Khang gathered the two pistols, slung the dead man across his back, and made a quick sprint for the nearest parked truck on the lot. He wasted no effort looking behind. If anyone caught sight of him, that would be the end of it. Looking around would not save him.
He dumped Lieutenant Chau into the back of the truck, climbed in, and gave himself a moment to breathe and sweat and calm himself.
He exchanged uniforms with the dead man, replacing Chau’s buttons with the captain’s insignia taken from the guerrilla officer; he emerged from the truck dressed in a fresh-pressed uniform. It was not even damp from the rain.
When he left the truck park, he walked with long strides directly across the compound. He hardly glanced at the wirefenced guardhouse.
He answered the transportation officer’s salute vaguely and glanced around the dingy office with the air of a man unconcerned and mild. “I prefer duty in Haiphong,” he said. “A man must become bored here.”
“I envy you,” said the transportation officer. “But one serves where one is needed.”
“Of course.”
“Our duty is to the state. One does not question the wisdom of the state.”
“Certainly,” said Sergeant Khang. He brushed imaginary lint from his jacket. “I have only stopped here to ask that you make ready a staff car. My orders are to escort Colonel Trung and the American prisoner to Hanoi for presentation to the intelligence officer of the Lao Dong.”
The transportation officer was a nervous little man with a small smear of a mustache. His eyes bulged like a hyperthyroid’s. “The Lao Dong? The American will be questioned by the Lao Dong?”
“By comrade Dinh himself,” said Khang, tossing off the statement.
“The American must be very valuable.”
“I suppose so,” said Khang. “I only obey my orders, you understand. You will have the staff car brought to the headquarters door at twenty minutes past noon precisely.”
“Not one minute later,” the transportation officer agreed eagerly.
Khang drew on his gloves and turned toward the door. He said casually, “Do you happen to know where the American prisoner is to be found?”
“I believe he is still being interrogated. By Colonel Trung himself.”
Khang nodded. His knees felt weak. “Thank you,” he said. “Twenty minutes past noon,” he added, and went out. The transportation officer’s voice followed him:
“Rely on me, Dai-uy.”
Chapter Thirty
1135 Hours
McKuen eased the control yoke back. A yard-long chunk of ice broke off the port wing’s leading edge and clanged against some part of the fuselage. The plane dragged wearily against the air; ice, blunting the wings, reduced their lift, and he was burning fuel at a frightening rate. On its rubber mountings the panel of instruments vibrated, blurring the dials. A faint luminescence bloomed through the clouds — the sun trying to break through. He suffered an intense moment of heavy vibration, and then calm, with the engines throbbing in low-pitched struggle. The airspeed needle wavered between a hundred fifteen and a hundred twenty-five. Number two’s head-temperature had gone up fifteen degrees in as many minutes — indication enough that ice had begun to clog the airscoop. His mixtures were far too rich as it was; he dared not increase them. Slicing through the heavy sky, the props were barely visible; the exhausts were faint orange blossoms of light.
The plane lurched and righted itself. In a little while he would have to backfire number two to get rid of the ice in the air intake. He tightened his seat belt until he could feel its steady pressure on his belly. His lips were pressed together too tightly. He peered down through the window, trying to make out the ground, trying to find landmarks; but the ground was fogged in. All he could see was a secondary cloudbank unrolling beneath him.
Mister Shannon had gone stiff in cold death. McKuen’s gaze was expressionless when it fell on the body; he had put the presence of death out of his conscious lexicon.
He found a cigarette in his pocket. It was bent at the middle. He straightened it with great care before he put it between his lips and stretched back in the seat to get his lighter out of a pocket. The lighter flame burst at him like an explosion, batted fiercely around by the crosscurrents of wind buffeting through the cockpit. He inhaled deeply and blew smoke toward the instruments. His face was wholly without feeling, numbed by cold. The plane chattered and smoothed out; the sky seemed subterranean, like a womb. McKuen flew alone through an alien world, his emotions suspended by shock. A sudden grin split his face when he said, “To hell with it. Kicks.”
Chapter Thirty-one
1140 Hours
J. D. Hooker grumbled, “Is this all we got to do — just sit here and grow whiskers?”
Theodore Saville said, “The difference between you and a smart man, Sergeant, is that a smart man knows when to get tough. Relax.”
“Sure... sure.”
The weak glow of the veteran truck’s parking lights threw a dismal light around the inside of the garage. Saville moved over to stand by David Tyreen at the door; looking back at J. D. Hooker, Saville murmured, “The cat’s always dignified until a dog comes along. I’m sorrier than hell I picked Hooker for this job.”
“He’ll hold up his end, when the time comes for it.”
“And after that, he’s expendable. That it?”
“We’re all expendable, Theodore.”
“Jesus. Haven’t you got anything brighter than that to say?”
Tyreen’s face was dark and scored. He sucked on a quinine capsule, trying to work up enough saliva to swallow it. Saville said, “A smart fellow lives on interest. You’re living on your capital, David. You’re burning yourself up.”
“You seem to know a hell of a lot about what a smart man would do.”
“Maybe I’m just smart enough to know when to lay off. I know — not now, not now. After we get Eddie out, then we sleep. Provided we don’t get a Vietminh regiment on our ass. Provided we don’t get slaughtered down there. Provided we get Eddie out. David, what happens if we can’t?”
“You know the orders.”
Saville said, “If I was in command, that’s one order I wouldn’t carry out.”
“That’s why you’re not in command, Theodore.”
Saville shook his head. “You’re pretty young to be a stubborn old fool. I thought the Army got rid of the last of its mules a few years back.”
Tyreen gave a small, rare smile. “Age does have its privileges.”
His tongue touched the poison tooth. He felt sapped by fevers. His body demanded everything he denied it, and he felt as though festering rashes were eating slowly into his flesh. His eyeballs scraped the sockets when he looked around. “What’s the time?”
“Quarter of.”
“Sergeant Khang’s deadline.”
“Give him a few minutes,” Saville said.
“I told him to be back here at eleven forty-five.” Tyreen pushed away from the wall; he forced his body to obey the command to stand steady.
“Saddle up.”
J. D. Hooker said, “How much stuff we going to carry, Colonel?”
“Leave the packs here. We’ll come back for them.”
“Grenades?”
“Everything that makes noise,” Tyreen said. “But not the machine gun. Don’t forget your—”
“Hold on,” Saville said. He made a sharp turn, flattening his back against the door. His voice was low: “I think that’ll be Khang coming back.”
Saville’s gun was ready. The code was nine; when knuckles rapped the door twice, Saville knocked twice in answer, and outside, the door banged five times.