by John Boyd
“How would you use it?” Breedlove asked.
“To cut red tape. The nation’s choking on red tape. People are supposed to be disgusted with the government because it’s grown too unwieldy for their needs, but the government is too unwieldy for the government’s needs. If a President wants to declare war he has to get the consent of Congress, and the congressmen have to sound out their constituents, and by the time all that goes down, the tactical strike opportunity is long gone. With my group, if the President doesn’t like an election in, say, Ecuador, he can call me and say, ‘Ben, go take care of it for me.’ In ten years I could have the whole Third World solidly democratic.”
Turpin contributed little to the table talk. Either he had little to contribute or he was cowed by Slade’s rank or reputation in the intelligence community, either of which, Breedlove deduced, was formidable. There were many covert glances thrown at Slade’s table, and the waitresses hovered attentively near. But with all the attention Slade was perceptive of others. Once he remarked, “Something’s bugging you, Breedlove.”
Major Laudermilk was bugging Breedlove, a fact he did not choose to admit, but he had an alternate bug at hand.
“Harper wants me to give him the coordinates of Kyra’s spaceship on a military map, apparently with the intention of zeroing in artillery at some later date. I don’t want to rat on Kyra and her people.”
“No problem. Lie to him. Give him the wrong coordinates. You can’t be prosecuted for not being able to read a military map.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. He was thinking. “Tell Kyra about Harper’s request, at your dinner tomorrow night, and let me know what she says.”
“I don’t want to give her a bad impression of human beings.”
“She’ll find out about us sooner or later. Her hearing before the AEC is coming up next week, and everybody’s cards will be on the table.”
He was surprised that Slade knew of his dinner with Kyra, but he was more pleasantly surprised to learn about the hearings.
“You think it will be that soon?”
“It will be sooner if I can get the ‘aye’ votes lined up faster.”
The finality of Slade’s answer brought a silence to the table. Turpin was reaching for the check when Breedlove asked casually, “Why do they call Major Laudermilk ‘the Champ’?”
“That is some story,” Turpin said. “Tell him about Laudermilk, Ben.”
Turpin sounded like a child asking for his favorite bedtime story, and Slade was accommodating. “Why do they call Major Laudermilk ‘the Champ’?” he repeated slowly.
It was not a real question the way Slade asked it; it was a prologue. He threw his shoulders slightly forward in a pose handed down from the generations when storytellers hunched forward over western campfires, and the simple gesture threw an expectant hush over the table. Despite himself, Breedlove found himself leaning forward to listen.
“Major Graves Paige Laudermilk—the Paige is always spelled with an i—is the most unforgettable character I have ever known,” Slade began, “but this is one character who’ll never make the pages of the Reader’s Digest.”
Chapter Nine
“If this nation possessed a Samurai class, the Laudermilks would be it. The first Laudermilk to be killed in the service of his country was Corporal Jebediah Ezekiel Laudermilk of the colonial militia, slain at Quebec during the French and Indian Wars. Of eight Americans killed in the defense of Ticonderoga, one was Captain Hannibal Laudermilk. Mrs. Letitia Laudermilk, of Baltimore, inspired the famous Civil War song, ‘She Had Two Sons.’ One of those sons was killed while with Pickett at Gettysburg; he wore a suit of gray. The other died at Allatoona Pass,—he wore a suit of blue. Apropos of music, ‘Taps’ is the family’s theme song and the muffled drum its traditional instrument. Our Champ’s grandfather died at Belleau Wood and his father on the banks of the Oder in World War II. No male Laudermilk lives to be over thirty-five.”
Slade paused for a moment of reverence, not only from the listeners at the table but from the gathered waitresses, and driven by anxiety, Breedlove asked, “Were they champions at dying young?”
With the éclat of a born storyteller, Slade waved the interruption aside and continued: “The Laudermilk clan would have never accepted the slogan, ‘Make love, not war.’ Laudermilks make love and war. Our Champ’s father, Major Robert E. Lee Laudermilk, earned for himself, before that final, fatal skirmish, the title, The Uncrowned Prince of the European Theater of Operations. When he was laid to rest at the American cemetery outside of Liege, Belgium, women mourners gathered from all over Europe, and the flowers they laid on his grave reached the dimensions of a haystack after a wet growing and dry harvest season. Yet his son, Major Graves Paige Laudermilk, claims that his father was only a Lothario, junior grade.”
