Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (36 page)

Reilly smiled, looking directly at Adkinson and saying, "I understand that some of you are a little unhappy over the opposition we'll allegedly be facing . . . "

"But that should be a good thing, shouldn't it?" Phillie asked.

"No, Ma'am," Joshua said, shaking his head. "When you've got that many superb people there just isn't enough to keep them all busy doing great things."

"With some folks, it doesn't matter," Stauer continued. "They'll do the job they're assigned, even if it's beneath them, and await opportunities. Some people, however, can't do that. Some, too, are natural troublemakers whom you could get good use from if you had the time to plan how keep them busy, but otherwise, they just create discord."

"But Reilly doesn't have the time," the sergeant major said. "He'd really prefer, deep down, to win people like that over. I imagine it hurts him inside that, in this case, he can't."

Adkinson wasn't sure why Reilly looked directly at him. Sure, he'd been complaining about the prospect of taking on tanks in armored cars, but that was professional, the obligation, as he saw it, of a noncom to keep officers from doing stupid things. He also didn't understand why the planes were standing by, still less the armed guards. In all, he didn't like the look of any of it.

Still, certain of his own rectitude, and acutely conscious that few NCOs and virtually no officers met his standards, he stood calmly enough, listening attentively to the usual officers' bullshit.

"I'm a little disappointed," Reilly said, with a seemingly friendly nod, "at your lack of faith. But it's only a little, because I wasn't sure myself how we were going to take them out until quite recently. I'm a lot more disappointed that those of you with, shall we say, troubled hearts didn't come to me.

"That was the time I would have explained things. Now? Too late." Reilly jerked his thumb at the waiting Porters. "You want out? Git! I'd rather go in with a dozen men that were willing than ten times that who aren't."

The ranks shuddered, but no one moved. Whatever Adkinson was thinking-Reilly glanced at him again-his thoughts never reached his face. Hypocrite. The faces that belonged to the other two names given by George, Slade and Montgomerie, looked worried. You should have thought of that before joining in with the malcontent, Reilly thought.

The Israeli-and Lana had taken the effort to look particularly good for the event-and the two gay South Africans walked forward and said, loudly enough for all to hear, "We'll go with you, sir. We'd make a better noddy car crew than any you have, anyway."

Reilly nodded, thoughtfully, just as if he were deeply touched and just as if they hadn't rehearsed that part.

Sergeant Epolito, standing being his platoon, gave the order, "Third Platoon . . . take . . . seats." He then looked at Reilly and announced, "Sir, the Third Herd isn't going anywhere." He then sat himself and folded his arms across his chest.

That part they hadn't rehearsed. But some things you can just count on, Reilly thought. I knew Epolito would never desert me or let anyone else do so.

Peters, with the mortars, followed. Then Schetrompf, a very Marty Feldmanesque little guy, gave the order, "Seats." Headquarters came right after that, with the "armor" platoon seating themselves at Abdan's command.

Reilly nodded again, this time thoughtfully. "So you want to see it through?" he asked.

"Yessir . . . Yes, sir . . . sir . . . "

"Okay . . . we can go ahead. But there are a few of you I wouldn't trust with the lives of the rest of you." Reilly looked very pointedly at Adkinson again and said, "You all signed contracts giving us right and privilege of arrest, of summary punishment, and dismissal. Corporal Schiebel!"

"Sir," answered one of the armed men standing around the company.

"Please place Adkinson, Slade, and Montgomerie under arrest. They are stripped of their rank within the organization. Their pay is forfeit and will be placed in the unit fund. Bind them, and toss their asses on the first of the Porters. Take two guards to escort them to where they're going."

"Sir!"

"Sergeant Babcock-Moore?"

"Sir!"

"Your officer informs me you have some business in Guyana. Accompany the prisoners, oversee Corporal Schiebel until they're safely deposited, and return in no less than three days."

"But . . . "

"No buts."

"Sir!"

Reilly turned away to hide a slight smile. So I'm making a little downpayment on loyalty? So what? Cheap at the price.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Justice renders to everyone his due.

-Cicero

There is no such thing as justice-in or out of court.

