by Don McQuinn
He finished with a flourish, leaning forward. Miller recognized the move as one of Winter’s and the repressed laughter in the back of his throat was bitter enough to burn.
Wigwagging a hand in irritable dismissal, Denby turned back to his typewriter. Miller left quietly.
Walking down the hall, he told himself the hell with it. I got Mantell. I’ll get past that nothing. I’ll put together so much stuff they’ll have to do something.
He passed Taylor’s office when he got downstairs, considered confiding in him and thought better of it. He was an officer and white. He’d never understand about dope. Like this shit now—worry about the money market, with the dope incidental. Whites had trouble with it, but blacks had it in their lives. Even Ordway couldn’t understand, and he was a buddy.
Black and white brought Denby’s anti-Viet bigotry to mind and he asked himself how much was left over for blacks. He couldn’t remember a hint of it and finally conceded the man seemed biased exclusively against non-Americans and thought how that must hurt when he had to deal with Americans who looked Oriental.
The image of Denby struggling with that dilemma brought back the first ray of his normal good spirits.
Screw all of them. It’s a black man’s problem and it’s blacks bringing down a world of hurt on other blacks and it’s right a black should put a stop to it. No Denby’s going to stop me, and when I reach the top of the ladder, whoever I find there is going to fall. No shit.
Passing the refrigerator, he stopped, crouching, whipping left jabs at the handle.
A crossing right caught the befuddled Ali squarely on the point of the chin. Sadness flooded Miller as he watched the calculating eyes snap shut and struggle back open to reveal only the dregs of awareness to acknowledge defeat. Rather than punish the man, Miller stepped back, letting him fall.
When he stepped outside onto the porch the sunlight poured over him like applause rolling down from the arena seats.
Chapter 22
Rain fell in great shattering drops as Taylor watched from the shelter of the villa porch, listening to the frequency and intensity of the individual strikes increase and finally coalesce, turning the air into a constant hiss. He concentrated on one parched blade of grass, noting it flattening to the ground at each direct impact and springing back up. In fact, it seemed to have increased its vertical angle after a few moments and he wondered if the plant regarded this trial as a necessary part of existence and laughed at himself. He looked around nervously to see if he’d been observed.
Stepping into the downpour, he broke into a run for a few paces before slowing to a normal walk, reflecting that the attitude was the influence of the country. The Vietnamese rarely ran through the rain, usually strolling along and accepting the wetness. It had taken a while for him to accept the wisdom of that. In the first place, one usually got wet from sweat, racing along, and in the second place, getting caught in the rain here wasn’t like the same experience in the states. Here, the sun came out and you dried off without any bone-cracking chill. And the rain felt good. He tried to whistle as he walked. Drops slid off his lip and the tune exploded in a spluttering trill.
He thought about his destination, the shop, and the meeting with Captain Kimble. He hoped the subject of the promotion wouldn’t come up, because he didn’t want to listen to any more dreary excuses for discouraging the normal celebration that went with it. If the silly bastard didn’t want a party, he told himself, that was certainly his privilege. But he’d said his piece and he ought to keep his face shut about it.
As soon as he stepped into the shop Taylor damned his personal Vietnamization. He’d forgotten about the air-conditioner. From something cool and natural, his utilities turned into a dank encumbrance that grabbed at every point of contact. He jerked off his cover and hung it on a nail.
“Yuk! These clothes are freezing!”
“It’s because they’re wet. The rain.”
The inanity brought sarcasm to his lips, but a look at Kimble made him swallow it.
He’d still not gotten to know the man. Even when he was loose and talking freely, there was a reticence about him, as though he said what he knew he ought to be saying but was thinking something else, thinking about something else. None of the others seemed to notice, making Taylor doubly unsure of himself and even more uncomfortable. Today the feeling of psychic distance was even stronger.
Taylor stripped to his waist and draped his clothes over chairs. “The rain feels good when you’re outside.”