Slade paused again to let the enormity of the son’s charge sink into listeners augmented now by the diners at adjoining tables, and Breedlove lacked the brashness to interrupt. These pauses were for dramatic effect.
“They’re a fecund tribe, the Laudermilks,—have to be to keep the line alive. When the Champ was a field officer in Vietnam, his company led the Army with a kill ratio of twenty-to-one, but the Champ had to be ordered home. For every Vietcong he killed in the bush, he sired two in the villages. He was a threat to the Army’s genocide policy.”
Another brief pause, and the question was wrenched from Breedlove’s lips, “Is he a champion stud?”
Again ignoring the question, the raconteur set his own pace: “Laudermilk is one of the Army’s top linguists. It is said he can learn a language overnight, which he usually does. He is fluent in the vernacular of twenty-seven languages. Beginning with short words and pungent phrases, he works his way up, following, as he says, the evolutionary patterns of a language from its root sources. His definition of ‘root’ may be open to question, but no one can argue his choice of teachers.”
Then he would be a dilettante of languages, not a champion linguist, Breedlove realized, and the realization again brought a question to his lips, “But why is he called the Champ?”
This time, Slade yielded.
“Laudermilk is the statistical world champion of the international boudoir. He has had recorded affairs with women of 360 ethnic groups and 820 nationalities. Each liaison is attested by a Certificate of Consummation signed and dated by his participating partner. He seeks to leave behind him a record that can never be broken, but, to date, there’s something missing from Laudermilk’s rolls. He’s never known an Uzbekistanian maiden. The Uzbeks, a mixture of Tartar and Mongol, form a distinct ethnic group. Of course, the Champ has had many Tartars and more Mongols than Genghis Khan, but never an Uzbek. Personally, I think he’ll make it. The word’s out that after this assignment he’s being sent to Tashkent, the capital of the Uzbek Republic. There, after having tasted the nectar of every earthly flower, our major will die with honor, his work on earth done.”
Now Slade paused on a note of sadness so certain and profound Breedlove asked, “Does Laudermilk suffer a terminal disease?”
“No.” Slade shook his head. “Only one Laudermilk ever died a natural death. In 1816 Lieutenant Ethan Allen Laudermilk succumbed to premature satyriasis, a young soldier who faded away. Laudermilks die violently in love or war. No, it’s that though born soldiers, all of them, with the capacity for high rank, fate has willed that no Laudermilk shall ever go higher than major. Our Champ is driven by his mortality. He knows he has another appointment in Tashkent he must keep, for he’s due for promotion to lieutenant colonel in August. After Tashkent, the world may someday see his equal but never his superior; Major Graves Paige Laudermilk will have known all the women of the world.”
On a reverent hush the tale ended, and the listeners sat or stood in silence, wrapping the mantle of a legend around their thoughts. An ominous realization clouded Breedlove’s mind: Laudermilk did not need the women of the world to set an untouchable record. He could do it with the woman who affectionately called him “Gravy.�
� For the man who had possessed the pearls of earth, the maiden from another planet would crown his family jewels.
Seeking a flaw in Slade’s tale to help him brand it as an exaggeration, Breedlove said, “If all the Laudermilks die so young, how is the dynasty maintained?”
“Early marriages, most of them shotgun ceremonies.” Slade slapped his hands together and said, “All right, boys, let’s repair to the bar and bend an elbow.”
After two hours in the cocktail lounge devoted to reminiscing, mostly by Slade, Breedlove went to his room to be alone and to sort out his impressions of the two men whose lives were suddenly intertwined with his own and Kyra’s. Turpin was ten years younger than Slade, less forcible, and seemingly the product of a more authoritarian discipline, he was a Christian soldier with a gung-ho attitude toward the FBI. Slade’s expressed attitude toward the FBI and CIA was that which a city dog holds for a fireplug. Breedlove had guessed right about his birthplace: he was a Texan, “Born, jerked up, and jacked off in Waco.”
