The bartender shook his head sadly. He had great respect for the military, and he had read about this pathetic man's tragic background. "Colonel, believe me, it's time you went home. Let me call you a cab."
"I don' wanna damn cab," Roddy protested.
Then through the alcoholic haze he saw the bartender staring beyond him and turned to see what had distracted him from this important discussion. He found a vaguely familiar figure slowly approaching.
"They told me I'd probably find you here," said the stranger, shaking his head in consternation. "I hate to see you doing this to yourself, Colonel."
Roddy blinked, hoping to clear the haze, but it was like flying through a cloud. He wasn't so far gone, though, that he didn't recognize the voice. "Dutch?"
Peter Schuler took him by the arm and tugged, trying to dislodge him from the barstool. "Let's go home where we can talk."
"Wha' the hell are you doin' here?"
"After what they did to you," Schuler said, now realizing it had been even worse than he had thought, "I resigned my commission."
Roddy's mouth dropped open in shock. It was more than his brain could absorb in its current state, and he found himself unable to muster a response. Meekly, like a child, he gave way to Dutch's tugging and stumbled with him toward the door.
The apartment was a wreck. Clothes strewn about, dirty dishes in the sink, a half-opened ice cream sandwich on the counter melted into a soggy brown heap. Schuler found a can of coffee in the freezer compartment. At least Roddy had acted rationally sometime in the not too distant past. He started the coffee maker and sat down at the kitchen table across from his former aircraft commander, who now resembled a disheveled bum, at least two days' growth of beard scattered about his drawn face, the eyes watery and bloodshot, radiating red lines like highways on a sectional chart.
"You resigned your commission… 'cause of me?" That message had lodged in Roddy's mind like a truck parked sideways, blocking comprehension of anything else.
"They treated you like dirt, Colonel. When I got back to California, I looked back and saw how they had manipulated me. They effectively kept me from having any contact with you before the trial." He shook his head in frustration. He would liked to have been there sooner to offer support.
"But you're too young, Dutch… your career. You love flying… like me. What will you do?"
As he forced coffee down the distraught figure, Schuler related his story, starting with the fact that he was in excellent shape financially. Since he had no family to support, he had invested a sizeable portion of his monthly pay the past several years through a friend who was a specialist in stock and commodity options. The result had been phenomenal.
His nest egg had hatched into a flock of golden hens. As a result, he was in no rush to start on a new career. Physically he felt great for the first time since the crash in Iran a year ago. He was ready to concentrate on his tennis game.
"Since you don't seem to have anything tying you down here," Schuler said, glancing around the untidy hovel, "why don't you come with me and help me get back into my game."
"Come where?" The coffee had cut through the whiskey-borne fog, but he was hearing almost too much to take in at one swallow.
"To Mexico."
Dutch told about a girl he had dated whose father was a retired lieutenant general. The general and his wife were living near the town of Chapala, on the lake of the same name south of Guadalajara. In glowing terms, the girl had described a paradise where the weather was perfect, the people friendly and the cost of living unbelievably low compared to the U.S.
Schuler gave his best boyish grin. "How about it, Colonel? Shall I call the airline and make our reservations?"
Roddy stared into the steaming, blackish brew. Now he had lost count of how many cups of coffee he had drunk. Would he ever get a handle on his life again? Karen had left him and moved to Gainesville to be near the girls. He was a civilian for the first time in twenty-five years, not of his own choosing. At forty-six, he was a has-been. It occurred to him that his life was a bigger mess than this ratty apartment, for which he felt a sudden, irrational loathing.
"How about it, Colonel?" Schuler repeated. "I need your help."
Somebody needed his help. Somebody he respected. Somebody whose life he had nearly ruined. Although he knew the ambush had not been his fault, he still felt a sense of guilt at having been the one who chose the crew members for the mission. Had he been in a little better shape to think things through objectively, he might not have come to the hasty conclusion that he did. But at the moment, seeing a glimmer of light out there like a beacon shining through the fog, he could think of nothing better to do.
He nodded. "Okay, Dutch. Let's go."
26
As it turned out, Peter Schuler had regained his tennis prowess, but with not as much help as he had hoped from his old commander. Roddy's leg improved, though not enough to propel him around the court at his former speed. The most encouraging aspect of the venture was Roddy's discovery that he was not an alcoholic, only a problem drinker. As soon as he left his problems behind, he found he no longer felt the need to drown himself in alcohol. He learned to confine himself to an occasional beer or a glass of wine, or to a margarita at a party.
Schuler soon became a good friend of retired General Wackenhut and his wife. Roddy declined to join him, though. He didn't feel comfortable in the company of an Air Force general, retired or otherwise. Meanwhile, the general's daughter became a more frequent visitor, causing the romance to blossom. And after a couple of years in Mexico, Dutch had proposed and followed her back to the States. By that time, Roddy had found the job flying helicopters and was back in his element. The one facet of the flying business that did not overly thrill him was the one he had taken on that afternoon, instructing beginning pilots who hardly knew the difference between a cyclic control and a throttle. Roddy was a stickler for detail, which was why he was still around. It got pretty tedious at times. After finishing with his students in late afternoon, he drove over to Tonalá on the southeastern side of Guadalajara, a haven for artists and craftsmen. The discussion at breakfast had reminded him of his promise to send Lila a graduation gift, a set of the black ceramic dinnerware that was produced here.
Pleased with his selection, Roddy headed for the lake, stopping in Chapala at the home of a native friend who had loaned him several books on Mexican art and literature. They got into a lively discussion on the novels of Carlos Fuentes. By the time he got up to leave, he discovered he had been there nearly two hours.
Arriving home, he found the red light on his answering machine flashing with its usual frenetic persistence. It always gave him the uneasy feeling that the relentless little bloodshot eye would keep right on winking to eternity unless the messages were promptly played back. He hit the playback button the moment he walked in.
"Colonel Rodman, this is Sergeant Clint Black. We met this morning at breakfast. I have some information I doubt you are aware of. I think you ought to know about it. Call me when you get in." He left his number.
Roddy played the message back again. There seemed to be a sense of urgency in the voice. Something he should know about? What kind of information could he have? Then he considered where Black had been assigned, the office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence.
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine. Normally he wouldn't have bothered to return a call at this time of night, but the message had heightened his curiosity. He wasn't about to sit around the remainder of the evening speculating on what it meant. Lifting the phone, he called the Sergeant.