“Did you know we have a lot of pneumonia patients here? They’ve had some deaths.”
Taylor rubbed his torso briskly. “Is that my cheery thought for the day? I wade over here to bring you good news and all you’ve got for me is a possible diagnosis of pneumonia.”
“You bring my mail?” Kimble’s increased attentiveness was palpable.
“Better. We’re going on a boondoggle down to Vung Tau.” He explained the purpose of the trip, adding, “Two fun-filled days of sun, sand, and surf.”
Watching Kimble’s apologetic smile, Taylor had the eerie sensation he could see the required muscles being willed to position.
“Does it have to be me? I’ve got a lot of work backed up—” He waved distractedly with both hands.
“The war’ll survive without us. The break’ll do you good. There’s even an official reason for it. Your conscience bothering you?”
“It’s not that—” His hands fluttered again, ineffective as before.
Taylor cleared a space on the work bench and hitched himself up. Rainwater dripped from the toes of his dangling boots. For a moment the plops and the electric hum of equipment were the only sounds in the room.
“Look, Skipper, let me put it to you this way. Were going. I’m going to have a good time. Corporal Ordway’s going to have a good time. You’re not going to spoil the trip for us, so feel free to be as miserable as you want. If it’ll help, though, I’m a pretty good listener.”
With no answer forthcoming, his eyes wandered around the shop, coming to rest on the multi-colored calendar.
“C’mon, Kimble,” he coaxed, “you’re too short to be so down. You’ve only got—what is it?” He studied the calendar more closely. “Jesus, not even three months! I can’t imagine double digits and you’ve got less than three months?”
“Never mind my calendar!” Harshness crackled in the rising voice.
“Sure.” Taylor lowered himself from the workbench and started wringing out his skivvy shirt.
Kimble averted his gaze. “You weren’t prying, I know that. You wouldn’t understand, that’s all. It’s a personal thing.”
This is your day to spotlight the apparent, thought Taylor, regretting the entire conversation. He twisted into the damp clothes as quickly as possible and was reaching for his cover when Kimble spoke again.
“I haven’t had a letter for six days, Major.”
“From your wife, you mean?”
Kimble nodded, his attitude more like an admission than an explanation.
“That’s not such a long time, man. She’s probably got a cold or the kid’s got one. She’s got a right to some problems of her own. You’ll probably get six letters in a bunch today and feel like a jerk.”
“I’d sure like to hope so. When I first got here she’d write twice the same day. I always got a tape at least twice a week. Now I get a letter every couple days or so and sometimes it’s a week or ten days between tapes.”
“Are you shitting me? I know what her trouble is. She’s run out of words. Corresponded herself to exhaustion.”
Kimble’s smile was slightly less pained. “You’re probably right. I notice everybody gets uptight when they start to get short.”
Taylor snorted. “First you tell me I’ve got pneumonia and now you’re reminding me how long I’ve got to do. Disgusting. I’ll see you at 0730.” Laughter followed him out, but as Taylor turned to wave, there was that same armoring of Kimble’s features. The picture hung in his mind a
s he sloshed back toward the villa. He hunched his shoulders irritably, pushing back at the rain, and suddenly found himself thinking of Ly. What was he going to do about that?
He was in a foul mood when he stomped into his office and stripped for the second time. Duc was gone, having left without leaving a note, and that added to his frustration. As a result, he met Allen’s appearance with a grim stare and a flat, “Well?”
The Captain’s exaggerated apology helped. Taylor said, “All right, you caught me at a bad time. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. Yet. What’ve you got?”
“Are you sure you want to talk? You look more like a man praying for a fight.”
“You’re nattering. I can’t stand nattering.”
“Nattering? That’s a British expression. Were you in England?”
Taylor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Hal, you’re a tonic, you really are. You know, I’m crowding forty. Sometimes that depresses me. And then you show up, youthful, virile, swift of foot, stupid as a load of bricks. It really helps my perspective.”
