Damn, Greer thought, but Bob is good at this sort of thing. It wasn't about courage or patriotism. It was about humanity. Grishanov was a tough hombre, probably a hell of a good airplane-driver - what a shame they couldn't let Maxwell or especially Podulski in on this! - but he was at bottom a man, and the quality of his character worked against him. He didn't want the American prisoners to die. That plus the stress of capture, plus the whiplash surprise of the cordial treatment, plus a lot of good brandy, all conspired to loosen his tongue. It helped a lot more that Ritter didn't even approach matters of grave concern to the Soviet state. Hell, Colonel, I know you're not going to give up any secrets - so why ask?
'Your man killed Vinh, did he?' the Russian asked halfway across the Pacific.
'Yes, he did. It was an accident and -' The Russian cut Ritter off with a wave.
'Good. He was nekulturny, a vicious little fascist bastard. He wants to kill those men, murder them,' Kolya added with the aid of six brandies.
'Well, Colonel, we're hoping to find a way to prevent that.'
'Neurosurgery West,' the nurse said.
'Trying to get Sandra O'Toole.'
'Hold on, please. Sandy?' The nurse on desk duty held the phone up. The nursing-team leader took it.
'This is O'Toole.'
'Miss O'Toole, this is Barbara - we spoke earlier. Admiral Greer's office?'
'Yes!'
'Admiral Greer told me to let you know - John is okay and he's now on his way home.'
Sandy's head spun around, to look in a direction where there were no eyes to see the sudden tears of relief. A mixed blessing perhaps, but a blessing still. 'Can you tell me when?'
'Sometime tomorrow, that's all I know.'
'Thank you.'
'Surely.' The line went immediately dead.
Well, that's something - maybe a lot. She wondered what would happen when he got here, but at least he was coming back alive. More than Tim had managed to do.
The hard landing at Hickam - the pilot was tired - startled Kelly into wakefulness. An Air Force sergeant gave him a friendly shake to make sure as the aircraft taxied to a remote part of the base for refueling and servicing. Kelly took the time to get out and walk around. The climate was warm here, but not the oppressive heat of Vietnam. It was American soil, and things were different here...
Surethey are.
Just once, just one time... he remembered saying. Yes, I'm going to get those other girls out just like I got Doris out. It shouldn't be all that hard. I'll get Burt next and we'll talk. I'll even let the bastard go when?? done, probably. I can't save the whole world, but... by Jesus, I'll save some of it!
He found a phone in the Distinguished Visitors lounge and placed a call.
'Hello?' the groggy voice said, five thousand miles away.
'Hi, Sandy. It's John!' he said with a smile. Even if those aviators weren't coming home just yet - well, he was, and he was grateful for that.
'John! Where are you?'
'Would you believe Hawaii?'
'You're okay?'
'A little tired, but, yes. No holes or anything,' he reported with a smile. Just the sound of her voice had brightened his day. But not for long.
'John, there's a problem.'
The sergeant at the reception desk saw the DV's face change. Then he turned back into the phone booth and became less interesting.
'Okay. It must be Doris,' Kelly said. 'I mean, only you and the docs know about me, and -'
'It wasn't us,' Sandy assured him.
'Okay. Please call Doris and... be careful, but -'
'Warn her off?'
'Can you do that?'
'Yes!'
Kelly tried to relax a little, almost succeeding. 'I'll be back in about... oh, nine or ten hours. Will you be at work?'
'I have the day off.'
'Okay, Sandy. See you soon. 'Bye.'
'John!' she called urgently..
'What?'
'I want... I mean...' her voice stopped.
Kelly smiled again. 'We can talk about that when I get there, honey.' Maybe he wasn't just going home. Maybe he was going home to something. Kelly made a quick inventory of everything he'd done. He still had his converted pistol and other weapons on the boat, but everything he'd worn on every job: shoes, socks, outer clothing, even underwear, were now in whatever trash dump. He'd left behind no evidence that he knew of. The police might be interested in talking to him, fine. He did not have to talk to them. That was one of the nice things about the Constitution, Kelly thought as he walked back to the aircraft and trotted up the stairs.
One flight crew found the beds just aft of the flight deck while the relief crew started engines. Kelly sat with the CIA officers. The Russian, he saw, was snoring loudly and blissfully.
Ritter chuckled. 'He's going to have one hell of a hangover.'
'What'd you get into him?'
'Started off with good brandy. Ended up with California stuff. Brandy really messes me up the next day,' Ritter said tiredly as the??-135 started rolling. He was drinking a martini now that his prisoner was no longer able to answer questions.
'So what's the story?' Kelly asked.
Ritter explained what he knew. The camp had indeed been established as a bargaining chip for use with the Russians, but it seemed that the Vietnamese had used that particular chip in a rather inefficient way and were now thinking about eliminating it along with the prisoners.
'You mean because of the raid?' Oh, God!
'Correct. But settle down, Clark. We got us a Russian, and that's a bargaining chip too. Mr Clark,' Ritter said with a tight smile, 'I like your style.'
'What do you mean?'
'Bringing that Russian in, you showed commendable initiative. And the way you blew the mission off, that showed good judgment.'
'Look, I didn't -I mean, I couldn't -'
'You didn't screw up. Somebody else might have. You made a quick decision, and it was the right decision. Interested in serving your country?' Ritter asked with an alcohol-aided smile of his own.
Sandy awoke at six-thirty, which was late for her. She got her morning paper, started the coffee, and decided to stick to toast for breakfast, watching the kitchen-wall clock and wondering how early she might call Pittsburgh.
The lead story on the front page was the drug shooting. A police officer had gotten himself in a gunfight with a drug dealer. Well, good, she thought. Six kilograms of 'pure' heroin, the news piece said - that was a lot. She wondered if this was the same bunch that... no, the leader of that group was black, at least Doris had said so. Anyway, another druggie had left the face of the planet. Another look at the clock. Still too early for a civilized call. She went into the living room to switch on the TV. It was already a hot, lazy day. She'd been up late the night before and had difficulty getting back to sleep after John's call. She tried to watch the 'Today Show' and didn't quite notice that her eyes were growing heavy...
It was after ten when her eyes opened back up. Angry with herself, she shook her head clear and went back to the kitchen. Doris's number was pinned next to the phone. She called, and heard the phone ring... four - six - ten times, without an answer. Damn. Out shopping? Off to see Dr Bryant? She'd try again in an hour. In the meantime she'd try to figure out exactly what she would say. Might this be a crime? Was she obstructing justice? How deeply was she involved in this business? The thought came as an unpleasant surprise. But she was involved. She'd helped rescue this girl from a dangerous life, and she couldn't stop now. She'd just tell Doris not to hurt the people who had helped her, to be very, very careful. Please.
Reverend Meyer came late. He'd been held up by a phone call at the parsonage and was in a profession where one couldn't say that he had to leave for an appointment. As he parked, he noticed a flower delivery truck heading up the hill. It turned right, disappearing from view as he took the parking place it had occupied a few doors up from the Brown house. He was a little worried as he locked his car. He had to persuade Doris to speak with his son. Peter had assured him that they'd be extremely careful. Yes, Pop, we can protect her. Now all he had to do was to get that message across to a frightened young woman and a father whose love had survived the most rigorous of tests. Well, he'd handled more delicate problems than this, the minister told himself. Like short-stopping a few divorces. Negotiating treaties between nations could not be harder than saving a rocky marriage.