-Clarence Darrow

D-72, Camp Stephenson, Cheddi Jagan International Airport, Guyana

The hangar, while quite large, was crowded. Along one wall lay nine containers, side by side and ends toward the wall. Dark-skinned men, none of them in uniform, removed various sections from eight of the containers, assembling them into small airplanes on the hangar's concrete floor. The metal sliding doors were just open, and no more than required to ventilate the oven. Beyond that could be seen a single Pilatus Porter, its engine apparently still running. From the Porter four men took turns carrying in three squirming, struggling, blanket-wrapped bundles.

Gordo ignored the cursing and grunting as Schiebel and his crew dropped the last of the three tightly wrapped blankets-with-legs-sticking-out to the concrete. One of the bundles didn't squirm much, and the legs twitched only feebly. Sergeant Babcock was sporting a sore shin where one of the prisoners had managed to kick him during the flight. He hadn't kicked the prisoner-Montgomerie, it was-back. Instead, the black Brit had taken it in stride while Schiebel knelt beside the man, gripped his head through the blanket, and hammered it to the Porter's uncarpeted deck until Montgomerie had gone unconscious.

"Be easier," Schiebel said, wiping sweat from his brow, "to have just dumped them over the ocean from way fucking high up. The boss always was too soft hearted."

Harry Gordon ignored that, except to think, If Reilly or Stauer had thought it necessary, that's just what they'd have had you do, Corporal.

Both Drake and Perreira, the Guyanese pilot, were there, as well. Perreira had no real further personal business with the group assembled in Brazil, nor with Gordo specifically, since he'd already moved the turrets to Camp Alpha. Still, he had useful contacts and Gordo, while still thinking the man a weasel, had decided that he was probably a mostly honest weasel. Drake did have business still, notably arranging through his police contacts for the three Americans wrapped in blankets to be held incommunicado for some months in a jail far, far to the west. It had cost a little extra to find and employ a small country jail house where not one of the jailers except the sergeant in charge spoke a word of even Guyanese Creole, let alone English. Unless Adkinson, Slade, and Montgomerie could converse in Akawaio they were going to be pretty much out of communication.

"What are they being charged with?" Gordo asked of Drake.

"De bais ah in violayshun de immigrashun," the Guyanan answered, definitively.

Somehow, Vic thought, it just sounds better with that accent.

"Works for me," Gordon agreed, not thinking it worthwhile to mention any number of extraordinarily undocumented persons in Guyana at the time, not least among them a number of Mexican aircraft assemblers and mechanics. "After all, they are here, in Guyana, without visas."

"Exactly," Drake said. He said it so well that Gordon took a double take.

"Meh gyal, she teach meh. Speakin' o' dah, you kam dinner, boyo?" he asked of Babcock-Moore.

Before the sergeant could agree or Gordo could comment, McCaverty, better known as "Cree," sauntered up. "We'll be assembled and ready to go by about nineteen hundred, tomorrow night."

"Roger," Gordo replied. "You'll space out at half hour intervals. My sergeant will meet you on the road six miles east of the bridge over the Takutu river. He'll have a pod of fuel and will mark the landing zone with infrared chemlights. You'll refuel there and then continue on to base. You guys have any problem with a rough strip landing, at night?"

"None," Cree assured. "What about my Mexicans?"

Gordo pointed with his chin at the Porter that had brought in the three prisoners. "They start leaving on that, just after you do. Most of them will beat you there. The rest go tomorrow."

"They don't speak a lot of English," Cree advised.

"No matter," Gordon said. "A lot of people at camp speak Spanish. Morales from the SEALs will be going with them, along with Antoniewicz, now that they're out of hospital. They'll be taken care of."

"Fair enough."

D-71, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

Phillie was a San Antonio girl, and part Mexican to boot. Of course she spoke Spanish. Lox spoke Spanish, too, along with Tagalog, German, French, Italian and a smidgeon of Arabic. Konstantin had sent down Sergeant Musin, who shared Russian with at least one of the Romanian girls, and English which was the organization's lingua franca. Nobody in the camp spoke Romanian. Still, they had reason to believe between all those languages that they'd be able to get their point across enough to teach the girls to serve as back up scut work medical personnel.

Thus, it was with more annoyance than pleasure that Phillie asked, "You all speak English?"

