“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“As far as we can determine, Colonel, there doesn’t seem to be any E-Three Private First Class Bernard A. Burrows in the 171st Infantry Brigade… or the 172nd, or the 22nd Aviation Battalion.”
“Have you tried the Coast Guard?”
“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t think—”
“Order of the day, Captain,” Caffey interrupted. “Find Burrows at any cost.”
“Yes, sir.” Devery nodded as if he were making a special mental note. “Colonel, ah, we do have a Bernie Burrows… no middle initial.” Caffey looked at him incredulously. “What?”
“He isn’t an E-Three, sir. He’s an E-Two. He’s a clerk typist… works down the hall.”
“Burrows? Our Burrows!”
“But no middle ini—”
“I’ll give him an initial!” Caffey stomped to the door.
“Some of the work here is more interesting, Col—”
“Burrows!” Caffey yelled into the hall. “Bernie Burrows, you sonofabitch, wherever you are! Write your mother — or I’ll ship you to an ice floe on the
Bering Strait!” He slammed the door and turned to
Devery. “Now, Captain, what other priority work have we to do?”
The call Caffey expected came less than an hour later. It was General Roberts, and he wasn’t happy.
“Caffey, get over here on the double!”
Caffey didn’t have time to reply because the line disconnected.
“I’ll be in the general’s office,” he said to Devery as he passed the captain’s office. He walked slowly, adjusting his tie. Roberts wanted efficiency and no initiative, that’s what he got.
Roberts’s office was three times the size of Caffey’s. The walls were covered with unit citations, plaques, photographs and two enormous flags flanked his desk. The general was standing before a huge map, following some line with his finger. As Caffey entered, Roberts spun around in a rage.
“What the hell are you doing down there, Caffey?” he said. His face was slightly red. A large cigar was burning in his ashtray. “Jesus Christ, I just spoke to Major Davis in Records and he tells me you’ve requisitioned a complete file re verification. Personnel says you want an update on the survival training status of every man in the brigade. And my secretary said something about a lunatic hollering in the corridors for the head of — he stopped to glance at a note on his desk—”a Private B. A. Burrows.” He looked at Caffey with fire in his eyes. “What the hell’s going on!”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Caffey said. “Colonel Klugen left a list of items to be looked after by his replacement. Priority marked.”
“That square-headed sonof—” Roberts shook his head. “Never mind. Look, Colonel, I told you we had a smooth operation here. I don’t want you or anyone else fucking it up. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“Damn better be.”
“Is that all, General?”
“No, goddamnit! I’ll tell you when I’m finished.” He took his cigar from the ashtray and puffed it several times until he’d produced a heavy cloud of smoke around his head. “We’ve got other problems.” He walked to the map and jabbed a finger in the northwest section — the Philip Smith Mountains.
“Here,” Roberts said gruffly.
Caffey moved closer. “What’s the problem?”
“We have a company on competitive maneuvers up there. Four National Guard squads were on a timed march and reconnaissance sweep of this area.” Caffey studied the map. “And?”
“Three squads returned to the fire base. One’s missing.”
“Any contact?”
“No. The weather is terrible up there. Communications are all screwed up. NORAD reported they lost one of their Dewline stations. They went down for repairs and were never heard from again. And nobody can get to them until this weather clears.”
“A NORAD radar site,” Caffey said to himself. He glanced over the map again. “How long has that squad been missing?”
“Last contact was 0600 yesterday.”
“Is it an experienced squad of men?”
“They’re Eskimos,” Roberts said disgustedly. “They ought to know what the hell they’re doing. Eskimos aren’t supposed to get lost.” He puffed on the cigar again. “The governor’s been complaining that his National Guard is getting the roughest duty. This will make him real happy. I don’t think they’re missing at all, you know. Goddamn Eskimos. It’s probably a screw-up between commands.”
“Maybe.” Caffey walked to the map. “How far is that NOR AD station from where this squad was last heard from?”
“Sixty, seventy miles. Why?”
“Just wondering. I don’t suppose they could have wandered up there?”
“In twenty-four hours?”
“No, I guess not.”
“General Hooks called me,” Roberts said. “He wants a senior officer to go up there and supervise the recovery of that squad. He wants someone to bring things together so we don’t have the governor on our backs over this. He wants to maintain ‘a good rapport’ with the state of Alaska.” He licked the end of the cigar, his eyes on Caffey. “I’m sending you.”
“Me?” Caffey smiled and shook his head. “That’s PR work, General. It’s not exactly my line.”
“Your line, Colonel, is what I tell you it is. Today it’s looking for missing Eskimos and I expect you to handle this with your usual fervor.”
“Look, General—”
“Go to that fire base and straighten this mess out,” Roberts said, his voice rising. “That’s an order, Colonel.” Caffey closed his mouth. He stared at his commanding officer.
“Now you can go, Caffey,” Roberts said. He puffed his cigar. “Have a nice trip.” Fire Base Bravo was normally an hour and a half chopper ride from Wainwright, the pilot had explained. Today it was two and a half hours. He didn’t have to explain why. The helicopter rocked violently as it maneuvered through the high wind. “Better hold on, Colonel,” the pilot had yelled over his shoulder when they lifted off the pad, “there’s just you and me in this old bucket. If you get knocked loose from your seat, you’re on your own.” Caffey’s knuckles were white and numb where he’d held onto the nylon seat harness with a death grip for the entire trip.
The fire base consisted of a hundred National Guardsmen on rotating duty, four helicopters and a small encampment of tents within a tiny valley of the Philip Smith Range. The purpose of the camp was primarily for training in arctic survival. Why it was called Fire Base Bravo, nobody knew. It was the only one in the northeast quadrant and there wasn’t a Fire Base Alpha in the state. That was all Caffey knew about the place, but it was enough. He didn’t plan on being here any longer than necessary.
“Colonel Caffey, I’m Captain Cordobes, company commander,” said the tough-looking Hispanic who greeted him in the reinforced headquarters tent.
“This is Lieutenant Ed Speck, exec, and that’s Staff Sergeant Johnny Parsons. Johnny really runs things around here, Colonel. The rest of us just come and go—”
They were young, Caffey noted. Cordobes couldn’t be more than thirty. Speck didn’t look like he’d even started shaving yet. Parsons was the old hand. He looked to be in his late thirties, but it wasn’t easy to tell. He was Eskimo.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Caffey began. “I was hoping you’d have found our wandering squad by the time I showed up. No such luck, eh?” Cordobes shifted his weight. “We were told not to send another patrol out until you arrived, Colonel.”