Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (27 page)

They could have flown the CH-801s out of the former airbase, now Grant County International Airport, to the port. Or they could have built them at widely divergent places. But the former-having eight "homebuilt" aircraft with a hell of a lot of Fieseler Storch in their ancestry, all leaving from the same place, then landing on the same place, then being partially broken down and packaged to sail on the same ship-might have attracted a little too much of the attention they'd built the things underground to avoid. And building them dispersed would probably have meant quality control problems, to say nothing of the not inconsiderable cost of redundant tools. Of those two factors, only the former had really counted as the cost of the old Titan complex dwarfed the cost of eight sets of tools.

And the other thing, thought Reilly as he sat with Cazz and Phillie waiting for their flight to board, is that, although Wes never said a word about it, I'd be really surprised if he's going to be willing to let the group we've assembled just disintegrate once this mission's done. No . . . he's too desperate never to be a civilian again for him to let that happen lightly. Building the thing in Washington state, with the title being in Wes' name, gives us an asset we can use later on.

Then, too, he was a lot more intimate with the special operations community than I ever was. I looked up ‘Grant County International Airport' and the unusual thing is that nobody flies out of it. Staging area for Special Operations Command for the Pacific region? It's possible, anyway.

I could see that, could see our little group getting a contract to provide long term support to a staging base. Might even be kind of fun.

Unlike most, Reilly hadn't come mostly out of boredom or mostly to find some adventure. Oh, he let on that he had, because that was what everyone else let on. In fact, his reasons were much stronger. God, I was so lonely, all these years. Nobody I cared about and nobody who gave a shit about me, either. And if Stauer can keep us together, I'll never be alone again. Not that I'm ever going to let anyone see that, of course.

The loudspeaker nearby boomed, "Continental Flight One Seventy-eight for Houston-Hobby, now boarding."

Reilly immediately stood, made the most cursory of nods, and said, "Cazz, Miss Potter, see you at base." With that he turned and pretty much marched down a dozen or so waiting areas, before taking his seat to wait for his own flight to Spokane.

"I'm not sorry to see him go off on his own," Phillie said, once the plane had settled into smooth flight.

"Reilly? A lot of people feel that way," Cazz said. His voice didn't sound as if he was one of them. Phillie said as much.

"He's pretty harsh," Cazz said. "But if it helps any he's at least as hard on himself as he is on everyone else. He's Athenian, so to speak."

Phillie looked confused. "Athenian? I thought he was Irish."

"Oh, he is. And if you don't believe it pour a few drinks into him." Cazz almost giggled, a most unMarine-like thing to do, and added, "He does a pretty good rendition of Rising of the Moon, as a matter of fact. Along with any of about another thousand Irish rebel songs . . . and a fair smattering of American Civil War, Russian, German-heavy on the German, Italian . . ."

"He sings?"

"Pretty well, actually, but generally only when he's drunk." That, or in training, or in action. When he's happy, in other words.

"Yes, well, ‘Athenian,' I believe you said."

"Oh . . . he was born into the world ‘to take no rest himself, nor to give any to others.' That's why he's so harsh. He just can't understand for a moment that someone might slack off, take a break, miss something important. Worst workaholic I've ever known."

"If you're telling me he's inhuman, I already knew that," Phillie said.

Cazz frowned. "He's human enough." He then laughed. "I'll admit, though, that he's pretty far out on the spectrum of ‘human.'"

"Well, I think he's obnoxious."

Cazz looked over at Phillie's face, then couldn't keep from a quick glance at her chest. He looked away and started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Well . . . if you weren't Wes' girl, Reilly would have been very charming-he can be very charming, you know, when he has a reason to be-in the hope and not unreasonable expectation of getting you into bed. Since you are Wes' girl, hence untouchable, in perpetuity, he treats you like everyone else. Which is to say, like shit."

Phillie looked shocked and a little insulted. "Bu . . . bu . . . but he has a wedding ring on."

Cazz lifted an eyebrow at her. "Such innocence. What would that have to do with anything?"

Phillie, having a few secrets here and there in her past, didn't comment further.

"Frankly, he never talks about his wife. He might be divorced and bearing a torch, or he might be a widower. Dunno. Never thought it was my business to ask."

