“Welcome to Wainwright, Colonel,” the sergeant said. He handed Caffey a new arctic parka. “You’ll find you’ll need this, sir. That overcoat might be good back home, but it ain’t worth a damn up here, sir.”
“Thank you. Sergeant…?”
“Bufford, sir. Melvin Bufford. Brigade command NCOIC. I have a jeep to take you to your quarters, Colonel.”
Caffey changed from his overcoat to the parka. “Jeeps run up here, do they?” He was only half joking.
“Only for very short runs.” The sergeant smiled. “We use snowcats otherwise. It does get a little chilly in the winter hereabouts for normal vehicles.”
Caftey zipped the parka closed. “And how chilly is it now?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Not too bad, sir. About twenty-five, thirty below.”
M/Sgt. Bufford drove. The streets, Caffey noted with mild surprise, were paved and relatively clear of snow. Fort Wainwright was not a large post, and that fact was noticeable in the few buildings Caffey saw until Bufford explained that most of the operations offices and all of the personnel quarters were below ground. It wasn’t for strategic reasons, the sergeant said, it was simply for logical cost-efficiency-underground buildings were a fraction of the cost to heat than aboveground buildings. It had only taken the army forty years to see that.
Caffey’s quarters were in Sub Block B3, No. 16. It wasn’t enormous, but it was meticulously clean.
Bufford took him on a tour of the rooms — two bedrooms, a kitchen with all built-ins including a microwave oven, a living room and a small den. The beds were made, the bathroom was furnished with towels and complimentary medicine-cabinet items, the pantry shelves were lined with canned goods and the refrigerator was stocked with the usual things, including a six-pack of beer.
The sergeant’s tour ended in what was meant to be the master bedroom. It didn’t have a separate bathroom, and without windows it seemed much smaller than it really was. Caffey sat on the edge of the bed. “Very nice, Sergeant Bufford.”
“Well, it isn’t North Carolina, Colonel, but I think you’ll be comfortable.”
“Where on earth did those come from?” Caffey pointed to a vase of fresh flowers on the dresser.
“Flowers? Up here?”
“Oh, well, they’re from Mrs. Roberts, sir. The general’s fixed her up with a hothouse in their quarters… artificial lights, special soil…” He shrugged. “She sends them around to most of the offices here, sir.” His mouth hinted at a smile. “Every day.”
Caffey nodded. “I see.”
“General Roberts is expecting you at 1800 hours, Colonel. In his quarters. He’s having several of the officers over for an informal wel—”
“Yes, I know.”
“Shall I have a driver standing by, sir?”
“Where are the general’s quarters?”
“Sub Block A1.”
“Which number?”
“There isn’t any,” Bufford said. “I mean, SB-A1 is his quarters.”
“The whole block?”
“Yes, sir.”
Caffey lay on the bed. He closed his eyes and put an arm over his forehead. “Yes, please have a driver, Sergeant. And a map of the post, if there is one. If not, draw one up. I want to know where everything is and how to get to it. After today I won’t need a driver or a jeep.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is my office in one of these caves?” He smiled, glancing up at the sergeant.
“Yes, sir.”
Caffey nodded. “Fine.”
“You’ll get used to it, Colonel. Anyway, there isn’t much to see even if you could look outside.”
“I’ll adjust.”
Bufford pointed out the phone on the end table beside the bed. “My extension is three-nine-six, Colonel. If you need anything—”
“No, thanks. I’m going to take a nap, then have a hot shower.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant turned to leave, stopped and turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot, Colonel.” He reached inside his parka. “This came for you about two hours ago.” He handed Caffey a folded telegram envelope.
Caffey slit it open with his fingernail, read it, then nodded to himself.
“I hope it isn’t bad news, sir,” Bufford said. His face registered genuine concern. “You’ve had enough of a shock for one day.”
“No,” Caffey said. “Not bad news. Nothing unexpected, anyway.”
Bufford nodded. “We are glad to have you with us, Colonel. When I saw the orders that you were coming, sir, well, I…” He ducked his head slightly, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s good to have an officer of your experience and background. You’ll find these are good men here at the one-seventy-first, Colonel Caffey. The best.”
“I didn’t expect otherwise, Sergeant,” Caffey said with a smile. “Thanks for the moral support. I’ll be fine once I’m settled in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Caffey waited to hear the door close before he read the telegram again.
DIANE AND I NOT MOVING ALASKA. SURE YOU UNDERSTAND. CALL WHEN CAN. DON’T
EXPECT TO CHANGE MIND. DIANE SENDS LOVE. (SIGNED) NANCY.
He wondered how long it had taken her to compose it. That she sent a telegram rather than tell him face-to-face didn’t surprise him; Nancy never was good at confrontations. But she was thrift-minded; the telegram word count came in at under the maximum allowed before the rate changed. He looked at the message again. Those twenty-one words effectively characterized the state of his marriage.
Caffey put the telegram back in the envelope and set it on the table beside the telephone. He lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “Oh, shit,” he said in a low voice.
Brigadier General Gard Fitzgerald Roberts was a man Nancy could identify with, Caffey thought, when he arrived at the general’s quarters. Although restricted by the architectural limitations of underground living, it looked like a general’s home. It still had that distinctive air of army issue about it — that Spartan look of assignment-living that you knew could all be packed up in half a day if necessary — but it had the feel of a general-grade officer’s residence. There were lots of framed photographs of Roberts at different ranks with high-ranking officers and politicians; one was with the Army Chief of Staff taken obviously in a Pentagon office, and another, in a large brushed-metal frame, with a large group of officers posed around President Nixon — Roberts was fourth from the president, on the right.
There were too many Gard Robertses in the military, Caffey had long believed. It was just his misfortune to be assigned to serve under one. He knew the kind of commander Roberts was and, by his manner, Roberts knew he knew. That they understood each other made for an awkward reception. They were polite, but their courtesies veiled an underlying acrimony neither of them could deny.
“This was very kind of you, General,” Caffey was saying. They were standing near Roberts’s wet bar, each with a drink. The cocktail party had broken up into small groups. A private in cook’s whites passed with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Except for the uniform, Caffey had done this less than twelve hours ago.
He appreciated it even less.
“Delete the ‘General’ tonight, Caffey. You have the rest of your tour for that.” Roberts was uncomfortable and slightly inebriated. He seemed unsure how he should handle his new deputy commander. “Enjoy yourself.”
“I think I’d call you General if I ran into you in a Juneau whorehouse, General. It’s a habit that’s hard to break.” Caffey tried to smile. He hated this ridiculous chitchat.
“Careful of your references, Caffey,” Roberts said, half severely. “Don’t want the ladies to get the wrong impression.” He laughed too loudly.
Caffey nodded. Jesus Christ, he thought.