The Eternity Brigade (4 page)

Hawker lived with the problem for two days, keeping it bottled up within him. At mess he pushed his food apathetically around his plate without even bothering to taste it. His nights were filled with fitful dozes, interspersed with wakeful nightmares.

He set an appointment with the base chaplain. Hawker nervously shook hands with the man, but found himself suddenly tongue-tied. Captain Dukakis’s repeated references to the NDA would not leave his mind. Hawker could only stammer to the minister his general fears about the future and what he should do. The chaplain listened politely but could only give the most platitudinous advice. Hawker left the chaplain’s office feeling less sure than ever what he should do.

The next day, Hawker ended the torture by walking zombie-like into Captain Dukakis’s office and volunteering to participate in Project Banknote. He was told his application would be processed quickly, and was then subjected to the most thorough physical he’d ever had. They took samples of everything, and ran him through a series of tests that left him tired and dazed. By late that afternoon he was told he’d been accepted; his three-week leave would begin Friday at noon, and his bonus money would be ready for him when he picked up his pass.

He left with a tremendous feeling of relief. The decision had been made; everything was now out of his hands. For better or worse, his future was secured, and there was nothing more he could do about it. He could simply accept what came his way. That was how he’d always lived his life, and now he wouldn’t have to change it.

***

As he walked to the bus stop with his pass and his money firmly in his pocket, he still had not made up his mind how he was going to spend his leave. He supposed he could go home to Kansas City and visit his sister—after all, he might not see her for years—but he hadn’t yet told her he’d be coming. He thought of all the questions she’d ask, and wondered how he could field them without telling her any of the truth.

I’ll call her when I get in,
he decided.
If it’s too short a notice and they can’t put me up, I can always stay at a hotel.

“I see you took the plunge, too.” Hawker had been so intent on his own speculations he hadn’t even noticed the person coming up behind him until the voice broke his reverie. Turning, he saw it was David Green.

“How could you tell?” Hawker asked defensively, a little resentful that his innermost secret was so obvious to an outsider.

“Well, what are the odds on both of us getting leave on the same Friday otherwise? Have you made up your mind where you’re going?”

Just because they’d talked together for a while didn’t give Green the right to ask personal questions. The other man was intruding himself, unbidden, in Hawker’s life. “Thought I’d go home, see my family,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, so did I—for about five minutes. Then I started wondering why bother with them? They didn’t appreciate me when I was around, why would they care about me now? You don’t sound too sure about it, either.”

Hawker made no reply, but merely continued on to the ramshackle little building that served the base as a bus stop. The place was crowded with other servicemen going on leave at the same time, waiting around for the buses that would take them into town. Hawker stopped and looked around, his indecision stronger than ever. One step behind him, Green said, “Well, what shall we do?”

Hawker was tempted to remark that he hadn’t invited Green to be his companion when a figure two benches away began waving at them. “Over here, guys,” he called, and Hawker saw it was “Lucky” Symington.

“I guess we’ve been spotted,” Green said. “We might as well go say hello. Maybe he’ll have some suggestions.”

Hawker was feeling very uneasy, as though his entire life were being taken from him and pushed in directions he didn’t want to go. He wanted to stop it, to tell Green, “No, I want no part of you and I want no part of Symington. Just go your own way and let me go mine. I hardly even know you, don’t force your company on me.”

Instead, he followed Green over to where Symington stood, smiling triumphantly.

“Hey, I knew you guys’d show up. Remember, I told you at the meeting, all you had to do was convince yourselves. I knew it then, I could see it in your faces. We’re all gonna be good friends, I know that, too.”

“And people accuse
me
of being a know-it-all,” Green said.

“Hell, there ain’t no two ways about it. Don’t you worry, buddies, everything’s gonna be fine. I’m lucky, and my luck rubs off on my friends. We’re going to have ourselves a fucking good time.”

“Where you headed?” Green asked conversationally.

“Las Vegas.” Symington drew the words out so they lasted several seconds apiece. “That’s the only place where the action’s fast enough for me this time. I’ve got the money and I’ve got the luck, and I’m gonna set the town buzzing.”

“What a coincidence,” Green said. “That’s just where we were going ourselves, right, Hawk?”

Hawker felt another portion of his life being preempted, but didn’t know how to stop it. He tried to think of something to say, but Symington cut him off.

“Hot damn, I like the way you boys think. I just
know
we’re gonna make a team, like the Three Musketeers.”