D-90, Grant County International Airport (ex-Larson AFB),

Moses Lake, Washington

The senior of the CH-801 pilots, John McCaverty, met Reilly outside the main entrance to the old missile complex. This was no surprise; it certainly wouldn't have done to have one of the Mexicans standing guard. All kinds of issues with that.

McCaverty put out his hand as Reilly emerged from the rental car. "Just call me ‘Cree,'" he said. "All my friends do."

"Cree, it is," Reilly said, shaking the pilot's hand. They'd never met before. Cree was a bit taller than Reilly, intelligent looking, and fit. They were about of an age, though Cree's hairline had receded a bit more than had Reilly's. "What did you fly in the Air Force?" Reilly asked.

"I didn't fly for the Air Force," Cree answered. "For them, I was a surgeon."

Reilly looked confused for a moment. "Then why-?"

"Never been in action, air or ground. If you don't count dustoffs. Want to be."

Well that I can understand, Reilly thought. "Fair enough. Your planes ready to go?"

"Ready, containerized, awaiting the trucks," Cree replied. "But there is a little issue."

"Issue? What issue."

"I want to take seventeen of the Mexicans with me, two per plane plus a chief." Cree looked defensive. He explained, "They're the best workers. Couple of ‘em speak fair English, too. Otherwise, we'd never have gotten the things assembled in time. We can't hope to keep these things in the air without these guys."

"Have you asked Stauer or Cruz? Have you explained what the job involves to the Mexicans?" Reilly was being seriously disingenuous here. He'd prepared the manning table and already knew the Mexicans, some of them, were supposed to come along. Why this Cree hadn't gotten the word he didn't know. He saw no pressing need to rectify the error. Maybe Cruz was testing this man. So I'll play ignorant.

"I dropped a message to Cruz's email, but he hasn't given me an answer," the pilot-surgeon said. "And I don't know Stauer so I don't know what I can get away with. The ones I want to keep think we're going to smuggle drugs and have no problem with that, so I kind of doubt they'll have a problem with what we're really going to do. Whatever that is.

"I did have to promise their headman, Luis Acosta, that I'd personally sneak every one of them back into the United States if they had to leave here. He says it's expensive getting into the States."

"Well," said Reilly, "I know Stauer. Stauer knows me. He'd be surprised, maybe dangerously so, if I didn't do something, at least, that fell into the category of ‘easier to obtain forgiveness' for. Show me the packaged planes and then let me talk to your Mexicans."

"You speak Spanish?"

"Moderately well."

"How will you get them down there?" McCaverty asked. "Assuming you agree, of course."

Reilly thought about that for all of five seconds. "Ordinarily I'd go to one of the services that deal with passenger service on merchant vessels. That won't work in this case, since we want them to go with the planes they built. So . . . I suppose I'll have a chat with the ship's captain. Your Mexicans may be crammed in like rats, but some merchant ships have some open cabins for passage. Or we can simply put everyone in a couple of containers, and ship food with them. The captain most likely wouldn't object to a little under the table cash." He thought some more. "You've got a good relationship with these guys? They'll follow your orders?"

"Yes."

"Then-assuming I can make the arrangements-you will be going with them on the ship while the rest of your pilots fly south to Guyana with me. It will probably suck."

"Fuck," McCaverty scowled.

"Possibly that, too. Your pilots up to this, Cree?"

McCaverty hesitated for a moment. "We've all Army fixed wing and Air Force or Marine light plane pilots, except for me and one other guy. I'm least concerned about him, Smith, because he's our only honest to God carrier pilot. It's going to take some work and some practice getting the rest of us used to landing on a ship."

D-89, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp,

Amazonia, Brazil

Well, thought Phillie Potter, laying on her back on a narrow cot, lonely and, as near as she could see, forsaken, I expected to be staring at a tent roof but not all alone.
Bastard.

Stauer had met her and Cazz, along with eight other late arrivals, at the airstrip. The tall, skinny black, the one she knew of as Sergeant Major Joshua, had been with him as had another, shorter and stouter black man. The shorter of the two and Cazz had wandered off conversing heatedly on some issue she had not a clue to. Joshua had taken the other eight in hand, marching them off into the jungle gloom. The sergeant major had given Stauer a very odd, almost pitying look over one shoulder as he'd departed.

