The Road to Omaha (41 page)

“Hey,
man
,” admonished D-One, whispering, “don’ let all those priests you like make you t’ink you’re a saint! Chu give all dat kindness when dese black-headed
cucarachas
are laid out in de kitchen sink, h’okay?”

“Hey, man, my favorite
padre
used to tell me when I went into Old San Juan, ‘An eye for an eye,
niño
, but make sure you kick first—right in the
testículos.’
”

“Truly a man of God,
amigo
. Le’s go!”

“Major Vulcan speaking,” said the black-hooded figure quietly into his radio as he crawled up the southernmost route leading to the former ski lodge. “Come in by the numbers.”

“Two East reporting, Major. No activity, hostile or otherwise.”

“Number Three?”

“Three North, sir. A light’s on in what appears to be a bedroom on the second floor. Can I blow it out?”

“Not yet, soldier, but when I tell you, take out everyone inside. Probably goddamned perverts watching as they exchange bodily fluids. They’re
all
perverts,
savage
perverts. Keep your weapon and your grenades at the ready.”

“Yes,
sir
! I want to blow ’em away first! Can I do that, Major?”

“Good attitude, soldier, but only when I give the word. Keep closing in.”

“What about
me
, sir?” interrupted Two East. “Three North’s a fucking idiot! Remember when the guards found him chewing the fence with his
teeth
?… I should have the first kill!”

“And you’ll be
mine
!” broke in Three North. “Don’t forget, Major, Two East took all those strawberries that were meant for you at last Thursday’s mess!”

“You’ve got a point, Number Three. I really wanted those strawberries.”

“I didn’t
do
it, Major. It was Four West!… Own up, you son of a bitch!”

“Well, Four West?” said Vulcan. “
Did
you steal my strawberries?”

Silence.

“Come in, Four West!” continued the major. “Is your lack of response an admission of guilt?
Answer
me, you prick. Did
you
steal my strawberries?”

Silence.

“Four West, Four West!
Reply
!”

Silence.

“His radio’s out,” concluded Vulcan. “Goddamned fairy Pentagon purchasing agents! These fucking ‘talkies’ cost the high brass fourteen thousand apiece when you can buy the same goddamned things at Radio Shack for twenty-seven bucks!… Four West, can you read me?” Silence. “Okay, Three North, how close are you?”

Silence.

“Three North, come in!” A long silence. “Goddamn it,
Three North,
respond
!” Nothing. “Son of a bitch, did any of you clowns check your
batteries
?” Again there was nothing. “Two East! Give me your report
now
.”

Silence.

“What the fuck is going
on
?” fairly shouted Major Vulcan, momentarily forgetting the need for quiet communication. “Will one of you bastards
answer
me?”

Silence, broken several seconds later by a friendly voice. “Nice to meet chu,” said Desi the First, walking out of the shadows and into the moonlight above the black-hooded intruder. “You are a prisoner of war,
amigo
sir, and you will be treated fairly.”

“
What
?” The major slapped his hand down for his weapon, but his movement was far too slow. The heel of D-One’s boot crashed into Vulcan’s forehead, right in the center of the tattooed volcano.

“I didn’t wan’ to do dat, Mr. Prisoner, but chu could’a hurt me an’ dat h’ain’t nice.”

Jennifer Redwing awoke with a start—something had happened; she could feel it,
hear
it! Of course, she could hear it, she considered. There were muted moans and throated cries from somewhere outside. Wounded dogs? Trapped animals? She lurched out of bed and ran to the window, totally disbelieving what she saw.

Sam Devereaux heard distant noises and pulled the second pillow over his damaged head. For roughly the five hundredth time he swore he would never have a drink after leaving O’Toole’s Bar and Grill. However, the noises continued unabated, and after opening his less-than-white-clear eyes, he understood that they had nothing to do with his physical condition. Unsteadily, he got out of bed and went to the window.
Holy shit
!

