But the MP would have none of their stalling. He coughed again, looked at the floor, and stayed right where he was. Several seconds passed. .
Stern looked at Griffin and shrugged. He took his hat from the MP as he passed him and headed unsteadily toward the door. Stern wondered if Griffin was as sauced as he was. The answer came from behind him when he heard a crash and muttered curses; Griffin had knocked over an end table. Stern fumbled with the doorknob, finally got it to turn, opened the door, and stepped out into the cool German night. Fog and a light mist soaked up the feeble light from the one street lamp. Unable to see, Stern walked carefully down the club steps and onto the sidewalk. He turned around and could barely make out Griffin’s form behind him, though he was no more than a few feet away. The MP sergeant stood silhouetted in the club entrance, a black form with light pouring out the door around him. “Good night, gentlemen. Be careful going to your quarters.” He shut the door.
Stern walked unsteadily across the lawn next to the flower bed in front of the club, twice slipping and coming very close to crashing into the hedges. As he teetered along, he fought to control the rage welling up inside him. Then there was a blur in the dark as someone ran past him. He looked up to see Griffin several yards in front of him, his hands raised in a karate-like gesture.
“Let’s take off the rank, Sir, and settle this here and now.”
Stern felt his own fists ball up. Inside his head an angry, booze-fed voice goaded him on. Do it, the voice yelled out, hit him, take him out. It’s not just him you’ll be hitting, it’ll be Hagan and Veronica and those sorry bastards who won’t keep their vehicles running. It’ll be all of them. What are you waiting for? Hit him! Why don’t you act? Hit him!
“No,” whispered Stern, his eyes dropping to the ground. Then he repeated himself, still in a whisper but with finality. “No.”
Hands still up, Griffin cocked his head quizzically. “What the hell did you say?”
Alex Stern shoved his hands into his pockets. That was close, he thought, entirely too close. He brought his gaze up and looked Griffin in the eye. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Griffin looked around incredulously, then back at Stern. “Have you gone completely stupid? There’s nobody out here but us.”
“That’s ‘completely stupid, Sir,’ ” Stern said quietly. “That’s the problem, we’ve both been stupid.” Stern sucked in the night air, hoping its coolness would sober him. “We’ve been fighting each other instead of everything that’s wrong with the brigade.” He jerked his head toward the club in an obvious reference to Hagan, then looked back at Griffin. “You’d like to have it out with me, wouldn’t you?” Stern said. “I’d like to pound on you for a while, too. Maybe I’d knock some sense into that SF-brainwashed skull of yours. But it just doesn’t work that way, Mark, and you know it. We’re not lieutenants anymore. I’m your boss. You don’t have to like the situation, you don’t have to like me, but you still have to do your job — professionally. Period.”
Stern couldn’t tell if his words were having any effect; Griffin’s hands were still up.
“Now, Colonel Griffin, I have more important things to attend to.”
“Like what?”
Stern rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel the hangover coming on. “Like figuring out how in hell I’m going to get us out of this mess we’re in.”
He never got the chance. The two officers froze as two cars pulled up in front of the club. At once Stern and Griffin were both petrified that someone might see two senior army officers so thoroughly soused that they were ready to thrash each other. Hoping to hide until they could sneak back to their quarters, together the two backed into the bushes and crouched low.
Unable to make out much through the mist, they watched as two figures darted around the comer of the club, not forty feet from them, and headed toward the back entrance.
“What the…” Stern started to say, but Griffin held a finger to his own lips, signaling Stern to be silent. Griffin stared and then pointed at six men walking toward the club door. It was obvious the men moving toward the club were not Americans. The first wore a business suit, but the five behind him seemed to be in some sort of dark uniforms and were carrying shoulder bags. Stern’s eyes grew wide with horror as he watched the men climb the steps of the club.
They were carrying AK47 assault rifles.
From their hiding place in the bushes, Stern and Griffin heard the club door open, heard the MP sergeant who’d escorted them out say “May I help…,” heard the pistol shots muffled by a silencer, heard the five men go inside, and heard the door close. Still in a crouch, Griffin started to inch forward. He wants to try and jump the guy at the door, reasoned Stern. Yeah, two on one, we ought to be able to… Suddenly Stern grabbed his comrade’s collar and shook it. Griffin twisted his head to look back at him. Stern shook his head twice quickly, then pointed toward the cars. Griffin peered through the dimness. Not twenty feet away another figure stood just off the sidewalk, AK47 in hand, facing them. If they moved, he’d spot them. They’d be dead in seconds, unable to move more than a foot in the bushes before he’d kill them both.
So, helpless, they froze where they were, aching not just from their uncomfortable positions, but from what they knew would — and prayed wouldn’t — soon follow. They didn’t have to wait long.
Roosevelt Lawson switched off the car headlights and slowed to the obligatory five mph as he neared the kaserne gate. Liza’s bruises were healed and she wanted to go dancing — again. This time Rosy was taking her to the NCO club. It’s a helluva lot safer, thought Lawson, even if the music’s lousy. He slowed the car so he could sign Liza in at the guard shack.
But there were no guards in sight as their car slowed. That’s real strange, thought Lawson. He pulled past the empty guard building and parked.
“What is it, Rosy?”
“I don’t know, baby. There aren’t any guards and there should be. I’m going to check it out.”
“Can’t we just go on?”
“It’ll only take a minute.” He closed the car door and walked quickly toward the guard shack. The lazy bums are probably asleep, thought Lawson. I’ll yank a knot in their tails and we’ll be at the club in a few minutes.
He jerked the booth door open, ready to belt out a “Wake up!” at two sleeping guards. Then he froze.
A body lay sprawled facedown over a chair, blood dripping from the seat and pooling on the floor. On the floor sat a sobbing Percy Winchell, holding another soldier in his arms. Three bulletholes in the female MP’s chest told Lawson there were two corpses. He squatted down.
“Winchell, what the hell happened?”
Winchell just stroked the dead woman’s hair. “My beautiful Debbie,” he sobbed.
“Who did this?”
No answer. Winchell’s in shock. I gotta do something.
“Rosy, what’s taking so long?”
“Liza, there’s been an accident in here. Just stay where you are.” He heard the car door slam and then the click of her heels on the cobblestones. Shit, he thought, I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Honey, don’t look.” He was too late. Liza’s eyes went wide at the carnage, her scream echoing off the inside of the guard shack. But she didn’t faint, just staggered back.
The noise brought Winchell out of his waking coma. “I… I was coming out to see her, and a car drove up, and they fell over. I didn’t hear any shots, but when I got here… Oh, God.”