At Texas A&M he had been dismissed from the ROTC because of drunkenness. After graduation he became a ranch hand, ironworker, oil-field roughneck, deck hand on a shrimp boat, and eventually joined the Texas Rangers, from where he went to the CIA. Now he was on permanently detached duty for “that pussy outfit.” The cold stare and overwhelming sense of menace he turned off and on at will were dramatic projections he had developed as a bill collector in Dallas. Yet this actor-spy, who preferred to be out in the cold without an overcoat, had written four western romances under the name of Belle Star Dalton. Slade was easily the most incredible character Breedlove had met until he met Slade’s most unforgettable character, Major Graves Paige Laudermilk.
After a night’s sleep and a full day’s debriefing by another group of experts at the Federal Building, Breedlove drove to the Navy base through the gathering twilight, feeling more in touch with reality. He had not talked to Turpin and Slade all day, and away from the influence of the two-man incredibility gap, he felt he should let nothing Slade had said influence his opinion of a person, namely Major Laudermilk.
Initially Breedlove complimented himself on his withheld judgment. When he entered the Navy clinic, he spotted Laudermilk behind the desk formerly occupied by the receptionist, but there was a nameplate on the desk now, with Laudermilk’s name and rank, and an Army sergeant manned a field gray telephone switchboard behind him. The man behind the nameplate appeared to be no more libidinous than anyone else his age, about thirty-five. He was clean-cut with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and teeth that flashed when he smiled. He wore a tailored uniform with two rows of campaign ribbons above his left breast.
When Breedlove introduced himself, the major rose to shake hands, speaking easily: “Breedlove, that’s an interesting family name. It has quite a history. Ben Slade tells me you’re part of our team.”
“I’m still not sure why,” Breedlove admitted, “or what position I play.”
“I can guess why. Whoever’s directing the operation wanted to balance the security types around Kyra with a wholesome American to make it easier to gain her alliance for the U.S.A. I know what position you play. Slade’s got external security, Turpin has domestic, and I have military. You’ll be our D’Artagnan, her personal bodyguard, and her cover story. Sign the log, and I’ll take you to our visitor.”
Breedlove signed in. Without the ribbons and brass buttons, he decided, Laudermilk would have been a run-of-the-mill Lothario. As they walked down the hall together, Breedlove, feeling more congenial toward a man who had already done him a favor, asked, “What’s the history of the Breedlove name?”
“Many English names reflect an occupation or a residence,” Laudermilk said. “Churchill originally designated a family that lived on a hill by a church. Early Smiths were ironmongers, early Wainwrights were wagon makers. ‘Breedlove’ comes from feudal England. When the lord of the manor found himself unable to sire a son, a calamity in the days of primogeniture, he went among his vassals and chose a youth for whom the lady of the manor was not likely to form any lasting affection. He would be installed in the manor, temporarily, as a ‘breed lord’ and assigned a room near the lady’s bedchamber. He would be fed a diet of oysters and granted the lady’s favors under the strict supervision of her lord. Since the lady of the manor referred to her husband as ‘M’lord love,’ the breeder was referred to as ‘M’breed love.’ Once the serf fulfilled his function and was lucky enough to be allowed to return to the village instead of being taken to the chopping block, the villagers referred to him, perhaps contemptuously, more likely enviously, as ‘M’breed love.’ So, in a sense, the name was pejorative.”
The story was all poppycock, Breedlove recognized, but it did reveal Laudermilk’s interest in the language. “I wondered why I liked oysters,” he said, “but I’m sorry the name’s pejorative.”
“Take heart. You could have been named Ramsbotham.”
Two nurses were approaching down the long corridor. Both were dressed in white with the pipings of Health, Education and Welfare on their collars. The acoustics were such Breedlove heard one of them say excitedly, “Even the Islets of Langerhan ovulate, Sally said. Imagine that, fertile insulin.”
Breedlove would have liked to listen to the rest of their conversation, but the nurses saw the two men and the conversation ended abruptly. They passed in silence, but Breedlove’s sidelong glance detected the sidelong glances they threw at Laudermilk.