Aaron Pinkus was dreaming of Shirley, albeit an angry Shirley, whose head was coiled in eleven thousand pink curlers, all shrieking at him, each curler possessing its own
mouth, incessantly opening and closing with the rapidity of machine gun fire. Was he back on Omaha Beach?… No, he was in his favorite bedroom at the old ski lodge. What was the racket? Slowly he rose from the comfortable bed and limped, as old legs do, to the window.
God of Abraham, what have You done
?

Eleanor Devereaux’s sleep was maddeningly interrupted by the ruckus, and she instinctively reached for her bedside telephone to instruct Cora to have the neighbors arrested, or whatever one did for such outrageous behavior in Weston, Massachusetts. Unfortunately, there was no telephone. In high dudgeon she swung her feet from under the sheet, planted them on the floor, rose to her full height, and walked to the window.
Good heavens, how absolutely unique
!

MacKenzie Hawkins flashed open his eyes, still mangling the cigar he had had in his mouth since the early hours of the morning. What the hell
was
it?
Nam? Korea
? Pigs squealing on some peasant’s farm protected by Search and Destroy?
Jesus
! Where were his aides-de-camp? Why hadn’t they alerted him to the enemy’s
assault
?… No, he realized, as he felt the soft innards of the pillow surrounding his head—there
were
no pillows in combat bivouacs! So where
was
he?… Hannibal’s legions, he was in Commander Pinkus’s ski lodge! He sprang out of the comfortable civilian bed, hating himself for its lack of military rigidity, and ran in his skivvies to the window.
Genghis Khan forgive me, but even you wouldn’t think of that, Big Fella
!

Like pedestrians intent on witnessing the horrible results of a major accident, the temporary residents of the former ski lodge descended from various staircases into the Alpine lobby. They were greeted by Desis One and Two, who flanked a long coffee table on which there were four MAC-10 machine pistols, twenty magazine clips, sixteen
grenades, four miniaturized radios, two flamethrowers, four infrared binoculars, and a dismantled egg-shaped bomb that could blow up at least a quarter of the state of New Hampshire—the lesser southeastern part.

“We din’ want to wake chu all up,” said Desi the First, “but the heneral said we should protect the rights of prisoners of war.… We tried to do dat, but I t’ink they were very bad characters. Dese guns ’n t’ings will explain what I mean.… Now, great Heneral, can Sergeant Desi-Two and me get some sleep?”

“
Goddamn
, boys, you’re
lieutenants
! But what the hell is
out
there?”

“Please,
señores y señoras
, see for yourselves,” said Desi the Second, opening the front door. “We did not t’ink it was too bad for de Genevil intentions, when we saw all dose guns ’n’ everyt’ing.”

Outside, on the repaired ski lift, halfway up the intermediate slope and at least fifteen feet in the air, were four jiggling bodies hanging upside down, their mouths taped, their feet wrapped in ropes.

“We bring dem back every hour and give dem water,” said Desi the First, smiling. “Dat way we treat our prisoners of war real good.”

“
What
?” shrieked the Secretary of State, his bellow causing his security pool stenographer to lurch out of her chair, propelling her shorthand pad directly into the head of her employer, who absently caught it in his left hand, which was in the process of pounding his skull to stop his maniacally pivoting left eye. “They did
what
?… 
How
? I won’t
have
it!” The Secretary began slamming the shorthand pad alternately against his temple and the edge of the desk until its pages flew hither and yon off their spiral.

“
Please
!” pleaded the stenographer, racing around and picking up the flying papers. “These are top-secret notes,
sir
!”

“Well, there’s no secret about
your
tops,
is
there?” cried the wide-eyed, swinging-eyed leader of State crazily. “We live in a walnut world, miss!
You’ve
got coconuts, but
we’re
all walnuts!”

Suddenly, the stenographer, standing rigid and staring down at her employer, said calmly but with great strength, “Stop it, Warren. Calm down.”

“Warren? Who’s Warren? I’m Mr. Secretary—always
Mr. Secretary
!”

