Ambient (26 page)

"Did he," said the colonel, not sounding as if he meant it as
a question.

"Unit twelve has sustained a twenty-three-day confrontation.
They need supplies lifted as well."

"They'll have to go down kicking," said the colonel. "We
haven't support capability. Won't until next week."

"Begging pardon, sir, but two squadrons in from Jersey are
set and ready, sir. Just this morning, sir."

"Not anymore," said the colonel, turning to look at me; his eyes were much more disturbing than those of the president's
portrait. "At 1100 1 received a directive from Group HG that
they'll be needed for transferral to Hunts Point."

"Bronx duty, sir?"

"Why, sir?"

"To perform demolition on structures liable to sustain flood
damage-" he paused, lowering his voice, staring my way. One
of his cheek muscles throbbed as if something within prepared to
burst loose. "-sometime before the end of this century."

"But, sir-"

"Tell him," he nodded to me, raising his arms, clasping his
hands before his chest. He drew back his lips as if sucking blood
into his gums. I estimated that his choppers fit not so well as did
Avalon's. I noticed that he wore a revolver in a hip holster.

"Colonel Willis," I said, "I was told-"

"To do as you're told," he said, rising from his chair. "That's
what you'll do while you're here. Your boss let me know that he
wished me to certify you'd make it up to Midtown incog."

"Yes, sir-"

"Snap it, he told me, before he hung up."

A burst of static sounded on the shortwave, popping like firecrackers at Chinese New Year. The colonel turned and picked up
the speaker.

"77A257. Over."

"Report in from Mount Misery, sir," the voice rumbled; background fizz made it difficult to hear. "Recon op prime zero down.
Tactical regression sustained. Over."

"Losses? Over."

"Heavy," said the voice; it reconsidered. "Total. Over."

"Any need for pickup? Over."

"None. Over."

The colonel sighed as if allowed to breathe once more, as if
the pain of inhalation wearied. "AO. 22991. Over."

He motioned toward a chair facing his desk, wishing me to sit down. I did, uncertain of his mood, impatient to move, fearful
for Avalon.

"I don't know why it's so essential that I use my time to get
you to Midtown," he said. His aides and advisers looked quietly
on, as if hoping by their silence they might somehow disappear.
"But there's a lot I don't know."

I 'Sir-''

"You're shit in the street to me. But when he calls, I jump.
Have to. Guess you must be fairly useful to him to get an override
like this."

"He wanted me at his office so soon as possible, colonel," I
reminded him. He stood up, strolling around his desk. Though I
was sitting, I could tell that he was several inches shorter than
me, toting the sort of bulk that made him appear to have been
recompressed for best use of space.

"You'll get there," he said. "You may be important to him
but you're not him. You probably don't have any more say about
anything than I do. I really don't give a fuck."

"Colonel, I'm not sure I understand-"

"It doesn't matter," he said, "Whether you understand that or
not. There's something else I do want you to understand, so long
as you're giving us this little visit. Something to tell the folks at
home. "

He brought his hand down closer to his revolver, as if expecting that I was fool enough to attempt action.

"I've been assigned here three years," he said. "Every month
I watch new men arrive. Good men. Primed for double duty anywhere else. Brave men. Strong men. They'd serve their country
well, if they could. They can't. You know why?"

"Why?" I asked, suspecting that it would be safer to inquire
than to argue.

"In business," he said. "I know how to play it. Get somebody. Use them for all they are. When they're empty, turn them
in. That doesn't work so well in the Army. There's a lot of wasted potential here. Spend two months intensifying trainees. Get them
booted. Make them top, all. Then send them to this pit so they
can be flown out and dropped into the lawn mower over there.
Does that make sense? Breaks my fucking heart. Nothing I can
do. Just watch them go in big and come out little. And for what?"

