by John Benteen
Fargo scrambled up off the single blanket that was his bed. He scratched, yawned, stared at Buckner questioningly.
“The damn San Bias nearly killed my man, but he got through. That’s how come it took longer.” Buckner paused, ran his eyes up and down Fargo.
Then he said: “It all checks out. You want that job?”
Fargo gave no outward evidence at all of the unclenching within him. He nodded coolly, thrusting his last cigarette between his lips.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then you’ll shake hands with me on it.” Buckner put out a hard right palm.
“At thirty thousand.” Fargo took it.
“At thirty thousand,” Buckner said, and they shook. When Buckner took his hand away, he let out a long breath; it was almost as if he had been the one awaiting sentencing.
“I’m glad it worked out,” he said. “I needed you. Okay, from now on, we’re together, one for the other. Come on, Fargo. Let’s go over to my quarters, you’ll have a bath and some breakfast. Then I’ll fill you in.”
Fargo walked with him across the parade.
“I want my guns back. Especially the shotgun.”
“You’ll get them,” Buckner said. “You’re a member of this command, now. A key member.”
Chapter Six
It was strange, Fargo thought, sitting in Buckner’s office, that his hand did not shake as he picked up the whiskey glass. The whole thing had been so close … And yet, it had all turned out as he had hoped, planned. Buckner knew his experience, needed it. Fargo was too valuable to be sacrificed. But he’d had to be tested first and tested in the hottest fire.
But now, Fargo could sense, Buckner was satisfied. Fargo felt a certain contempt for the man sitting across the desk from him. There was a core of cowardice in Cleve Buckner that Fargo had not hitherto suspected. Buckner would have cracked under a similar ordeal, broken down at the thought of execution; and he could not imagine a man with courage enough to throw his own life like dice in order to save his bet. Then Fargo brought his attention back to what Buckner had been saying:
“The first thing you’ve got to understand, is that there are some parts of this deal that are absolutely secret. Nobody knows about them but me, and it’s got to stay that way. You’re not to know where the money comes from for this operation or how much it is. But when it’s over and done with, you’ll get your thirty thousand. Of course, you’ll never be able to go home again. But, what the hell. You’re like me. You don’t have any home, anyhow.”
Fargo looked at that black flag dangling from the pole. “No.”
“Okay. With that understood, you’re officially the second in command, and I’ll make the announcement at Retreat tonight.” Buckner fished in a drawer, threw a Brigadier’s shoulder tabs across the table to Fargo. “I’ve been saving them for the right man. Put them on before Retreat.”
“You run this place like the Regular Army.”
“You’re damned right I do. It’s got a job ahead of it that’s tough as hell. We’ll be bucking up against the Regulars, maybe against the Leathernecks, too, for all I know. When we do, I intend for us to win.” Buckner’s thin lips peeled back from the bad teeth. “And we will. You and I, Fargo—we’re two of the best soldiers in the world. We’ve been around, fought in enough places against enough people so that with the two of us as a team, nobody’s going to stand against us. Not if we’ve got good troops to back us up. And neither you nor I’ll be satisfied with anything less.”
“Do these men fight as infantry or cavalry?”
“Both or either,” Buckner said. “This operation requires ’em to be flexible.”
“This operation,” Fargo said. He poured more whiskey. “Suppose, now, you tell me what this operation is?”
Buckner nodded, looking at Fargo. But he did not answer for a moment, and Fargo wondered if he were having second thoughts. Probably he was; but he overcame them, and then he arose, went to a rolled-up map on the wall and pulled it down like a window shade. It showed, in large scale, the entire Panama Canal and the surrounding territory.
“To ruin this,” Buckner said, pointing at the outlines of the Ditch.
Fargo was silent for a moment. Then he said, “That’s a pretty tall order. Especially for only three hundred men.”
“Yes,” Buckner said. “That’s why they’ve got to be trained to a fine hair. Why this whole thing has to come off like clockwork. Why I need the best men I can get—and why I’m glad, damn it, that I decided not to shoot you. I feel better, Fargo. I feel better about this thing with you in it.”
