Stephen Hunter - Time to Hunt

Bonson smiled.

“Clean and simple,” said Weber.

“Sir, I just … I don’t know what I can tell them. There were hundreds of people at those parties. I saw no evidence of conspiracy or deployment intelligence or—”

“Now, Donny,” said Bonson, leaning forward and trying a smile. “I know this is confusing for you. But trust me. You’re doing your country a great service. You’re doing the Marines a great service.”

“But I—”

“Donny,” said Weber, “they knew. They knew.”

“Knew?”

“They knew we had Third Infantry committed in Virginia, that the DC National Guard was a complete fuckup, the 101st Airborne was stuck at Justice and the 82nd down at the Key Bridge and that the cops were frazzled beyond endurance after eighty straight duty hours. It was an elaborate game of chess — they move here, we countermove; they move there, we countermove — all set up to get them to that bridge where they’d be faced by United States Marines where the chances of a big-time screwup on television were huge. And that’s just what they got: another martyr. Another catastrophe. The Justice Department humiliated. A propaganda victory of immense proportions. They’re parading with Amy’s name in London and Paris already. Give them credit, it was as skillful a campaign as there was.”

“Yes, sir, but we tried to save her. The girl panicked. It had nothing to do with us.”

“Oh, it had everything to do with you,” said Bonson. “They wanted her going off the bridge and the Marines to take the fall. See how much better that is than the Washington Metro Police or some third-rate National Guard unit, most of whom’d be demonstrating themselves if they had the chance? No, they wanted a big scandal to be laid right at the Marines’ feet and that’s what they got! And Crowe gave it to them. Now, it is mandatory to get this fact before the public, to show that we were betrayed from within and to move swiftly to restore confidence in the system by eliminating the treason. And I can’t think of a more edifying contrast for the American public than between Crowe, an Ivy League dropout with his fancy connections, and you, a decorated combat veteran from a small Western town doing his duty. It’ll be very educational!”

“Yes, sir,” said Donny.

“Good, good. Ten hundred. Look sharp, Corporal. You will impress the JAG officers, I know you will. You will inherit your own future, the future you and I have been working on, I know it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Donny.

They rose.

“All right, Weber, we’re finished here. You relax, Fenn. Tomorrow is your big day, the beginning of the rest of your life.”

“I’ll get the car, sir,” said Weber.

“No, I’ll get it. You — you know; tell him what’s cooking.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bonson left the two younger men alone.

“Look, Fenn, I’m the bad cop. I’m here to give you the bad news. I’ve got photos of you smoking grass with Crowe, okay? Man, they can really nail you with them. I mean big time. I told you this guy Bonson was cold. He is beaucoup cold, you know? So give him what he wants, which is another bad boy’s scalp to hang up on his lodge pole. He’s sent a bunch to the ’Nam, and he wants to send more. I don’t know why, what he is driving at, but I know this: he will rotate your ass back to the Land of Bad Things and not ever even think about it again. He’s got you cold. It’s you or it’s Crowe. Man, don’t throw your life away for nothing, dig?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man, Fenn. Knew you’d see it our way.”

At 2300, Donny just walked out the front door of the barracks. Who was there to stop him? Some corporal in first platoon had duty NCO that night and he was scribbling in the duty logs in the first sergeant’s office as Donny passed.

Donny walked to the main gate and waved at the sentry there, who waved him past. Technically, the boy was to look for liberty papers, but in the aftermath of an alert, such niceties of the Marine way had fallen aside. Donny just walked, crossed I Street, headed down the way, took a left, and there found, unbothered, his 1963 Impala. He climbed in, turned the key and drove away.

It didn’t take him long to reach Potomac Park, site of the recently abandoned May Tribe. A few tents still stood, a few fires still burned. He left his car along the side of the road and walked into the encampment, asked a few questions and soon found the tent.

“Julie?” he called.

But it was Peter who came out.

“She’s sleeping,” he said.

“Well, I need to see her.”

“It would be better if she slept. I’m watching out for her.”

The two faced each other; both wore jeans and tennis shoes, Jack Purcells. But Donny’s were white, as he washed them every week. Peter’s didn’t look as though he had washed them since the fifties. Donny wore a madras short-sleeved button-down shirt; Peter had some kind of tie-dyed T-shirt on, baggy as a parachute, going almost to his knees. Donny’s hair was short to the point of neuroticism, with a little pie up top; Peter’s was long to the point of neuroticism, a mass of curly sprigs and tendrils. Donny’s face was lean and pure; Peter’s wore a bristle of scraggly red beard and a headband.

“That’s very cool,” said Donny. “But I have to see her. I need her.”

“I need her too.”

“Well, she hasn’t given you anything. She’s given me her love.”

“I want her to give me her love.”

“Well, you’ll have to wait awhile.”

“I’m tired of waiting.”

“Look, this is ridiculous. Go away or something.”

“I won’t leave her unguarded.”

“Who do you think I am, some kind of rapist or killer? I’m her fiancé. I’m going to marry her.”

“Peter,” said Julie, coming out of the tent, “it’s all right. Really, it’s all right.”

“Are you sure?”

Julie looked tired; still, she was a beautiful young woman, with hair the color of straw and a body as lean and straight as an arrow, and brilliance showing behind her bright blue eyes. Both boys looked at her and recommitted to her love again.

“Are you okay?” Donny asked.

“I was in the lockup at the Coliseum.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“It was fine; it wasn’t anything bad.”

“You killed a girl,” said Peter.

“We didn’t kill anyone. You killed her, by telling her being on that bridge mattered and that we were rapists and murderers. You made her panic; you made her jump. We tried to save her.”

“You fucking asshole, you killed her. Now, you’re a big tough guy and you can kick the shit out of me, but you killed her!”

“Stop screaming. I never killed anyone who didn’t have a rifle and wasn’t trying to kill me or a buddy.”

“Peter, it’s okay. You have to leave us alone.”

“Christ, Julie.”

“You have to leave us.”

“Ahhh … all right. But don’t say — anyhow, you’re a lucky guy, Fenn. You really are.”

He stormed away in the darkness.

“I never saw him so brave,” said Julie.

“He loves you. So much.”

“He’s just a friend.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier. We were on alert. There was a lot of shit because of Amy. I’m very sorry about Amy, but we didn’t have a thing to do with it.”

“Oh, Donny.”

“I want to marry you. I love you. I miss you.”

“Then let’s get married.”

“There’s this thing,” Donny said.

“This thing?”

“Yeah. By the way, I’ve technically deserted. I’m UA. Unauthorized absence. I’ll be reported tomorrow at morning muster. They’ll do something to me probably. But I had to see you.”