"I'm not quite sure, sir-"

"Me neither. Years ago you could have just blasted the whole
island and solved things right off. Can't do that now. Better,
maybe, to just take the men out and let it be. Can't do that, either.
Leave Long Island alone and they all might swim over here. Put
a crimp in your boss's big plans. Hurt the value of his real estate. "

"I don't-"

"Oh, no. Have to keep this fucking place safe till they build
the new one up there. Like the old one's worth more than just
blasting down to the fucking ground. Even after the new city's
built, we'll have to guard it, too. Can't argue with Dryco. My
orders are don't piss them off and do as they say. Anything they
say. Old King Shit tell me to line my men up at the edge of the
Battery and march them into the bay in rows of four. I'd have to
do it."

The colonel reached out, grabbing my lapels, yanking me from
the chair; for his size he was immensely strong, and I didn't interfere.

"What do you think he'd do if one day we didn't hop when he
said jump? What would he do?"

"I really don't know-"

"You don't," he said. "We hear stories. We hear that if we
didn't, he'd interfere with national security. Now what does that
mean? Nobody tells us. How would he do that? Do you know
how?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know shit, do you?" he asked, letting me go. I
slipped back into the chair. It was like being cornered by a drunk at a party. "I'm not surprised. No doubt I'm a bigger man in my
op than you are in yours and nobody tells me shit. I'm not surprised. I just do what I'm told, too." There was a conspiratorial
tone in his voice, for a moment, suggesting that in his eye he
conjured a picture of two sharks complaining between themselves
of the water's coldness.

"Sir-"

"It'll happen one of these days," he said, bending down,
bringing his face closer to mine. "If I don't last long enough,
somebody else'll say fuck it. Someday. You know how pointless
all of this is? Every month new units go in. We could send in
new units every hour and it wouldn't do any good. If we kill one
of them three more spring up in their place. That's the way it's
always been. Attrition doesn't seem to apply over there. It doesn't
make sense. It's like they grow out of the ground. Fall out of the
sky when it rains. It doesn't make fucking sense."

"I think I should be going-"

"Tell him when you see him," the colonel said. "We've had
it. I've had it. Everybody's had it and he's going to get it. If he
wants to make threats, he can fucking go ahead and threat away.
We don't care. They might in Washington, but I don't give a
fuck. Let him do what he wants."

"Why don't you go ahead and do it, then, instead of talking
about it?"

From that second when I said that he no longer looked at me
dead-on, but turned his face away as he spoke. "I just want to
keep as many of my men alive as I can," he said, looking a foot
to my right. "that's pretty damned impossible, thanks to your
fucking boss. You tell him that. Someday he's gonna say yes,
and somebody's gonna say no. You tell him."

"I'll tell him why I'm late."

The colonel was a man of quick reactions. Before I could raise
my arms to protect myself, he swung, striking me full-fist in the
side of my face; I felt my cheekbone crack, and my vision blurred red. Once my sight refocused, I saw him holding his hand, rubbing it, as if he'd broken the bones punching me. I grasped the
chair arms, trying to stand. Had I not wanted so to get away, to
find Avalon while there might yet be time, I should have pounced
him there sans restraint and suffered such consequences as the
rest might offer.

"Get him out of here," the colonel said, speaking between his
choppers. "Get him a uniform. Get him the fuck out of here."

"Yes, sir," said a drawn young captain, advancing, grasping
my arm. "This way."

He pushed me along, out of the office, across the campgrounds
to the supply depot. Pressing my hand against my face I could
feel the bones grind together as if they were stones in a mill; felt
unbearable pain when I pushed harder. It was like probing a boil.
Still, by controlling the pain's flow in such manner, I quickly
grew used to my jaw's steady throb.

"The colonel's been high-pressured, sir," the captain reassured. "Please weigh factors before undertaking reports-"

"Just get me off base and where I want to go," I said. "Please."

The supply depot seemed so well stocked as any place in Manhattan providing material of any sort. Bare shelves lined half the
walls. Many of the uniforms lying about appeared recycled, with
patches, and scars poorly sewn. I was given a captain's field uniform-too long in the arms, too snug in the hips-the closest
they had to my size. I didn't need to change my boots, for which
I was glad. Pulling my long coat on over the uniform, attaching
the spare captains bars given me onto the shoulders of my wrap,
I readied myself. My face didn't hurt quite so much. The supply
sergeant shoved a revolver at me, pushing it across the countertop. Picking it up, I marveled at its weight; though I'd been trained
in firearm interaction, it had been years since I'd held one. They
used to seem lighter, I thought, unlike everything else.