He sat down again, reached for the bottle. “Oh, I don’t expect to ruin it completely. But at the very least, I can damage the hell out of it, delay its completion. If I could delay the date the Canal was ready for navigation by only six months, the people behind me would feel like they had their money’s worth. Maybe even three ...” He drank.
Fargo got up, considered the map, then turned. “I don’t see how we can do it. There are a lot of soldiers in the Zone. And the place is crawling with construction men.”
Buckner grinned. “Don’t worry. We can do it. We’ve got an ace in the hole. An inside man.”
Fargo kept his face expressionless. “Who?”
“That’s another piece of information only I know. But when the time comes, he’s in a position to make it easy for us, Fargo. A lot easier than it would be without him.” Buckner drank the rest of the whiskey, got up and joined Fargo at the map.
“All right. Here’s the Gatun dam. It forms this giant lake, and that lake’s eighty-five feet above sea level and above the rest of the Canal. So you have the Gatun locks to lift the ships up to the lake from the Atlantic end, and the Pedro Miguel and Miraflores Locks to let ’em down to the Pacific. Right here in between, smack in the middle of the Canal is Culebra Cut. It’s almost finished, they’re down to nearly three hundred feet, and the big thing now is to finish gouging it out; they’ve got every man they can muster and find room for workin’ down in that damned big hole. Here, on the sides—Gold Hill and Contractor’s Hill... Raw dirt, mountains of it. Unstable, keeps sliding.” He grinned. “But they ain’t seen no slides yet.” He looked at Fargo and his eyes glittered. “I’ve got a report from an experienced engineer that says there are two points, back on the hump of Gold Hill, that if they were blown all at once, it would cut loose the whole hillside. And I don’t mean just a little slide, Fargo. I mean one hell of a big one. A slide that would blow the hill into Culebra Cut, just about fill it up again!”
“Just two dynamite charges?” Fargo was incredulous.
“Yeah. In exactly the right places. Look, they surveyed, found out the slides were coming because of back pressure here, on the reverse slope of Gold Hill, away from the cut. In another few weeks, they’re going to bring in hydraulic equipment and cut away all that extra dirt behind the cut to relieve the pressure. Meanwhile, that hill’s like a house of cards; one good puff and it comes down!”
“And who’s going to plant those puffs for you?” Fargo asked.
“They’re planted. He’s a dynamite expert. They’re in place and ready to go, at the right minute. When that happens—Gold Hill falls in. All of it!”
Fargo nodded. “When’s it due to happen?”
Buckner blew smoke. “End of this month. The day before payday. There are a lot of different angles to this thing.” He went on.
“Blowing Culebra Cut will set back the Canal, all right. But really, it’s just a diversion. The dynamite goes in the middle of a working day. Most slides, they come gradual, the working stiffs have time to get out of the way. Not this one. It’ll come hard and it’ll come fast, and there’ll be one hell of a mess. The whole damn afternoon shift’ll be buried under dirt, along with railroad track, cars, steam shovels, everything.
When that happens, every soldier in the Zone’ll be rushed to the Cut to help dig ’em out. And that’s when we hit the locks—and the pay cars.”
“The pay cars?”<
br />
“Right! Dynamite again! Our inside man’ll have caches of it near each lock. We pick up those caches, blow the lock machinery. I’ve got engineering plans showing just what to ruin to make the worst mess! The locks themselves are too big to damage, but the operating machinery—when that’s blown, it’ll take months to make new stuff and get it installed. Meanwhile, the locks can’t be closed, water can’t be regulated in the Canal, and there’s a hell of a mess.”
“It sounds good. What’s this about the pay cars?”
“They’ll be spotted at places along the track, ready to pay off the next day. We know where they are—at Gatun, at Miraflores, at The Cut, at Ancon. They get blown, too. The silver we don’t bother with. But the gold, Fargo—” His eyes glittered. “Three-quarters of a ton of gold! Almost a million dollars worth! That’s a score, Fargo—a hell of a score!”
“It’s also spreading your forces pretty damned thin,” Fargo said.
