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.
Seconds later the technician was inside Fort Howe, where he made straight for the barracks in which the first squad, STM platoon, 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion was quartered. Though not a member of the outfit himself, Feek felt a natural bond with the men and women who were slated to wear his creations. And the squad had adopted Feek as one of their own. Like them, he had left his family behind in order to fight—in his own way—for the cause. But right now, he had even more important matters to attend to.
Having arrived in front of the building, Feek pulled the door open, pounded up a flight of stairs, and went looking for Raynor. Because even though Tychus was bigger and had more stripes on his arms, Raynor was generally the man with a plan. And given the kind of trouble Zander and Ward had gotten themselves into, it was going to take one helluva plan to get them out.
Raynor was dreaming a good dream when someone shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes, saw Feek, and closed them again. “Go away… . We have two days off and I plan to spend both of them in bed.”
“You can’t,” Feek insisted. “Zander and Ward are in trouble. You need to get them out.”
Raynor swore, sat up, and swung his feet over onto the cold floor. It was early, and the entire platoon had the weekend off, so just about everyone was still in bed. Except for Zander and Ward, that is. Their racks were empty and neat enough to pass an inspection. Raynor yawned. “Where are they? In the brig?”
“No,” Feek replied urgently. “They’re almost twenty miles northwest of here, unless the bandits took them somewhere else, and I wouldn’t know—”
“Wait—bandits?” Raynor demanded incredulously, suddenly alert. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It all started a couple of weeks ago,” Feek explained patiently. “Suddenly Zander had lots of money. I asked him where it came from, but he wouldn’t say.”
Raynor knew the source but saw no reason to explain. He trusted Feek, but the fewer people who knew about the theft the better. “So?” he asked. “Where do the bandits come in?”
“Zander bought a lot of food with the money and hired a truck,” Feek responded.
Raynor groaned and held up a hand. “Don’t tell me… . Let me guess. He loaded the food onto the truck and headed for some refugee camp or other.”
“That’s right,” Feek agreed. “Ward and I agreed to go with him and provide security in return for a couple of beers. But somewhere along the line word of the shipment must have leaked out— because we were only about halfway there when we ran into a Confederate checkpoint—”
“—except it wasn’t a Confederate checkpoint,” Raynor finished for him. “It was a roadblock put in place by the bandits.”
“Right again,” Feek conceded. “So they took all of the food, plus Zander and Ward. I managed to slip away.” He indicated his small stature. “I had to hitchhike back—but I came as quickly as I could.”