“No.”
“Everybody out here seems to talk like Confederate rejects or refugees from the Hatfield-McCoy feud. It’s a Southern army. Speaking of which, I saw a friend of yours this morning — that colonel from Atlanta. What’s his name? Urquhart, isn’t it? Colonel Urquhart. His battalion just got transferred down to this sector from Qui Nhon to reinforce Colonel Farber’s outfit. You seen Urquhart?”
“No.”
“I guess maybe they’re shipping them straight on out to the enclave. Hell of a flap going on down there.” Harney looked out through the window; the white flashes were bright on the horizon. “Maybe a regiment of Vietcong. They love suicide, the little bastards. I was up in the tower, watching for a while. The Air Force is murdering them. Napalm, the whole enchilada. You sure you don’t know anything I can use, Colonel? On the record or otherwise.”
“Not a thing.”
“Well,” Harney said, “maybe I’ll check back with you later, hey?” He slipped into his raincoat and paused in the doorway, but seemed unable to think of anything to say; he made a sharp turn through the door, and Tyreen saw his head bob past the window.
Tyreen finished his smoke, alone in the outer room. He had a nervous habit of pursing his mouth and then turning his lips sharply down at the corners; his mouth was moving in a set rhythm. He looked down at the shine on his shoes and then lifted his head to listen to the chugging of helicopters overhead. The smell of whisky lingered from Harney’s visit.
Rain, soft and thick, splashed on the window’s outer sills. He went back into the office. His pulse throbbed. Sergeant Harris had given up the crossword puzzle; the newspaper lay folded on his desk. The headlines were flat, lifeless: yesterday’s news. MARINES CAPTURE VC DEPOT AT CAM THOU. Tyreen pinched the bridge of his nose and pressed his eyes shut. He listened to the quiet drip of the diminishing rainfall. The quinine sulfate was taking effect; he felt drowsy.
The telephone rang.
Sergeant Harris reached for the instrument. Tyreen brushed Harris’s hand away and picked up the receiver. He held it to his ear, not speaking. There was a pause, a crackle of static on the line. Then on the phone Captain Theodore Saville’s round, deep voice boomed at him, startling him:
“David?”
“Go ahead, Theodore. Are we scrambled?”
“Yes. Bad news, I’m afraid.”
After a moment, Tyreen said, “All right. From the top.”
“They didn’t make it at all.”
Tyreen drew in a long, thin breath and let it out slowly. His eyes flickered to the red-crayon circle on the wall map — the railroad bridge across the Sang Chu River. He glanced at Sergeant Harris’s silent, expectant eyes and shook his head. Harris’s face fell. Tyreen said into the telephone, “What about Eddie Kreizler, Theodore?”
Theodore Saville’s voice rumbled across the wires: “Eddie is down. Dead or captured. Probably captured, and his exec with him. Corporal Smith thinks they were captured. Smith got away.”
“The only survivor?”
“Anyhow the only one who walked away. He said they marched right into it. The Reds were waiting for them.”
“Somebody leaked.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that,” Theodore Saville said, and although he was not a subtle man, there was an overlay of sarcasm on his voice.
A bit of peanut had got stuck in Tyreen’s back teeth. He worked it out with his tongue and swallowed it. Saville said, “Corporal Smith said he’d stand by to receive orders at twenty-three hundred hours.”
“I’ll have to take it upstairs, Theodore. You know that.”
“Yes, sir.” Saville added, “But maybe I ought to start getting a team ready. The job’s got to be finished.”
Tyreen said, “Hang on a minute.” He glanced at Sergeant Harris. “Get General Jaynshill on one of the other phones.”
Harris got up. Tyreen said, “All right, Theodore. Get the crew together and stand by.”
“Who’s going to command?”
“I’ll try to get Major Parnell.”
“He’s pretty sick.”
“I’ll worry about that, Theodore,” Tyreen said gently.
“I’ll have to scrounge like hell. Too many new offensives — all the best men are way out in the field with Special Forces units.”
“Do what you can.”
“Sure. Good luck, David.” Saville swore mildly. “I wish to God we had time to fly a reliable team down from Guam or someplace. Who knows what these people will do when it gets hot? I’ve only got one halfway reliable pilot left for this kind of work, and even he’s hard to trust — for all I know, he’s passed out right now with a Vietnamese broad and a bottle. This could be a mess, David — if just one of these bozos cracks at the wrong moment, we’re all up shit creek.”
Tyreen smiled gently. He had a vision of Captain Theodore Saville, big and round like the voice — a sergeant-major by nature, a military mother hen. Tyreen said, “Take care, Theodore,” and hung up the receiver.
A truck surged past the Quonset hut. Sergeant Harris said, “Line’s busy, Colonel.”
“Keep trying. And in the meantime call Major Thomas at Bien Hoa. I’ll want a jet standing by for me at twenty-three thirty hours to fly me up to Nha Trang.”
Harris was reaching for the telephone when it rang. He listened to a voice that squawked metallically; when he hung up he said, “Another Goddamn radar weather report. That typhoon’s zeroing in on Da Nang. Due to hit the coast around nine tomorrow morning. That going to slow us down, Colonel?”
“We’ll try to beat the storm. Try the General again.”
After a moment Harris shook his head. “Still busy. I’ll call the Air Base.”
Tyreen turned and stared at the wall map. Tacked up beside it was a strip of overlapping aerial photographs: jungle-covered mountains, the seacoast running northeast-southwest along the right-hand edge of the strip. A whitechalk circle surrounded the area where the darker green canyons of the Sang Chu, slicing through the mountains, crossed the westward surge of the railroad tracks. The bridge itself was not shown in the photographs; the concave cliffs of the Sang Chu gorge overhung the bridge. It was invulnerable to aerial attack.
A string of monotonous curses droned through Tyreen’s mind. He turned back to the desk. Sergeant Harris covered the telephone mouthpiece and said, “Major Thomas ain’t on duty right now, sir. I got the duty officer. He’s making static.”
Tyreen beckoned. Harris handed him the phone, and Tyreen spoke into it: “Colonel Tyreen here. Who’s this?”
“Captain Grove speaking, Colonel. I understand you want an aircraft and pilot.”
“That’s right, Captain. What’s the flap?”
“Can you give me the purpose of the mission, sir?”
Tyreen said, “I’m calling on General Jaynshill’s authority, Captain,” and winked solemnly at Harris, who regarded him with bland round eyes.
The answer was a long time coming. Presently the telephone squawked: “General Jaynshill left here two hours ago, Colonel, and he didn’t say anything about needing a plane tonight. Sir, I’ve got a dozen priority missions for every available jet on this field. People are trying to claw the walls down around here, demanding air support for ground operations all over the map. I’ve got pilots taking off right now who’ve flown at least sixteen sorties since noon today — and in this weather. Before I can release a jet for passenger-carrying purposes, I’m afraid I’ll have to have a general’s signature in writing. I’m sorry, Colonel.”
Tyreen took a long breath. “You’re new on the base staff, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. But—”
“Before you refuse me that plane, Captain, I’d suggest you get in touch with your superior officer.”
Sergeant Harris made a point of studying his fingernails. Tyreen listened to the telephone with impassive features. The Air Force Captain spoke deliberately: “Major Thomas has been standing alerts for two and a half days without sleep, Colonel. He’s asleep on a cot behind the ops room. I wouldn’t have the nerve to wake him up for anything less than a direct bombardment on this base. I’ve got full responsibility for aircraft releases as long as I’m duty officer here, and I’m afraid I’ll have to stand by what I said before, sir.”