Брайан Гарфилд - The Last Bridge

He sought clear air, but there was no open sky without wet, ice-forming clouds. It was a murky sky, and he flew alone with a shuddering, ox-like airplane and a dead companion and a sky full of ice. The weight of it was pulling him down toward the mountains; he had lost at least six hundred feet of altitude in ten minutes. He could not climb above the clouds — the gooney bird’s engines ran flat-out and only just kept it in the air at all.

He reached for the controls that operated the leading-edge ice bladders; they expanded slowly and contracted, breaking slabs of ice away from the wings. Enormous pieces of ice spun away. He heard them bang against the airplane, jarring his ears. The compass steadied, and he discovered he was pointed due north — north over China. To the west and south-west stood even higher mountains between him and the neutral safety of Laos. He knew, with a sudden calm certainty, that he would never make it to Laos. He would reach the end of his flight somewhere in the course of the next half-hour, hard against a mountain peak, driven down by a crucifix of ice.

At lower altitudes, the air would be warmer. He had to cross the shortest axis of the mountains and head down toward the lowlands — that would melt the plane free. He looked at the fuel gauges — maybe another hour’s gas. In any event, it was not enough to reach Laos even in good weather. He had spent too much time fighting ice and tired engines.

“Back we go, Mister.” He banked around and pointed the craft southeast. It flew sluggishly, ponderously, awkwardly; but it flew. Rocks of ice banged hollowly along the fuselage. His face prickled with cold; there was no feeling left in his hands. He had a strange involuntary daydream: an eternity of waxen dolls smiling with sadistic courtesy. He awoke with a start. A blade of ice ripped away from the groin of left wing and fuselage. It rattled back along the plane, and when it broke against the tailplane the gooney bird bucked and started to sideslip. He fought back on course, headed back the way he had come, toward the interior and, beyond that, the sea. He watched the altimeter closely, and he prayed.

The sky was cloudy still; there was no sun. Rain was a halfhearted trickle of droplets. The hum of an airplane was just audible, and Saville uttered a brief comment: “Think that’s McKuen?”

Nothing stirred in sight of the garage doorway; the city seemed a grave. There was a thin, distant rattle of gunfire, but it ended quickly. The city’s lights were out, all of them. J. D. Hooker uttered a short, dry laugh. “Captain, don’t worry about the puking flyer. With a thousand guns within a mile of us and we ain’t got a chance in a million of getting out of here.”

Saville said mildly, “Things are better than you think they are, Hooker.”

Corporal Smith sat by the truck. His head dropped back to rest against the tire. Sergeant Sun stood with a restless frown behind Saville and Hooker. Silence thickened, and then they heard the muffled tramp of quiet footsteps coming down the alley.

Tyreen turned into the garage. His mouth was clenched into a grim line. He crouched down, and Sergeant Khang came right behind him. Saville and Hooker and Sun completed the hunkered-down circle of men, and Tyreen spoke:

“It doesn’t look good.”

J. D. Hooker said, “What’d you expect, Colonel? A puking red carpet?”

Tyreen pointed to Sergeant Sun. “Close those doors.”

The light went down and out; they crouched in absolute darkness. “Parking lights,” said Tyreen. He heard someone picking a path across the floor. When the truck lights came on, he was surprised to see Corporal Smith getting out of the truck cab. Smith looked terrified. He came around and sat down directly beneath one of the softly glowing lights.

Tyreen drew a quick diagram on the floor. “This is the compound. Motor-pool buildings up on the hill here.” He ticked off locations on the square: “Barracks, supply sheds, artillery storage, ammunition dump outside here, weapons company set up alongside with mortars and mobile guns, more barracks over here, mess hall and kitchens. The whole east side of the compound looks like offices — headquarters, and things like that. Big parade ground in the middle, and the jail right down here, There’s a little shed inside with some noise coming out of it, probably a diesel generator to power the electric alarm fence. Any questions?”

J. D. Hooker said, “How many gooks we going to have to fight, Colonel?”

“Too many.”

“I’ll hold your coat,” Hooker said.

“We’ll have to divert them. The first job’s to find out where Captain Kreizler is right now. Sergeant Khang, that’s your assignment.”

Khang said, “I suppose I just walk down there and ask, huh?”

The floor was dirt. Tyreen said, “Mix some mud and smear it over the bullet holes in that jacket. You’re a guerrilla officer. A dai-uy in the Vietminh army. Did you find any papers in those clothes?”

“Not much. Guerrillas don’t monkey around much with written orders.” Khang took a small oilskin pouch from one pocket. It was scabbed with dry blood. “His name was Kao. Blood type, height and weight, description, fingerprints, all that jazz. I guess I can pass for him if they don’t take my prints. It doesn’t say anything about his mustache. But suppose I run into somebody that knew the cat?”

“Doubtful,” said Theodore Saville. “Long odds against that.”

“The papers say he came from Na Ranh. That’s twenty miles from here, no more than that.”

“That’s enough, in this jungle,” said Tyreen. “It will take you ten minutes to walk down there. You’ve got thirty-five minutes to get back here.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll move without you,” Tyreen said. “On the run, Sergeant.”

“More power to you,” Khang said, “as the fellow said to the cat on his way to the electric chair.” He walked to the door and lifted a hand. “See you guys around,” he said, and slipped outside.

“Now what?” said Theodore Saville.

Tyreen tried to blink tiredness out of his eyes. He said, “We clean our guns.”

The heat of the oil lamp burned against his face, and Eddie Kreizler sat half alive in the chair. The room moved crazily around him. He tossed his head back, throwing hair back from his eyes; he met the Vietnamese Colonel’s amused glance with unvanquished eyes.

Bruises were stiff all over his body. His nose was crushed against his face. Both arms throbbed, unwelcome parts of him. His right eye was half closed; his scalp was cut open, soft and sticky to the touch of a knuckle-crushed finger. His lips were squashed raw and stinging against his teeth. Dull red flames pulsed, coloring his vision.

The Colonel said, “My methods have been crude, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

“Fuck yourself.” Kreizler could hardly talk.

“Be calm,” the Colonel purred. “My friend, you are letting the misguided blindness of your stupid loyalties lead you around like a trained bear. I would suggest for your consideration that the only way to preserve your own self-respect and freshness of character is to act impulsively. When a man stops to think about whether it is prudent, then he loses his dignity — he loses it to the dictates of caution and public opinion. Like most children, you have been trained to think in certain rigid patterns, and you have a dyspeptic terror of anything out of the ordinary — exactly like a spoiled child’s fear of new foods. I had hoped you were more imaginative.”

The Colonel chuckled politely. “Of course, you feel that I am not part of your world, that I have no business advising you. But the truth is that we all live in the same world. It’s easy enough to despise it, to be sure. But find yourself another one. The trick, my friend, is to make something of life as you find it. It’s no good hiding behind illusions — that’s a treadmill. The values that meant something in America mean nothing here. No one will condemn you for speaking up. I can promise you the greatest comforts. A soft bed, Captain. Medical attention, a pliable nurse perhaps. Good food and drink.”