"Some not so good," the senior girl, Elena said. "Some better. Mine"-she put her hand out, palm down, and rocked it- "okay."

"Then why the hell didn't you tell the men who rescued you?"

Embarrassed, Elena looked down at the tent's dirt floor. "Not know they rescue," she said. "At first think they just capture to resell. Later on, when know they not like that, ashamed to admit . . . we . . . lie."

Phillie shook her head. She was beginning to discover that the world was a much suckier place than she'd been led to believe. And it didn't seem to be getting any better. She chewed her lip for a while, then said, "Sergeant Lox?"

"Ma'am?"

"I think you've got better things to do. You're dismissed." Phillie was rather pleased that she'd said that approximately like Wes would have. "Please stop by the aid station and ask Sergeant Coffee to come here."

"Yes, ma'am. Do you need Tim?"

"No, I don't think so."

Lox nodded and turned to leave, signaling with a head jerk that Tim was to follow.

Turning back to the girl, Elena, Phillie asked, "What do you understand about our circumstances and yours?"

"You are military group," Elena answered, without hesitation. It got harder then. She struggled, "Private, not belong . . . not . . . ummm . . . owned . . . " She shook her head; no, that wasn't quite right. "Not controlled by national government."

"That is correct," Phillie agreed, but added, "Also not protected by any national government. In light of that, what about you and the others?"

Again, Elena didn't hesitate a moment. "We all talk and agree, once we understand . . . back on little boat. We owe you big. We help."

"It could be very dangerous."

"We help."

"Then we've got ten weeks to turn you girls into competent medics and medical assistants. Let's go check with supply and see about your uniforms, boots, and other gear. There'll be a lot of it."

"Good," Elena said, looking down at the ratty, way oversized sailors' coveralls she wore. "Got nothing else to wear. Got nothing we own."

Yep, the world is a far suckier place, and not in a nice way, than I've been led to believe.

One of the Romanian girls said something in her own tongue. To Phillie it sounded hauntingly like Spanish . . . but was just enough off as not to be intelligible. Whatever the girl had said, Elena reached over and smacked her head.

"What was that for?" Phillie asked.

"Not all of us unwilling be sold as whores. She wanted know when we get to see men."

Aha. Then before we hit supply, "Sit down, girls. Let's have a little chat about the rules . . . and under what circumstances you can break them." She looked around at the faces, pretty in general, slightly olive for the most part, much like herself, but, "Wait a minute. How old are you?"

"I am . . . sixteen," said Elena, the senior. "We are all sixteen or seventeen except for Adriana, Irina, and Tatiana." On the last name Elena once again struck the girl-apparently Tatiana-she'd slapped before. "They is . . . umm . . . are fifteen."

"Aha," Phillie half smiled. "Very different set of rules then. Very different. Rule Number One is NO. Rule Number Two is, in case of doubt, refer back to Rule Number One. Rule Number Three, on the other hand, says Rule Number One, NO, is continuously in force. Rule Number Four . . . "

***

Coffee heard Phillie's voice coming from inside the tent set aside for training the foreign girls, " . . . is known as the ‘two girl' rule. That means that I better never find one of you alone. You will always be at least in pairs. This includes, most especially, going to the latrines, the toilets, in the middle of the night. Rule Number Six . . . "

Coffee smiled-quick study, our girl-and then coughed. "Phillie, you sent for me?"

The girl called "Tatiana" began turning her head very quickly to where the voice had come from. This movement ceased and her eyes returned to straight ahead in a flurry of Romanian and a loud crack.

Phillie ignored the slap. She said to the sergeant, "Despite what we thought, these girls all speak English to some extent. I think that means we can get a lot more use out of them than planned. So I suggest that instead of me teaching them how to clean floors and instruments to standard, or to empty bedpans, you ought to be teaching them how to be real medics."

"Makes sense," Coffee agreed. "Let me clear it with Doc Joseph."

"Fine," Phillie said. "In the interim, girls, Rule Six is . . . "

D-70, Assembly Area Alpha, Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

"And that makes eight," Waggoner said, as the last of the CH-801's touched down on the strip. "Amazing damned things," he muttered, as the plane came to a stop in what looked to be about twenty-five meters. "Just amazing."