The Daisy Ducks (17 page)

"Gold and jewels. I guess the official term is
‘precious stones' They wadn't all shined up yet. They were rough,
you know, like plain rocks. But anyway, they was precious all right:
I cashed in my share for almost eight hundred bucks in Saigon."

"Did you ever see what Roantis carried in his
pack afterward?"

Summers's face clouded over in confusion. He shook
his head back and forth slowly.

"You never saw an interesting . . . art object?"

"Naw. Nothin' like that. Hell, we went into his
ruck coupla times for some shit we needed. He had the same stuff as
us. Sides, I wouldn't want no art object anyhow. Just the loot."

"And Ken Vilarde? What did he carry away from
the village?"

Summers shrugged his big shoulders and began to
shuffle the cards again. I let the whole thing drop. But a suspicion
was beginning to grow in my mind.

"Do you have any idea where Ken Vilarde might be
now?"

"No idea. No idea at all. We weren't that close.
His big buddy, besides Roantis, was Jusuelo. Jusuelo was Puerto
Rican. From the city of Mayaguez. I remember the name of the place
because I was still in the service when that cargo ship, the
Mayaguez
, got
captured. That's how I remembered the name of the town. You might try
Jusuelo if you want Vilarde."

"Can't get a line on either one of them."

"Discard, Doc."

I did, and was about to discard the entire line of
investigation too, except for one more question.

"Would any of the Ducks turn against Roantis and
try to kill him?"

He looked up and stared into my eyes, wearing a
little frown.

"No. The Daisy Ducks was a mean outfit. Highly
trained and deadly. But we was loyal to each other. Hundret percent.
We had to be. Any other way and we all woulda died out there in the
boonies."

"What do you know about Bill Royce?"

"Mystery man. A puzzle. He what you call a . . .
can't think of the word. Somebody who always want things to be
right."

"Perfectionist?"

"Naw. Idealist. That's what Royce was. He was
good, and careful. I don't think he liked to fight as much as some of
the guys—as much as I used to. But he was real smart. Knew what he
was doin'. But I know what we was doin' in Cambodia really bothered
him. Got to him. See Doc, Daisy Duck's a mean ol' bitch. Like, she on
the rag alla time, you know? Well, a lotta what we done, we just
destroyed right and left. A lot of villagers and civilians got it
too."

"I know. And Royce began to feel guilty about it
and eventually had a breakdown."

"Yeah. I felt pretty close to coming unglued
over there more than once . . . and I'm a pretty mean dude, if you
hadn'ta noticed. He kinda went off the deep end. I think he in some
military nuthouse, what I heard."

"He's out. He got sprung last summer."

"Hmmph! So you think it musta been one of the
Ducks? Is that it? Why not somebody else?"

"It has something to do with Siu Lok's loot. But
there are some things I can't tell you yet. I promised Roantis. If we
assume for a minute that one of the Ducks is gunning for Roantis,
would Royce be a better bet than the others?"

He glared at me from over his fanned-out hand of
cards.

"Am I a suspect too?"

"No. At least I'm pretty sure you're not. I got
in touch with you and Fred Kaunitz for help."

"You don't think Freddie coulda done it?"

I was silent for a second or two.

"Do you?"

His eyes swept over the cards in his hand and he
rearranged them, closed the hand, and fanned it out again.

"Ain't no tellin', is there? just no tellin'."

"Why did you lay down that seven, Mike? You know
I'm saving sevens," I said, picking up his discard and sliding
it into my hand. He grinned at me.

"I hear Royce is back down in North Carolina
somewhere. Up in the mountains, I think. Should I go track him down?"

"Why not? But your best bet would be finding
Vilarde."

"I'm beginning to get the feeling Ken Vilarde
isn't around anymore," I said.

"Could be, Doc. Could be. Gin. "

Twenty minutes later, I rose to go. The nurse had
just given Mike a hefty bolus of chloral hydrate and he was fading
fast. I waited at the doorway until he was almost under. Now would be
the time to catch him, I thought. I opened the door and turned back,
as if the question were only an afterthought.

"By the way, Mike, who's Daisy?"

"Haw-haw! Why she's —"

He caught himself, turned to me, and tried to sit up
in bed. The pill wouldn't let him.

"Like you say, Doc. Some things I can't tell you
yet. Now just rewind that tape to ‘Mood Indigo' and lemme cop some
Zs. Catch you later."
 
 

12

A WEEK TO THE DAY after he was committed to Glendale,
I went up the road to Carlisle and sprang Mike Summers. He had lost
twelve and a half pounds, mostly of intercellular fluid, and his
blood pressure had dropped considerably. Most important, he no longer
had to live with a drink in his hand, and he had eaten huge
quantities of nutritious food during his stay. In short, he was a new
man, and although the bill had been hefty, I considered it one of the
best investments I had ever made.

"I'm restless now, Doc. I feel good, you know? I
wanta run around a little —"

"That's just where we're going," I said. We
stopped at the house only long enough for a big lunch, which Mary and
Mike ate. I don't eat lunch anymore; three squares a day in modern 
America will turn you into a blimp in no time. I just had coffee and
a small dish of yogurt. We packed the rest of Mike's things and took
off for Somerville. There was a vacancy in the YMCA stall there, and
they had agreed, based on a strong recommendation from Roantis, to
hire Summers as a temporary staff member in exchange for a room at
the Y and a small salary. It was perfect. We had him settled into the
room in less than an hour. I loaned him my cassette player and a
large selection of tapes. The room had a television, so he was pretty
well set.

