Like his guest, the officer was dressed in civvies. His outfit consisted of a yellow silk shirt, nicely tailored brown slacks, and a pair of basket weave slip-ons. He held a glass of red wine in his right hand and there was a bottle at his elbow. He nodded formally. “There you are, my dear … right on time. Punctuality is a military virtue, isn’t it? And it has to be since lives are often at stake. Please sit down. Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“No, sir. Thank you,” Cassidy replied politely, as she took a seat.
Vanderspool winked knowingly. “It can’t compare to ten milligrams of crab, I suppose… . Although it’s a helluva lot cheaper!”
Doc forced a smile. “Yes, sir.”
“So,” Vanderspool said reflectively, as he took a sip of wine. “What can you tell me about the unbelievable fiasco that took place the day before yesterday?”
Cassidy knew the officer was referring to the review—and the manner in which Lieutenant Quigby had been publicly humiliated. “Tell you, sir?” she inquired innocently. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Don’t be coy,” Vanderspool said sternly. “You aren’t very good at it—and it pisses me off. We had the water from Quigby’s suit analyzed. It was laced with a couple of powerful drugs, plus a fast-acting laxative. The lieutenant thinks you were out to get him—but I’m betting on Findlay or one of his men.”
Doc’s first instinct was to blame Tychus, since that was the path of least resistance, but on second thought she realized how stupid such a course might be. Because if the colonel had one spy, he could have two, and the whole squad knew she was responsible. So she looked Vanderspool in the eye and told the truth. “Lieutenant Quigby is correct, sir … I was responsible.”
Vanderspool was so surprised by the admission that he sloshed wine onto the tablecloth as he set the glass down. “You?” he demanded. “But why?”
“Two reasons,” Cassidy answered calmly. “First, I really detest the little bastard. And, no offense, sir, but some officers behave like assholes just for the fun of it.
“Second, these guys have a very tight relationship. I’m in, but jerking Quigby around solidified my position. Now they really trust me. Wouldn’t you say that’s important, sir?”
A full five seconds of silence passed. During that time the medic saw a number of expressions come and go on Vanderspool’s face, including anger, calculation, and a grudging smile. “I have to give you credit,” the officer said. “You are a scheming bitch. No offense intended,” he added sarcastically.
Doc felt a sense of relief. “Thank you, sir. No offense taken.”
“So, how is it going?”
“It’s going well, sir. Once I leave here I’ll join the rest of the squad at Three Fingered Jack’s down the street. That’s where they like to hang out.”
Vanderspool nodded. “Good. Now, one last thing before you go … I don’t give a damn about Lieutenant Quigby, but I do care about his father, the general, and your scheme made all three of us look bad. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. So here’s a piece of advice: Don’t ever do something like that again.”
Doc heard a floorboard creak and began to turn but it was too late. Two flat-eyed soldiers, both in civilian attire, stood directly behind her. One jerked the medic out of her chair and put a full nelson on her as the other came around and positioned himself in front of her. “Give her three shots,” Vanderspool said grimly. “But leave her face alone.”
Cassidy was tough, or believed that she was, but after three successive blows to the stomach she fell to her knees and threw up. Some of the vomit oozed down between the floorboards and fell on the table below.
Doc heard a woman’s voice from somewhere inside the apartment. “Javier? I’m tired of waiting.”
Vanderspool rose. His voice was hard. “Take her out to the street. That’s where trash belongs.”
Cassidy held up a hand to stall the marines off, made use of the bottom part of the tablecloth to wipe her mouth, and struggled to her feet. Then, having executed a near perfect about-face, she left.
When Cassidy arrived at Three Fingered Jack’s she was surprised to see that her normally high-spirited squad mates were sitting around slumped in their chairs. And if his hang-dog expression was any guide, Raynor was the most upset of all. Feek was standing on the bench next to Raynor, apparently offering words of comfort. “What’s going on?” Doc inquired, as she took a seat next to Harnack.
“This guy Tom Omer … one of Jim’s good friends from home,” Harnack said soberly. “We all shipped out together from Shiloh. Well, Tom got tore up pretty bad during the fight at Firebase Zulu. He lost one of his lungs and one of his arms. Anyway, we just got the news that Tom died. The wounds were too much for him.”
Harnack looked toward Raynor and back. Cassidy saw that the others were listening, too. “Jim was leading our squad the day Tom was hit so he feels like it was his fault. But that’s bullshit. I was there and it was bad luck. Nothing more.”
“That’s true,” Kydd chimed in. “There wasn’t anything Jim could have done.”
“They’re right,” Doc said, as she looked at Raynor. “I’ve seen a lot of people die in this war, and most of the time there isn’t any rhyme or reason to it.”
Raynor looked up from the tabletop. There was a haunted look in his eyes. “His parents are going to be devastated, and it’s all my fault. What if I’d stayed home? What if I was there right now? Maybe Tom would be alive.”
“Yeah,” Zander put in, “and maybe the rest of us would be dead. Because if you hadn’t been there, somebody else would have been in charge and who knows how they would have handled the situation.”
“Exactly,” Kydd agreed, as Tychus arrived with a fresh bottle of Scotty Bolger’s. “All I know is that you did a lot better job than I could have. Tom would say the same.”
“This is for Tom Omer,” Tychus rumbled, as he refilled Raynor’s glass. “I didn’t know him, but you say he was a good soldier, and that’s good enough for me. Because you’re the real deal, so Omer’s the real deal, and that’s all we need to know. Now, pick up that glass, and let’s drink a toast … to Tom Omer, who went to war, and did the best he could. We won’t forget him.”
It was the longest speech, maybe the only speech, Raynor had ever heard Tychus give. And unlike so much of what the older man normally had to say, there hadn’t been a trace of sarcasm, condescension, or irony. The words couldn’t make the pain go away, nothing could accomplish that, but they were the source of some much-needed comfort. It was a side of Tychus Raynor hadn’t seen before and one that he welcomed.
“Hear, hear,” Feek said, as he raised a glass. “Here’s to Tom Omer.”
The words echoed around the table, and as Cassidy raised her glass, she felt like what she was: a fake.
The sun had barely broken company with the eastern horizon as the old truck came to a screeching stop next to the heavily guarded gate, and Hiram Feek jumped to the ground. It was a long drop for someone of his stature, but he was used to that, and he absorbed the shock with bent knees.
Then, having waved good-bye to the elderly driver, Feek hurried across the street to the west gate, where his retinas were scanned and the machine whirred as it ate his Priority One Civilian Pass and spit it back out again.