"I don't need it," I said, putting it down.

"Take it," he said. "Never know when it'll do handy."

"I've got weaponry."

"Unexpected situations demand the unexpected," he said.
"Better to be adapt-ready."

There was a point in that. All Army boys toted guns, and there
was appearance's sake to weigh; moreover, I realized, none connected with Dryco would guess that I'd chosen to equip with
amateur's specialty.

I put it in my pocket. "Now where?" I asked the captain.

"Over to the motor pool," he said, lifting his arm and pointing. "Ask for Panzerman."

"How's he ranked?"

"They know him. Just ask. He's been told. Don't aware him
that you're civilianed."

"Why not?" I asked; he didn't respond.

"He'll up you."

Taking leave of the captain, I staggered over to the pool's central building. Inside, a corporal sat behind the desk, awaiting
directions. He thumbed a copy of the Times. PREZ LIES SEZ
VICE, the headline read.

"Are you Panzerman?" I asked.

"Outside," the corporal grunted, not looking up. A horn ablow
snared my attention and I turned. A small open fourwheeler pulled
up out front. The fellow driving looked sixteen and wore goldrimmed glasses. A long scar on his right cheek suggested that he
shaved with a cleaver. On the back of his scuffed yellow flakjak
was sewn the phrase, LOST LOVELY AND VICIOUS. Dryco
supplied the Army's helmets, and on every one was embossed
the colored design of a smirker. Panzerman had drawn in fangs
protruding from the smile of his.

"Panzerman?" I asked, climbing into the passenger's side. He
wore hobnailed boots not unlike Margot's and I wondered how
difficult they made driving.

"Yep," he said, offering nothing more. He had no rank, so
near as I could tell; a patch on one shoulder said that he was a
member of the Honduran Army, had one been unaware.

"You know where we're supposed to go?"

"Yep." he said, gunning the engine; dust clouds billowed after
us as he floored. We took off for the Park Row egress. Flipping
on the siren, he pulled into Church Street's IA lane and we cruised
uptown.

Traffic had been rerouted from the Tribeca Secondary Zone
and for several blocks we were the only moving vehicle to be
found. As we passed an abandoned cab, something I saw pinned
me where I sat.

"Stop the car."

"Why?"

"I said stop the car." Slamming on the brakes, he swung sideways as he pulled the car to a halt. "Back up."

As we reversed I vizzed the sitch. Three soldiers busied themselves with a woman in the Army's everyday manner. Having
pulled her dress up, entangling her arms and covering her head,
they'd spread-eagled her on the hood of the cab. One squatted
over her, bending back her legs with rough anklegrip. The other
two sustained their anger in turn. I thought of Army memorabilia,
posted back there on the board, and heard those screams forever
burning my mind.

"Desist," I commanded, standing up in the open car. The one
presently at work stepped away, not bothering to rearrange his
uniform. She cried and wriggled. The spider crawling over her
hovered light, drawing her legs further apart so that I might see
how much blood they'd pricked thus far. She screamed again.

"Want a little, captain?"

Guns removed the option of consideration before action could
effect; amateurs, thoughtless at best, preferred them for that reason. About some things there was no need to examine options.
Not having words proper for them, knowing the deaf ears off which they would ricochet, I fired my pistol, having leveled it at
him as I stood. When I shot him he crumpled like paper and blew
away in the wind. The other pair dashed off as if trying to reach
the goal line before the whistle sounded; they bounced as they
struck ground, tumbling end over end as if clipped between halves,
sounding shocked as if hoping the coach would waste not time in
complaining. With a gun it was usually too fast; here it could not
have been fast enough. In using a different tool, for a different
reason, I thought that at last I'd begun making my new way,
following my new reason and my old feelings; using such maggots to cleanse new wounds, and not to worsen old ones. The
woman carefully sat upright, tugging her carmeline dress down
over her legs as she pressed her knees together, shaking her head
as if to dry her mind of nightmare's slimy touch.