“You impressed the young ladies, Major.”
“Not me. Our uniforms,” Laudermilk said, magnanimously including the green-clad Breedlove. “We could peel off these uniforms, hang them in a hotel lobby, and sit there unnoticed in the buff while the uniforms made out with passing ladies.”
They turned into another hall. At the far end stood a sentry guarding a door. Laudermilk was modest, Breedlove decided, he was obviously well read, and he was discreet.
“I want to thank you, Major, for not telling Kyra who wrote my poem to her.”
“I’d never rat on another man, Breedlove. Besides, I’ve used the trick myself. But let me give you a tip, Byron’s more potent than Poe. If you really want to make out, quote Byron. Ah, now there was a man who knew how to use a clubfoot.”
The last remark cried for elucidation, but they were at Kyra’s door. The sentry snapped to attention.
“As you were, soldier,” the major said, and rapped three times on the door. Then he opened it and stood on the threshold. Over his shoulder Breedlove saw Kyra, dressed in green and seated on a divan, look up from a book she was reading.
“Kaleema Kyra,” Laudermilk said, his voice a throaty purr, “marina abel marlon etrovna Breedlove. Navy elosa perrain commemora marlon, atelya kaleema.”
The major’s fluent use of Kanabian brought a sinking to the heart of the man behind him. If Laudermilk had learned Kyra’s language overnight, he no longer needed Tashkent to become the romantic champion of the world. He was already sex king of the universe.
The major stepped aside, motioned Breedlove in, and closed the door, shutting Breedlove and Kyra alone in the room. Despair wafted from Breedlove’s mind. Floating toward him, trailing a diaphanous gown, the faultless female spread her arms to greet him. Embracing her, he lifted her from the floor, swinging her around him and chanting, “ ‘There be none of Beauty’s daughters with a magic like thee.’ ”
After the Byronic greeting and his fulsome compliments on her dress, Kyra gave him a tour of her quarters. The Navy had extended her full honors in what she called her “brig.” Her living room featured a teak coffee table piled high with books, devoted mainly to science and history, he noticed. Her “wardroom” held a table set for two with candles, and her bedroom held a queen-sized bed. She had developed a penchant for Navy expressions as well as Navy nomenclature. During the tour he mentioned that Kanab had been located in the direction of the Pleiades by earth’s astronomers.
“That’s a crock! I located it for them on a star chart.”
Not sure she knew what a crock was, he skirted her comment by saying, “Anyway, it’s a romantic area to be from. The Pleiades are supposed to be seven sisters. According to myth, one of them, Merope, was an earth goddess who fell in love with a mortal. For her sin she was exiled among the stars and is there still, weeping for her mortal lover.”
“Breedlove, that’s astronomical data a girl can appreciate.”
“I’d like to be the mortal lover Merope returned to, but after hearing your chamberlain call you a gorgeous kaleema, I fear the goddess might have found another love.”
“Breedlove, you sound like your mother.”
She led him back to the living room, seated him on the sofa, and stood above him, hand on hips, looking down at him with fondness touched by concern. “ ‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover?’ ”
She had quoted a Cavalier poet, another indication of Laudermilk’s influence.
“I’ve spent a long day extolling your wit and wisdom to men more interested in your femur and the articulation of your knee joint.”
“Gravy says they’re shaping me up to ship me out.”
The reference to Laudermilk irritated him, and he said, “Gravy’s another one more interested in your parts than in your whole.”
“I got the opposite impression.” She laughed and sat beside him. “Quit being moony. If I took a mortal lover, everyone in the hospital would know it right away.”
“What did he mean when he called you kaleema?”
“Oh, that! I’ve been teaching him protocol. He wants to learn the Kanabian language of state.”
“Then, kaleema must mean ‘your highness.’ ”
“Not exactly,” Kyra said thoughtfully. “In your language, kaleema would mean ‘the lady of the manor.’ ”
“Laudermilk set me up to ask you that question,” he said, groaning in self-disgust. Then he told her of Laudermilk’s contrived explanation of the history of his name.
