“Here, sir,” Tel said. Kamigami whirled around to see Tel emerging from behind a tree. His lips were trembling and his body shaking as he stood there, unable to go on. Kamigami recognized the symptoms — he had seen them many times before. Tel was lost in an emotional wasteland, trying to reconcile his basic humanity with the carnage he had caused.
Kamigami knew what to do. “Report.” No answer from Tel. “I need to know exactly what happened,” Kamigami explained.
Tel hesitated, his lips working. Then, slowly and with increasing confidence, “I’m not sure. I heard your ambush go off, but then nothing happened. Then I heard your whistle and waited. Then they came running toward me. I got all but one. He got away.” Tel motioned in the direction of the base camp. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Kamigami told him. “I wanted one to escape.”
Tel’s voice was stronger. “Why?”
“To get their attention,” Kamigami replied. “Come on. We need to identify the bastards. Look for ID tags, papers, personal effects.” Again Tel hesitated, still shaking. “Look, kiddo, do you have any idea what they’d have done if they’d caught you?” A slow shake of Tel’s head. “They’d have tied you to a tree and peeled away strips of skin until you told them everything you knew. After cutting off your balls and stuffing them in your mouth, they’d have used a claymore to make whatever was left of you insect-friendly.” He paused for effect. “Got the picture?” Tel nodded, his shaking gone. “Okay, get to work.”
They worked through the bodies until Kamigami was satisfied they had found all that was useful. Tel was fascinated by the amount of photos, letters, and pornography they found stuffed into the soldiers’ pockets and packs. “What are you going to do with this, sir?”
“Take it to Kuala Lumpur.”
“Why?”
“To get their attention,” Kamigami answered.
Four
Zack hunched over the chart spread out on the worktable. He was alone in the basement of the Annex and surrounded by silence as he worked. He had never seen a map like this one, a survival chart used by downed airmen in World War II, but thanks to his orienteering class at New Mexico Military Institute, he knew what it was. He reread the memo establishing the map’s provenance. The source was good: the archives of the British Imperial War Museum. He turned the map over and read the notes penciled on the back. There was no name or signature, but he recognized his great-grandfather’s cramped handwriting. He methodically listed the dates written by each note. All were in what Bloomy called “the missing year.”
Something deep in his fifteen-year-old psyche told him his great-grandfather was sending him a message. But what was it? Frustration gnawed at him like a Rottweiler worrying a juicy bone. “Fido,” he muttered to himself. His best friend, Brian Turner, had adopted “fido” as his favorite expression: fuck it — drive on. But the gnawing wouldn’t go away. Zack carefully folded the map along its original creases, gathered up his notes, and headed for Bloomy’s office. Another emotion puzzled him. Why did holding the map make him feel so good?
He found the chief librarian in the small workroom next to her office. “Miss Bloomfield,” he said from the doorway, catching her attention.
She gave him a smile. “I thought you were going back to school?”
“I am. But I’m waiting for Dad to finish up some business, so I had some time to kill, and I found this.” He came in and handed her the map and his notes.
He enters a room just like his father, Bloomy thought. Was the president the same? She made a mental note to follow up for the biography she was planning to write. It was the stuff that made the subject come alive. She studied Zack’s latest discovery for a few moments before carefully folding it and replacing it in its envelope. “The dates check,” she told him. “I’ve been doing some research on my own. It appears your great-grandfather never talked about this period in his life because he was absent without leave from the Royal Air Force and at one time had been classified as a deserter.”
A look of pure shock crossed Zack’s face. “That’s serious! Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea,” Bloomy replied. She paused for a moment. “There’s so much I don’t understand about him, but he was very strong-willed.”
“I want to know,” Zack announced. He had never felt so sure of anything in his life.
“Know what?” Pontowski said from the doorway.
Automatically, Bloomy glanced at him. He was wearing his summer working uniform: khaki pants, a light blue chambray dress shirt without a tie, and a blue blazer. A battered briefcase was resting against his shoes, an old but well-cared-for pair of English jodhpurs, a low dress boot with a strap that buckled on the side. He is good-looking, she conceded. “Well,” she said, “Zack has made another interesting discovery about the ‘missing year.’”
“I found a map, Dad. Gramps made notes on the back.” He stopped. “Anyway, it looks like his writing.”
Bloomy became all business. “It corresponds with the time he was reported absent without leave…”
Pontowski’s head came up. His eyes were wide and alert. “Where did that come from?” His words were measured and calm.
“Nothing conclusive in the research,” she murmured. He knew! she thought.
Pontowski bent over the map. “This could be significant,” he said in a low voice.
“Maybe,” Bloomy allowed, now convinced it was a family secret that had finally surfaced.
“We’ll have to look into it,” Pontowski said.
Bloomy gave a little nod. “I’ll treat it as confidential,” she promised. She changed the subject. “So you’re off to New Mexico.”
Zack came alive. “Yeah! We’re flying the Mentor, and Dad’s gonna let me fly in the front seat.” He felt the need to explain. “I’ve already soloed and passed the written test for my pilot’s license.”
Pontowski laughed. “And he won’t let me rest until he gets his hands on it.” He shook his head. “That’s what I get for letting him help me restore it.” The aircraft in question was a T-34A, a two-place, tandem-seat trainer built by Beech Aircraft for the Air Force in 1958. It had been a family project restoring it to pristine condition, and now it was better than new.
“After I drop Zack off at NMMI,” Pontowski said, “I’ll fly to the World Trade Organization meeting in Chicago. Should be back by Friday.” He didn’t mention that he was going to the WTO to see Zou Rong at the national security adviser’s request.
“Fly safe,” Bloomy said.
Pontowski laughed. “Always do.”
She knew it was a lie, and that bothered her as well. How could any sane human be so cavalier about life and death?
Never teach your own kid to fly, Pontowski told himself. He bit his tongue, waiting for Zack to make the decision. He ran the numbers for the third time. They had refueled at Las Vegas and had taken off with fifty gallons of fuel. He glanced at his watch, the best fuel gauge on the aircraft. They had been airborne for two hours and thirty minutes, with another hour to go to Roswell. They were consuming gas at fifteen gallons per hour, and that meant they needed to land and refuel. Come on, Zack, he urged. Think!
He did. “Dad,” Zack said from the front seat, “we need to land to refuel. Socorro’s on the nose at thirty miles.”
Pontowski breathed easier and keyed the intercom. “Sounds like a plan.” Then the father in him took over. “The outside air temperature is pushing a hundred, so carry a little extra airspeed coming down final. Full flaps.”