“You are Warren Pease, and please cover the telephone,
or I’ll tell my sister and she’ll tell Arnold Subagaloo that you’ve gone squirrelly.”

“Oh, God—
Arnold
!” Warren Pease, Secretary of State, instantly covered the mouthpiece. “I forgot, Teresa, honestly, I just
forgot
for a moment!”

“I’m Regina Trueheart, my younger sister’s Teresa, Subagaloo’s assistant.”

“I’m terrible with names, but I never forget coconuts—I mean
faces
! Don’t tell your sister.”

“
You
just tell whoever’s on the line that you’ll call back after you’ve had a chance to collect your thoughts.”

“I
can’t
! He’s on a pay telephone at the prisoners’ compound in Quantico!”

“Order him to give you the number and to stay there until you call him back.”

“All right, Coconuts—Teresa—Regina—Madame Secretary!”

“
Stop
it, Warren. Do what I say!”

The Secretary of State did exactly as Regina Trueheart commanded, then fell forward on his desk, his head in his arms, and, as they say, cried his eyes out. “Somebody leaked and I got pissed on!” he gurgled. “They got sent back to the compound in body bags!”

“
Who
?”

“The Filthy Four. It’s horrible!”

“They’re
dead
—whoever they are?”

“No, there were air holes in the canvas. It’s worse than dead—they’re
embarrassed
! We’re
all
embarrassed!” Pease raised his tear-streaked face as if pleading for a swift execution.

“Warren, sweetie, knock it
off
. You have a job to do and people like me are here to see that you do it. Remember Fern of the North Mall, our patron saint and inspiration.
She
wouldn’t permit any of her bosses to fall apart and neither will I.”

“She was a secretary, you’re a security pool stenographer—”

“Far more, Warren, oh, far more,” interrupted Regina. “I’m a roving butterfly with the sting of a bee. I flutter from one top-secret assignment to another, keeping my
eyes on all of you, helping you through your days. That’s the God-given assignment for all the Truehearts.”

“Can’t you be
my
secretary?”

“And take that job from our dear, dedicated anti-Commie mother, Tyrania? Surely you jest.”

“The Tyrant’s your
mother
…?”

“Careful, Warren. Subagaloo, remember?”

“Oh, Christ,
Arnold
. I’m sorry, truly sorry—a great woman, awe-inspiring.”

“To the business at hand, Mr. Secretary,” said the stenographer, sitting down, the notebook and the gathered pages securely held, her posture once again rigid. “I have maximum clearance, as you know, so how can I help?”

“Well, maximum clearance isn’t exactly the issue—”

“I see,” broke in Regina Trueheart. “Body bags with air holes, corpses that weren’t dead—”

“I tell you, the entire honor guard almost had mass cardiac arrest! Two are in the base hospital, three have demanded immediate discharges on psychiatric grounds, and four went AWOL by racing through the gates screaming their heads off about soldiers rising from the dead to curse the officers they never fragged.… Oh, my
God
, if this ever gets out—oh,
Jesus
!”

“I know, Mr. Secretary.” Security Stenographer First Class Trueheart stood up. “Embarrassment, sir, we’ve all been there.… All right, Warren, we’re in this together. What do we start shredding?”

“
Shredding
?” Pease’s left eye was now streaking back and forth with the speed of a laser.

“I understand,” said Regina, who promptly, without the slightest hint of sensuality, pulled her dress up to her waist. “Documents to be removed, of course. As you can see, I’m fully prepared to carry out the mission.”

“Huh?” His left eye fixed, the Secretary of State was astonished at what he saw. Sewn into Ms. Trueheart’s panty hose, from knees to thigh, were light brown nylon pockets. “How … how incredible,” mumbled Pease.

“Naturally, we must remove all metal clips, and should we need more space, my brassiere has a zippered lining, and the back of my slip has an attached overlay of sheer silk that can accommodate the wider documents.”

“You don’t understand,” said the Secretary, his chin impacting on the edge of the desk as the stenographer released her dress to its normal position. “
Ouch
!”