“No. Not if Culebra Cut goes on schedule. Look, these soldiers of ours are also construction men. I’ve got plenty of powder men here, and I’ve trained teams. A four man demolition team for each lock, fifty trained men, heavily armed—I’ve got French Chauchat guns, the Army in the Zone’s got nothing like that—to cover each team. Three main locks: a hundred and sixty-five men. That leaves me nearly a hundred and fifty more to hit the pay cars and cover the retreat. We go in, strike hard, get back across the Zone—and once we’re in Panama again, there’s a jurisdictional dispute. That’ll slow down the chase. By the time it’s hammered out, we’ll be across the border in Colombia.”
“Colombia, eh?” Fargo said.
“Yeah. Oh, they’re not the ones footin’ the bill. But they’ll be happy to give us protection. They’ve got their own score to settle.” Buckner broke off, eyes still glittering. “There it is, Fargo! What do you think of it?”
Fargo was silent for a moment. Then he said: “You’ll have to blow the railroad bridges, too. You don’t want any chance of reinforcements being swapped back and forth along the railroad.”
“That’s been set up, too; I forgot to mention it. Well?”
Fargo turned away, poured another drink. He was thinking hard. “It all depends on your inside man.”
“He’s reliable.”
“Then, if Culebra Cut goes, it’ll work.” Fargo meant it. Cleve Buckner was too good a soldier not to have planned soundly. His hands were a little sweaty on the glass, and not from the deadly heat. Roosevelt had got him here just in time. The question was, now that he was here, how could he spike this scheme? Not even he could fight three hundred trained soldiers ... And who was the inside man? How was he going to find out about him?
Buckner let out a long breath. Obviously, he respected Fargo’s judgment, had been anxious while awaiting Fargo’s verdict.
“Yeah, it’ll work,” Fargo went on. “Now.” He turned to Buckner. “What do you want me to do?”
“I told you, be my second in command. Help me train these people. Then you’ll be in charge of the lock-blowing operation, while I take the pay cars. Okay?”
“Okay,” Fargo said. “But I want my weapons back.”
“They’re right here. Man, you really tote an arsenal.” Buckner went to a curtained-off closet, lifted the drape aside, handed Fargo his gear. But he held the shotgun a moment, staring at it. “Damn nice piece. Fine engraving. Where’d you—?” He broke off. Then he read the inscription: “To Neal Fargo, gratefully, from T. Roosevelt.” His eyes were once more cold, hard, as he raised his head. “Roosevelt,” he said, and he held on to the shotgun.
“I saved his life once. In Cuba.”
“I remember something else, too. Some rumor about you in Panama, before.” Buckner’s lips were thin; he toyed with the shotgun, and Fargo did not miss the fact that the barrels were always pointed at him.
“I’ve fought in a lot of revolutions. Just like you, Cleve.”
“Yeah, but there’s one big difference. I don’t have any gun Teddy Roosevelt gave me. And ... Teddy Roosevelt loves this Canal like it was his own baby. Fargo ... Roosevelt... Canal...” The muzzles of the shotgun swung up, were centered on Fargo’s belly.
Fargo stood loosely. The room was very quiet. Fargo knew that once again he was only a hairs breadth from death, his survival measured by the pressure of Cleve Buckner’s finger on the triggers. Red-mustache had unloaded the shotgun, but Fargo had already counted the rounds in his bandolier, and somebody had stuffed two shells back into it. A fraction of an ounce more pull and ...
Fargo said: “That thing’s got a hair-set, Cleve. Unless you aim to use it, don’t play with those triggers. I came here because I was run out of the Zone. If you know anything about me, you know that I’d fight on the side of the devil himself for thirty thousand dollars. You’ve checked me out; there ain’t a goddamned thing I can say. But ... you either need me or you don’t.”
Buckner was still staring at him, the shotgun lined. Then, suddenly, there was a tiny snick; and Fargo relaxed a little, though he did not move a muscle. That was the safety going on. When the shotgun was loaded and cocked, the safety was off. Cleve had just pushed it into place.
Then Buckner let out a gusty sigh. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I need you, and I had you checked out. I had you checked out from stem to stern, including my inside man. I didn’t like the name on this gun, but you’re clean, you have to be clean. Here.” And the sawed-off flashed through the air, and Fargo caught it quickly, with the deftness of a man who had inspected and been inspected with a rifle in the Old Army.