“Ah, that’s the crusty curmudgeon we’ve all grown to love and respect. For one fleeting moment I had the ridiculous notion your heart had turned to muscle.” He sat in Duc’s chair and helped himself to one of Duc’s Salems and casually extended the pack to Taylor, who shook his head in disbelief but took one anyway. Allen lit them both. “Actually, I dropped by to extend an invitation and ask you a favor. I thought by adding the one I’d improve my chances for the other.”
“You’ve found a good expensive restaurant and you want me to accept your hospitality.”
“No, not exactly. But I’ll keep you in mind. My membership in the Cercle Sportif has been approved.”
“Go away, Allen.”
“Please don’t try to be blasé.” He exhaled a huge smoke ring. “It’s not your style, at all. You were kind enough to prevail on Winter to let me into your sewer in the matter of the Friendly Bar and I’m reciprocating.”
“I ought to reciprocate my fist and your nose.”
“The Uniform Code of Military Justice forbids it. Anyhow, Harker’d never forgive you for spoiling his evening.”
“Harker?”
“They say he can have a night out in a couple of days. He’s still confined to the hospital but he’s taken to chasing the nurses, so they assume he’s well enough to move around town a little. We’re celebrating.”
“That’s different. I’ll be needing someone to talk to about then.”
Allen looked puzzled. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing special.” He paused, considering. “What do you know about Kimble?”
Allen’s relieved expression preceded an easy answer. “He’s pleasant enough. I don’t think he has any outside interests. His life revolves around his electrons and his wife, in that order. Why?”
“He bugs me. I try to talk to him and get the impression he’s not there.”
“Really? How fortunate for him. I’ll have to find out how he manages it.”
“Ever read up on what the UCMJ says about insubordination?”
“I’ll assume that’s not an academic question and take my leave, sir.” He got to his feet, mashing the cigarette butt. “Can we figure on midafternoon on Sunday for Harker’s coming-out?”
“Yeah, I’ll have had time to report on this trip to Vung Tau and all I’m doing around here is matching names and aliases on some Security Section people.” He flung an angry arm out across the papers on his desk. “You know we’ve got one Section that doesn’t even know each other except by alias? ‘Brother Nguyen,’ ‘Brother Do!’ What a pain! See that dude in that picture? That’s ‘Brother Do.’ Special Branch nailed him. Out of a team of six, he’s only seen three. He doesn’t know anything about them except their aliases and what they look like. He thinks the one he calls ‘Brother Nguyen’ is nearsighted. How’s that for a live-wire lead?”
“Surely he knows who recruited him?”
“A guy in a bunker in the Parrot’s Beak in Cambodia. And you should see his back-up. His ARVN discharge papers aren’t forgeries, they’re real. Ol’ Loc’s been kicking ass and taking names all over the city, trying to find out how many more like him we’ve got running loose.” He held up the photograph and shook his head with rueful admiration. “When these jokers talk security, they mean it.”
Allen took the picture from him. “The amazing thing is that we catch any of them. How’d he get picked up?”
“Pure accident. Got in a hassle with a neighbor and the neighbor snooped around and saw him oiling a pistol. He blew the whistle on him, Special Branch came on, and he sang us a lousy two bars.”
“You enjoy hunting these people, don’t you?” The younger man stared with frank curiosity.
Taylor laughed, letting the sound tail off at the sight of Allen’s reaction of embarrassed irritation.
“Look, Hal, I’m not a butcher and I’m not a robot. Sure, I enjoy the excitement. I could live without it if I thought the other side would let me live in peace. My kind of peace, not on their terms. And I don’t like the killing, I don’t care what you’ve heard.”
“How unfortunate.”
Taylor’s head jerked in surprise and then he saw the light in Allen’s eyes. He played it straight. “What’s so unfortunate?”
