The colonel stopped just short of their table. Towering above them. Tucker Williams was a veteran of every shooting match in which the United States had been involved since the Zaire intervention. He was notoriously zealous and uncompromising, and when he was angry, the outlines of his RD scars showed through his cheeks and forehead, despite the artistry of the Army's plastic surgeons. He was said to be an old pal of Colonel George Taylor, the Army's number one living legend, and the scuttlebutt had it that one thing Williams and Taylor unmistakably held in common was that dozens of comfortable, satisfied midcareer officers had resigned rather than go to work for either man.
Williams's face looked smooth and unscarred now. He no longer appeared angry, and Ryder felt partially relieved.
All of the warrant officers stood up in the colonel's presence, although Dicker Sienkiewicz rose slowly, asserting his bone-deep warrant-officership.
"Chief Ryder?" Williams asked, briefly scanning their faces before his eyes settled on the right man. The colonel had not yet had sufficient time in command to thoroughly learn all of their faces, and there were no name tags on the warrants' ill-fitting civilian suits and sport jackets. "I need to talk to you." He glanced at the other warrants. "The rest of you guys just get on with your breakfast. Chief," he told Ryder, "you come with me."
There was no secure area within the hotel, and the colonel simply headed for a barren table a bit removed from the breakfast crowd, waving away concerned waiters as though they were of less consequence than flies. Ryder followed the big man across the room like a guilty convict awaiting his sentence. He could hardly believe the change in himself. Normally, he was as dutiful as an officer could be. He lived for his work. Since the divorce. And here he was, in the midst of the real thing at last, perhaps even a key player, and he could not help thinking fearfully of a woman he had met only the evening before. A foreign, unexplained, officially disapproved woman.
"Take a seat, Chief," the colonel said. He sat down heavily across from Ryder, slapping his field cap down on the tabletop. He did not bother to remove his carrying harness or the stained field jacket.
Williams looked at Ryder with the penetrating, don't-dare-try-to-bullshit-me eyes the Army had taught the young warrant to associate with leaders who got things done.
"Sounds like you broke the bank, Chief," Williams said. "Congratulations."
Ryder nodded his thanks, unsure of himself.
The colonel glanced around the big room one more time, making sure that no waiters would descend on them.
"What a clusterfuck," the colonel said in disgust. "I can see I'm going to have to clean up this sideshow. Christ, I never saw such a bunch of hungover pussy-hounds. It's amazing you've gotten anything accomplished at all."
Ryder looked down at the tablecloth.
"Chief," the colonel said, "I'm going to get you out of this and give you a chance to do some real work. Not that what you've already done isn't top-notch. But it's just the beginning. You've opened up a world of new possibilities for us. Goddamnit, are you listening to me?"
Ryder stiffened, shocked by the colonel's apparent ability to see inside him.
"Yes, sir. I'm listening."
"Well, we've got a hell of a show going on downcountry. And it's far from over, if an old soldier's instincts are worth a damn. I've been up all night, working on a very special contingency plan with my field staff. Thanks to you. Son, do you realize that the President of the United States has
already been briefed on your… achievement yesterday?" Ryder had not known.
"That's right," Williams continued. "The goddamned President himself. And we've been busting our asses to come up with a con-plan to exploit what you've given us. Now we're just lacking one piece." The colonel looked at Ryder.
"What's that, sir?"
"You. We need you downcountry. And I'll tell you honestly — if we implement this plan, it might be dangerous as hell." The colonel laughed happily. "But you'll be in good hands. You'll be working under an old friend of mine. He and I go back to a tent in the Azores. Now, he doesn't know shit about all this yet. He's a little busy at the moment. But I know old George Taylor well enough to know what I can sell him and what I can't. And he'll buy this one, all right. He'll see the beauty of the thing." The colonel smiled, recollecting. "Anyway, we're going to put you to work. Lot of details to iron out. With any luck, we may never have to execute this plan. But, by God, we're going to be ready."
"Sir… if you're talking about actually entering the Japanese control system, we're going to need some support from the Russians. They've got the—"
"Taken care of." The colonel waved his hand. "I wasn't born yesterday, Chief. You'll have everything you need before you link up with old Georgie Taylor." Williams looked around in resurgent annoyance. "Chief, you just go on up and pack your things. Meet me in the lobby in half an hour. I'm going to have a cup of coffee and take a good shit. Then we'll get on the road and I'll fill you in on what's really happening. There's a bird waiting to take us both downrange."
"Half an hour?" Ryder asked meekly.
"Clock's ticking, Chief."
"We… won't be coming back here, sir?"
The colonel surveyed the room in disgust. "Not if I can help it. So don't leave anything behind, Mr. Ryder."
Shut into the arthritic elevator, Ryder closed his eyes and dropped his head and shoulders back against the wall, tapping his skull against the cheap paneling. The device rattled and rose, its motion stirring up a smell of ammonia and stale cigarettes. He was ashamed. He could think only of the woman, and thinking of her made him feel sick.
Ryder made a last stop at Dicker Sienkiewicz's room. The old man was gathering papers and paraphernalia into his briefcase, arming himself for another day's routine.
"So what did the old man want?" he asked Ryder.
"I got to go. Downcountry."
The older man stopped packing his briefcase and looked at his younger comrade.
"What the hell's the matter, kid?"
"I just got to go. Special project. Downcountry. Listen, I need your help. Please, Dicker." Ryder pulled out a sealed white envelope. "There's this girl — this woman— I've met…"
"The blondie? From last night? In the bar?"
"Yeah. That's the one. Listen, she's okay. She's really okay."
The older man smiled. "So I'm convinced. And not a bad looker."
"She's not just another… she's really all right. I promised I'd meet her tonight. At eight. For dinner. Christ, I don't want her to think I just…"
"So you want me to give her that?" Dicker said pointing to the letter in Ryder's hand.
"Please. It's important. It's just a note. I tried to explain."
"I'll see that she gets it."
"You'll recognize her okay?"
Dicker smiled. "Do bears crap in the woods? I still remember women I seen on the subway thirty years ago."
"Listen, I got to go. The old man's waiting."
"All right. Don't worry about a thing, kid. You just take care of yourself. And good luck with whatever the hell you're up to."
"Same to you. See you, Dicker."
"See you."
Chief Warrant Officer Five Stanley "Dicker" Sienkiewicz watched the boy go down the hall, then shut the door. The kid was clearly rattled. Big things in the wind. The old warrant felt a little left out, neglected. Once, he would have been considered indispensable when things got serious. But there was a new generation coming up. Educated. And so fast off the mark.