“Tell your men to keep back, Major. We’re just doing our job.” It was obvious the MPs were nervous. Tall and wide as they were, Dooley was more than their match when he planted himself in their path. He fixed them with a glare that was almost hypnotic in its intensity.
“Move over, Dooley. That’s an order.” For a second Revell thought he was going to disobey, but begrudgingly he stepped back among the throng.
During the brief delay the young MP had been looking through the photographs, concentrating on one that showed a long line of children’s bodies.
“Have you guys been killing babies?”
The fist that hit him in the side of the face came from the second rank of the crowd, but for all the distance it had to travel, it came with crushing force.
A bone cracked loudly and following the impact of the blow the MP went down, bouncing with a heavy thud off the hood of the Hummer. He slid to the ground, eyes rolling, jaw hanging limp. Blood spurted from the back of his throat.
“That’s enough.” Revell had to shout.
Both standing MPs had their pistols out, with safety catches off. In reply to that action came the distinctive click of a round being chambered in an M16. The circle about the group tightened.
“It’s OK. I’ll be back. I’ll be back soon.” Revell had to think fast to do something to defuse the situation.
Before he could say more he was bundled into the back of the Hummer. He had to slide across when the semi-conscious MP was shoved in beside him.
“They broke my buddy’s jaw.”
The big sergeant climbed into the driver’s seat. He sent the vehicle surging forward. Its fenders brushed those slowest to get out of the way.
“You ain’t the only one who’ll be coming back, Major. Difference is, I won’t be on my own.”
“What the hell are you playing at out there. Don’t orders mean anything to you?” Revell held his tongue. The general had worked himself into a fine old lather and wasn’t about to allow interruptions.
“I’ll bet you’ve got some smart ass explanation about how you thought the order didn’t cover a second mass grave. Well I’m telling you, you can be as big a smart ass as you fancy, you’re not talking your way out of this one.”
Stalking back and forth across the room, the general opened his mouth to speak several times, but couldn’t find the words. Finally he turned to Colonel Lippincott.
“He’s your damned subordinate. Don’t you have any control over your men? Can’t you impose any discipline? Do you have any idea who I’ve had on the phone in the last hour? I’ll tell you. Two damned politicians and a lieutenant general from the staff at Army Headquarters. He has the army commander’s ear. God only knows what sort of influence the other two can swing.”
“I’ve spoken to the major.” Lippincott took advantage of a pause to jump in. “He does feel that the discovery of the second mass burial changes the situation. Using his own discretion he thought it wise to make a record.”
Revell experienced quiet amazement. It was the first time, ever, that he had heard Ol’ Foul Mouth get through a sentence without injecting an obscenity.
“And what damned good did he think that would do?” Grabbing a handful of the reports and photographs, the general waved them. “Have you seen these?”
“I have examined them, General. I can understand how Major Revell…”
“You understand, horseshit.”
Lippincott expanded visibly as he changed colour. “Would the general like to elaborate.”
Now pacing the floor behind his desk, the general appeared to have already forgotten what he’d said in anger. He was so worked up that his breath was coming in snorts. His fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly. He stopped behind his chair, put his hands on the back of it and looked hard at them.
“When I finish here I’ve got to go to a meeting to discuss this whole damned messy business. Among other things they’ll want to know how a lowly major could be able to put together an intelligence file inches thick inside of twelve hours. And they’re especially going to want to find out how he commandeered those resources, after he’d been told to keep his damned nose out of the matter.”
Picking up a battered briefcase, the general began to cram the assorted documents into it. “To keep the lid on this we’ve had to round up all your fellow conspirators. If we hadn’t moved fast when we found what was going on, by now every cook and bottle washer in the Zone would be in on it. You can’t begin to imagine how much time and effort it has taken.” With an effort the general brought his temper under control.
“You think you’ve been smart, Major. I’ll bet you’ve a duplicate set tucked away somewhere. Well, I’m not about to be blackmailed. I swear to you that the best you can hope for from now on is to remain a major until you’re the oldest one in any army in the Zone. Get out.”
Revell saluted, and went to reach for the door. He was pulled up by another outburst.
“If the games you’ve been playing make half the trouble for me that I’m expecting, then I’ll make sure you go in the shit with me. And you know what? When we’re both buried in it, I’ll be standing on your head.”
The outer room was spartanly furnished, with a selection of odd chairs. It looked like a doctor’s waiting room belonging to a poor practice in a poorer area. Once it must have been the principal bedroom of the big old house that was the HQ. Fancy plasterwork decorated the ceiling, and the threadbare carpet had once been a good one.
There was one other person in there, a captain who looked much too old for his rank, and ill at ease in his crumpled uniform. Revell didn’t recognize the insignia he wore.
“Seems to be a lot of shouting in there. But then I’ve found there’s a lot of that in the army. My name’s Porter. I suppose I should say ‘captain’ first, but I can’t get used to it.”
At first glance Revell had summed the officer up as a civilian in uniform. He didn’t feel much like making small talk, but anything was better than having to listen to the muted, unintelligible bellowing coming from next door.
“Revell. Not sure what rank I should say. Not sure what it’ll be tomorrow.”
“Oh, I see. All that racket is aimed directly, or presently indirectly, at you. What have you done, anything absolutely outrageous?”
“What branch are you with? I don’t recognize the badge.”
“Hardly surprising. I shouldn’t think there are many of us. I’m with the historical section of the War Department. We are supposed to trot about the battlefields recording events for posterity. Only I shouldn’t be doing it. That’s why I was hoping to see the general.”
“What should you be doing?” The scruffy officer amused Revell, and he could do with light relief. Never before had he ever seen a soldier so obviously lacking any shadow of a martial spirit.
“Actually, until I was drafted,” Porter winced as another indistinct blast of noise came through the wall, “I was a school teacher.”
“History?”
“Among everything else, certainly, but I’m no historian. And I can’t go trekking across battlefields interviewing marines and soldiers. I don’t know where to start. Apart from anything else, I’m too old. It’s a task that needs a younger, fitter man. Now if I had been sent out here as a reporter…”
A look of dreamy bliss came over the captain’s placid features. “That’s what I always wanted to be. I could see myself, my own desk at the Tribune or the Post, getting all the scoops. Actually I do manage a little in that way. I send in local stories to our county paper. Some get into print. Rewritten usually of course, but now and again I get a by-line.”
In the adjoining room the shouting appeared to have reached and then passed the crisis point. The door burst open and the general, red in the face, stamped past Revell and the captain without giving either a glance. Half rising from his seat, Porter couldn’t summon the courage to call after him, and slumped back down.