“I’d like to see you become famous, Maj—a General, maybe, or a politician. But you don’t have the scope. Can’t you see us high-and-mighties can’t abide the idea that you lower-income folk should live in peace with your neighbors? Without a war, you’re merely unemployed, whereas the real decision makers must put up with this rending boredom. What’s the use of money and power if—”
The banter stopped abruptly and he reached for the door jamb as if unsure of his balance. He paled and he looked past Taylor.
“Hey, you all right? What’s wrong?”
The features struggled to present a smile. “I just thought of something.”
Taylor said, “Listen, if you rich guys are so far above my simple soldier level, what the hell are you doing here?”
Edging out the door, Allen continued to work at presenting a carefree manner. He was still rough-looking, but found a line. “Keeping an eye on the help, Major.”
Regardless of his appearance, he was nimble enough to dodge the book Taylor heaved at him.
Chapter 23
The high wing of the Porter provided a degree of shelter from the early morning drizzle. Taylor centered himself under it, watching the moisture collect in rivulets and craze downward. He shifted the getaway bag, half-smiling at the incompatibility of Apeneck wrapped in beach gear, then checked his watch again.
“Mornin’, Major.” Ordway saluted briskly as he approached.
Taylor returned it. “How you doing? See Captain Kimble or our pilot in the shack?”
“No sir, I didn’t. What kind of plane is this, sir?” His enthusiasm bubbled as he paced and bobbed, examining the plane from all angles.
“A Porter. Got one helluva nose on her, doesn’t she?”
“That’s for sure, and I’m damn glad of it. I hope it’s all engine and strong as a mule.”
“Don’t you like flying?”
“I ain’t sure yet. Only plane I was ever in was coming here, and I was too nervous about Nam to worry about much else. This thing looks like you could knock it down with a handful of rice hulls.”
“Rice hulls! Only a Cajun would think of that.”
“Like I told you, sir, I’m a redneck. Big difference.” Ordway grinned.
“Can’t make Willy believe it.”
From the direction of the ops shack, they heard Kimble’s greeting. He threw a combination wave and salute as he came toward them with another man. From the corner of his eye, Taylor saw Ordway check his right hand halfway up, taking his cue from himself, refusing to acknowledge a salute that wasn’t really there.
“Our pilot, Sam Kolchak,” Kimble said. The two Marines introduced themselves.
Kolchak shook han
ds, mumbling around a cigar that whisked back and forth under a heavy black mustache. Taylor fell in behind him as he walked through his preflight check. While Kolchak wiggled the rudder, Taylor said, “Listen, Skipper, you could do me a favor.”
Kolchak groaned, aiming a finger at Taylor’s blouse. “When I saw that globe-and-anchor, I knew I was going to be conned for something.”
“This’s a little thing.” He ignored the raised eyebrows. “The Corporal’s only been up in a 707. Can he ride up front with you?”
“Is that all? Sure! I’ll have him flying the thing by the time we get there.”
“That’s not necessary,” Taylor said, swallowing.
Kolchak climbed into the plane. “C’mon up front, Corporal,” he called. “If a Navy Captain rates an orderly, so do I. You’ll be co-pilot, steward, and all the rest.”
Ordway stared at the pilot, then at Taylor.
“You better git,” Taylor said. “He could change his mind.”
Ordway practically shoved Kolchak ahead of him.
The roar of the engine put the passengers into the hallowed pre-flight silence of groundlings. Taylor was surprised by Kimble’s serenity. He dismissed it and concentrated on Kolchak’s handling of the plane. They taxied past revetted cargo aircraft and lined up for their opportunity at the runway behind a huge C-130. The prop blast from her blades buffeted the lighter plane. Kolchak rode it out with the aplomb of a bronc buster on a merry-go-round. Ordway’s eyes remained locked on the aluminum bulk in front of them and only when it pulled out onto the runway did he settle back against his seat.
A few seconds later they followed. The little plane seemed to poise—the impression was more of vaulting into the air than racing to take off—and they were climbing. Kolchak indicated it was all right to smoke, waggling his cigar stub. Taylor lit up and turned to Kimble.