Then I showed him the gym and workout rooms. I had
run on the suspended running track above the gym before. It was nice
and springy—twenty-nine laps to the mile. I left Mike circling it
at a shuffle that was gradually speeding up to a slow lope. I
reminded him I'd pick him up the next evening for dinner at our
place, and I left.

Driving back to Concord along Route 2, I kept
thinking of Fred Kaunitz at the controls of his airplane. With the
skill and savvy he had, honed by years in the air force, there seemed
to be no place he couldn't go. I turned off on a side road and went
over to Route 2A, then took the exit for Hanscom Field. Hanscom is
primarily a military airfield and houses a lot of air force people
and their dependents. But part of it, I knew, was reserved for
private civilian aircraft and a few commercial charter flights. I
entered the base and followed the signs to the civilian field. As I
entered the civilian gate, I noticed the guard booth at the entrance
to the military field. The guard wore a blue beret. I took special
notice of him now, since both Kaunitz and Royce had been air force
commandos. Kaunitz and Royce. Hmmmmm. Both American WASPs, the only
two out of the original eight Daisy Ducks. All the rest were black,
Hispanic, and/or foreign born. I was trying to think of the
sociological significance of this. Also, both were nice country boys.
Southerners. Well raised. Well educated. Outdoorsy types. They had a
lot in common, yet Kaunitz never seemed to indicate they were close.
At least, he never told me. And now Bill Royce was out and around . .
. I parked and went into the main building, where I found seven
people, one of whom, James McGrevan, was eager to help.

"You want to know if we keep a record of all
planes that use this field? The answer is no," he said almost
apologetically. "A lot of them just come in to refuel or check a
misfiring engine cylinder, then take off again. You can understand
that if you're in the air and your engine starts sounding a little
funny, you don't waste time checking it out."

"Right," I said. "But how about a
plane that spends the night here? Don't they sign in?"

"Oh sure, for a tie-down. They pay for-a
tie-down in advance. The rate varies according to the size of the
aircraft. They leave us a local number where we can reach them. Then
we have these . . . "

He slid a slip of yellow paper over to me on the
counter. It had a Shell Oil logo on top and a list of instructions
underneath, much like a service repair order from a mechanic's
garage.

"This is an aircraft service order. Almost
always, when a pilot ties down, he'll want some things done. Maybe
some fuel, an oil check, maybe have his tires looked at, things like
that. Well, we fill this out, he looks it over and signs it. When
we're through, he keeps a copy and so do we."

"Ahh. And how far back do you keep the copies?"

"A month. If we don't lose them in the
meantime."

"Oh. So you would have no idea what planes came
and went back in late December?"

"Oh no. No way."

"Well, don't these planes, wherever they're
going, don't they have to chart a course or something so they don't
collide with other aircraft? I mean, we've got a crowded sky around
here."

He then explained briefly some of the numerous air
navigation laws, which were complex and strict indeed, as well they
should be.

"But see, these are all procedures. The only
thing officially written down is a flight plan, which tells the
tower, that's us, where the plane is headed, and along what course,
at what altitude, what time of day, estimated time of arrival, and so
on."

"That sounds helpful. How far back do you keep
those?"

"We don't keep them. By law, they must be
canceled within thirty minutes after the pilot reaches his
destination. If not, we send out planes looking for the downed
aircraft. Needless to say,  if we have to send out a search
party for a guy who simply forgot to cancel his flight plan, we're
not happy about it." I inhaled and exhaled deeply a few times,
summing up all the various and it sundry information in my noggin.

"So, what the whole thing boils down to," I
said wearily, "is that these small planes can go anywhere they
want and leave no tracks."

James McGrevan thought for a few seconds before
replying.

"Uh-huh," he said, rubbing his chin, "I
guess that's about right."

"What about during landing and takeoff? Aren't
they in radio contact?"

"Certainly. They must get tower clearance for
both."

"What about just flying near an airfield? Don't
they have to say they're flying in the airspace of a certain town or
airfield?"

"There are lots of regulations about that. One
thing: most planes now—even the smallest ones—have a transponder.
This device emits a powerful radio signal which is picked up by the
nearest airport tower. The tower can therefore track the aircraft
accurately and warn the pilot if he's not where he should be."

"Is the pilot required to turn on the
transponder whenever he's near a town or airfield?"

"No. It's for his safety as much as anyone's.
Most pilots have their transponders on all the time."

"Mr. McGrevan, if a pilot were willing to take
the risk of flying without instruments, perhaps even without running
lights, and fly low, who could find him?"

"Nobody. But flying by the seat of your pants
can get you killed."

"I'm sure it could."

"Unless you know how to do it," he added. I
looked up and saw him grinning.

"Do you?"

"Oh yeah. I flew FACs in Nam. Those little
two-seaters. FAC stands for forward air controller. We flew those
little Cessnas and Beechcrafts to direct artillery fire and do
nighttime reconnaissance work. We had some of them modified for
circling over a target for eighteen hours or more. Others were
modified to run silently, with no engine noise, so you could skim the
treetops at night without alerting the enemy. That way, Charlie
didn't know we were watching him."

"How far can a small plane go without refueling?
What's the range?"

"Standard for a little two-seater is about three
hundred miles, or three hours flying time at a little over a hundred
per. A four-seater goes between four and five hours at a slightly
higher speed, so figure about five hundred miles range. Course, a
four-seater retractable—hell, you can go seven, eight hundred,
maybe more. But if you wanted, you could easily take out some of the
rear seating, or use the extra cargo space to install an auxiliary
fuel tank. If you did that, hell, you could fly from here to Paris.
Remember, that's just what Lindbergh did fifty years ago."

I thanked him and left, having learned one reason
private planes are so popular: you can go anywhere fast, return, and
leave no trail.