Then Buckner laughed, a short, rattling sound. “Yeah, you’re clean, Brigadier General Fargo of the Raggedy-Ass Army of Panama! We’re in business. But watch that goddamn thing. I don’t want it going off around me if I can help it. I know what a load of blue whistlers can do as well as you.”
“You wait ’til we hit the Zone,” Fargo said. “Then you’ll really see what a riot gun like this can do.”
“I’ll bet,” said Buckner. Then he hauled out a watch, looked at it. “Come on. It’s time for Retreat. After that, I’ll take you out and show you around.”
Retreat was a formal affair, as sharp and snappy as anything Fargo had ever seen on a Regular Army post. The black flag was hauled down, while, ironically, a bugler played To The Colors. The whole army was ranked, in two companies of four platoons each, and Fargo had to yield grudging admiration to Buckner for what he had done with this crowd of desperate riffraff and total scum, aided only by the deserters who had joined his outfit. Buckner had indeed welded this motley and tough group of wild men into an army, a disciplined one that made the twilight air echo with the sharp snap of its unisoned arms drill. There was, after Fargo had been installed as second in command, with appropriate ceremony, even the firing of a sunset gun—an antiquated Krupp mountain howitzer that made an impressive boom.
When it was over, Buckner said: “Okay, Fargo, let’s go get a drink.”
“Right.” Fargo could not help yielding credit where it was due. “Goddamn it, Cleve, you’ve made a hell of an outfit out of nothing.”
Buckner drew on his cigarette. “It’s funny, Fargo. Some people are soldiers and some aren’t. I’ve always been a soldier. I served on Samar, you know.”
“I know.”
“I’ve seen Lieutenant Generals stand up when I came into the room. They saluted me, I didn’t salute them. I never felt that I was outranked by anybody. I had been through the mill. Then I met that bitch. The Colonel’s wife, you know what I mean? I should never have got mixed up with her, but she was one of these gals with an itch nobody could ever satisfy, and when she saw me, she got the double itch. These officers’ wives. Expected to behave like ladies, and they don’t get as much to live on in a month as a good whore makes in a night. Then, jammed up on a post with a lot of men ... hell, you’ve seen it. Anyway, she came after me and I went to bed with her and then I had to shoot her husband to keep him from shooting me. Until then, I figured I’d live out my whole lif
e in the service.” There was a kind of sadness in his voice. “Well, hell, I’m still soldiering. That’s the way it goes.”
“Yeah,” Fargo said. And for a moment, he felt almost a kind of sympathy for Buckner. He hitched the shotgun on his shoulder.
“Come on,” Buckner said. “We’ll go over to the town and I’ll show you around. But you keep your hands off Jeannine, you hear?”
“Jeannine?”
“French girl. Only white woman in the whole place. Her old man’s named Cardon. He’s left over from the French Canal days. Runs a bar ...” They walked across the parade toward the heat-shimmering cluster of tin-roofed shacks that was the town, San Fernando. “Jeannine sings in it.” He looked at Fargo with cold eyes. “That’s all she does, sabe? She belongs to the commanding officer—me.”
Fargo grinned. “Rank hath its privileges.”
“You’d better damn well know it,” Buckner said. “Everybody else in this outfit does. You want a woman, there’s a few native girls.”
“I don’t want a woman,” Fargo said. “Not one your troops have used up. I’ll go without until later.”
“Suit yourself.” They had entered the street of the village now. It was a dusty lane between two rows of ramshackle houses. Every other place was a bar, most of them open-fronted, with palm-thatched roofs, a few tables, men sitting at them drinking steadily.
“The supplies here don’t come from the Zone,” Fargo said.
“No. They’re freighted in. From Bogota. Smuggled.” Buckner smiled. “Don’t worry. Plenty of booze and tobacco.”
They walked on. Halfway down the street, Fargo suddenly halted. On the evening air floated the voice of a woman singing, a voice so pure, sweet, and sad that it brought an unexpected chill to him even in the heat struck evening. She sang in English: Oh, Danny boy ...
“Jeannine,” Buckner said. “Some voice, eh?” They came to the end of the street. Cardon’s bar was larger than the others and packed. “Rest,” Buckner said briskly to the enlisted men as they entered. Fargo saw that a table had been reserved under one corner of the shed roof.