Stauer had held one hand up to keep her from throwing herself into his arms, pointing at an odd vehicle with the other hand. "Jump in," he'd said.

Wes Stauer wasn't the subtle type, nor the hesitant sort who beats around the bush. "There's no romance between us until the mission is over," he'd said. "Unfair to the troops, if I'm the only one getting his tail wet."

"But what about me?" she'd asked. "I've got my needs, too, you know."

"So?" Stauer's voice had really sounded as if he hadn't understand the issue, or even that there was or could have been an issue. "You have a job. Fulfilling that is the only need you have for the next several months."

Bastard, she thought again, moving her hands up behind her head while continuing her upward stare. Now I understand why you like that asshole, Reilly. You're just the same.

Phillie's moping was cut short, suddenly and unexpectedly, by a subdued and highly artificial cough coming from the opposite end of the tent. The question, "Nurse Potter?" followed the cough. She sat up and faced the man asking.

"I'm Phillie Potter," she announced to a man she could have sworn she'd seen in a movie. "And you are?"

"Doctor Scott Joseph," the man said. Phillie was sure she'd seen him in a movie, but clearly not as the leading man. "You'll be working for me. Come on, I'll show you around sick bay."

She turned away and lay back down on her narrow cot, resuming her hands-behind-head stare at the canvas above. "Not interested," she said.

"I see," Joseph said, very calmly. Then he shouted out, "SERGEANT COFFEE!"

"Sir?!" answered an eager voice from someone Phillie hadn't seen.

"Nurse Potter seems to be having a morale problem. See to it, would you."

"Sir. . . ."

Phillie never heard the footsteps. All she knew was that one side of her cot suddenly lifted up and she found herself flying through the air before impacting on the muddy ground. And then a mean looking white dude, not so much large as amazingly broad shouldered and solid was standing above her, hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. "The doctor gave you an order, Nurse Potter. Get on your feet and follow him to the aid station."

Phillie was too frightened even to cry. She never figured out how she managed to get to her feet so quickly. But cry she didn't and stand she did.

"HURRY, Nurse Potter!"

Behind her scurrying posterior, Sergeant Coffee smiled his broadest and happiest smile. She'll work out, he thought. Nice ass, too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

They rise in green robes roaring from

the green hells of the sea Where fallen skies and

evil hues and eyeless creatures be;

-Gilbert Keith Chesterton, "Lepanto"

D-88, Gulf of Mexico, Patrol Boat
The Drunken Bastard

The sun was but a distant memory. Conversely, the rain and spray were a miserable present reality, coming in horizontally and driven at better than a hundred miles an hour sometimes, between boat speed and wind. The boat was on a water roller coaster, with some of even its hard-bitten, sea-legged crew vomiting occasionally. Simmons, who never got seasick, and Eeyore, who was able somewhat to control it, huddled behind the windscreen, Simmons' hands gripping the wheel firmly. Biggus Dickus Thornton, a line running from waist to a stanchion, was further aft, looking forward generally, while inspecting the deck for a minor leak that was making life in the engine room a misery.

Worse, the liberated slave girls below were doing their best to fill the crew dayroom with vomit, to the extent that Morales and Mary-Sue couldn't keep up with emptying the buckets over the side . . . when they and the girls managed to hurl into the buckets, that is.

The girls all wept and prayed and screamed, in between bouts of vomiting. Though they didn't exactly share a language, but only a language family, Morales didn't have a doubt that they were invoking the aid of the Almighty. That, or perhaps praying for death.

Above, straining to make himself heard over the roar of wind and sea and engine, Antoniewicz said to Simmons, "I fucking told you we should have put in at Havana, you asshole."

"Chief says we push on, we push on," the latter answered calmly, if loudly, likewise to be heard over the roar of the gale. Indeed, he answered amazingly calmly considering the boat was riding through waves almost as tall as it was long. "The last place he wants us or we ought to want to be is Cuba. That's enemy territory, still. Besides, Eeyore, we've made it fine so far. What makes you think it'll get any worse."