work allows me to hold my head up in public. And because I write for a living it matters that the reading public knows about the book, so a huge shout-out to all the pros at St. Martin’s who work hard to spread the word. I’m looking at you, Jeff Dodes, Paul Hochman, and Joe Brosnan, marketing gurus that you are; and at my wonderful publicists, Tracey Guest, Sarah Bonamino, and Rebecca Lang. I wouldn’t be where I am without your efforts and expertise. That sentiment applies, as well, to the Macmillan sales force. Thank you all for what you do.
I have also been blessed with the kind of top-down support about which every author dreams, not just for one book or two, but for my career to date. This is book seven with the same publishing house, and it’s hard to walk such a long road without the intangibles that matter, things like vision, patience, and faith. For that I thank the shot callers at Macmillan: John Sargent, Don Weisberg, Sally Richardson, Jennifer Enderlin, Andy Martin, and Lisa Senz. You’ve made a lot of calls that went my way, and for that I am grateful. Thanks, also, to my agency, ICM, and to Esther Newberg, my agent, who does what she does, and does it well.
I do owe a brief word to the City of Charlotte and those who call it home. For the story to work I needed to make the city a bit larger than it was in 1972, also a bit dirtier and more violent. Apologies for that, but hey, it’s fiction. I must also thank Laura and Maurice Hull, fine friends who did a kind thing. I mean, seriously—what other novelists get their books plastered on a race car? Finally, I’d like to thank all the people here and abroad who’ve read my books and spread the word. I wouldn’t be here without you.
We the unwilling, led by the unqualified to kill the unfortunate, die for the ungrateful.
—Unknown Soldier
1
Daniel Reed knew many things about ex-cops, and one of those things was that not all the cop died when a man quit or took early medical or got fired for smoking weed. Four years of pushing a bus station mop, and he still felt that burn beneath his collar, the prickle of skin that drew his eyes up from the slop bucket and busted tile.
He considered the young people first. They sprawled on a bench, drunk and loud, but that wasn’t the problem. The families and the hippies came next, then the old men and the pregnant woman and the soldiers in uniform. Beyond the glass, the two fifteen from Raleigh idled in the bay as a dozen people waited for suitcases, old Mac sweating in the heat as he hauled them out and lined them up. Daniel had known a thousand days like it, small-city South in a country tired of war. Inevitably, his eyes found the pretty girl in the yellow dress. She was eighteen, maybe, with a shabby suitcase and leather shoes starting to split. He’d watched her, on and off, for an hour: the small walks from one wall to the next, little turns, the tilted head. At the moment, she stood unmoving, lips slightly parted.
Following her gaze, Daniel spotted the young man in a dim recess leading to the bay. Angular and lean, he stopped five feet from the double doors and stood long enough to study the people in the room. Daniel’s first thought was, Vietnam, and not long from the war. Something about the way he stood, the awareness. When he stepped into the light, Daniel got a better look at the Zeppelin T-shirt, the cheekbones, the belt made of black leather, turquoise, and tarnished silver. Faded jeans brushed the tops of old boots; and when he walked past, he smelled like diesel and whiskey and tobacco. “Detective,” he said; but Daniel looked away, ashamed that he was old and stoned and not a cop anymore. He waited until a swinging door flashed sunlight into the room, then asked the ticketing agent if he could please use the phone. She handed it over, and he dialed the station from long memory, requesting a detective by name.