“One for all, and all for one,” Green said, aping Symington’s boisterousness.

“Now you got it!” Symington slapped Green on the back so hard he nearly knocked the smaller man to the floor. The bus arrived just then; they boarded and rode for half an hour into town. Symington kept up a steady stream of chatter all the while, alternating between his various heroic experiences in Africa and plans for Vegas. Hawker wanted a chance to think, some way of backing out of this involuntary association, but his mind couldn’t concentrate with Symington blaring into it.

Once in town, Symington herded them all into a travel agent’s office. Before Hawker could protest he found himself the owner of tickets on connecting flights that would get him into Las Vegas by 10
am
Saturday.

There were still three hours to kill before their flight left, so the trio went down the street to grab a few beers. Symington continued his nonstop talk, and as Hawker became resigned to his fate, he found himself increasingly grateful; he was in no mood to do much talking himself, and Symington didn’t expect much more than an occasional grunt. Green kept up just enough of a conversation to keep Symington going; he was clearly amused by the big man’s brash style, and viewed it as pure entertainment.

After the third beer, Symington disappeared into the men’s room for a moment. The other two waited for him at their table. Checking his watch, Green was about to comment that they should start for the airport as soon as Symington returned, when suddenly, from the direction of the men’s room, came a loud crash and the sound of voices raised in argument.
Hawker and Green were on their feet simultaneously, racing to the restroom to see what was happening.

There were just two men in the bathroom: Symington and a black whom they belatedly recognized as Thaddeus Connors. There had been some sort of a scuffle; Symington had been knocked into one of the stalls and was now sitting, dazed but fully clothed, on the toilet. The door to the stall was halfway off its hinges; it had banged against the wall when Symington was knocked through it. There was a two-inch gash over Symington’s left eyebrow, slowly dripping blood down the side of his face.

Connors stood before the stall, facing Symington. As Hawker and Green entered, Connors turned and the men could see he had a switchblade out and ready. Symington, in an awkward position on the toilet, was momentarily defenseless if Connors charged him.

“Steady, there,” Green said, and Connors hesitated.

“What’s going on in there?” came a voice from outside, probably the bartender.

“Block the door, Hawk,” Green said quietly. “Don’t let anyone in.”

Hawker did as he was told, even as he was wondering why Green made that request. It would seem to him that the more people they had in here with them, the easier it would be to control Connors. Putting his shoulder against the door, Hawker leaned hard against it even as the bartender was trying to push it open.

“I don’t know what this is all about,” Green was saying in calm, level tones, “but it can’t be worth going to the stockade over.”

Hawker then realized what Green was doing. If this fight were discovered, both participants would be taken away for questioning and probable disciplinary action. Symington’s leave would be ruined, and there was a chance he might even be kicked out of the special program altogether. Green was trying to cover up the worst of the damage privately, before the rest of the world knew what had happened.

The bartender was pushing harder against Hawker’s resistance. “Let me in there!” he shouted several times. When that elicited no response, he said, “Okay, wise guys, I’m getting the MPs.” He left, and Hawker relaxed for the moment.

Connors, meanwhile, looked like a cornered animal. His gaze darted back and forth between Green and Symington, never letting either out of his sight for more than a second. Symington was recovering from his daze, slowly pulling’ himself to his feet once more. His jaw was set angrily, and he looked as though he wanted to return whatever punches Connors had given him. That wouldn’t help matters any, and Green knew it.

“Don’t try anything, Lucky,” Green said. “It’s not worth it.”

“Shut your fuckin’ face, Jew-boy,” Connors said. “This is between him and me.”

“He’s right,” Symington agreed sternly. “I don’t know what got him started, but I’m going to end it.”

“You’re both going to end it, right now.”

“I don’t take no shit from nobody,” Connors said. His knife hand made small, slow circles in the air. The wrong word could set him off in any direction.

Green recognized that fact too. His words were carefully measured as he said, “I’m trying to save us all a lot of trouble. If you put that away, this whole thing ends here, not a word to anyone. If you try anything fancy, Hawk and I open that door and let the rest of the world come in. Are you ready for that?”

“I ain’t scared of nobody,” Connors insisted stubbornly.

“Of course you’re not. But it’s not a question of being scared, it’s a question of being smart. You think you can take on the whole U. S. Army? Plus the police? You’ve made your point, Connors, whatever it is. But a smart man picks his fights a little more carefully. He makes sure winning is worth the effort. Do the smart thing, just for once, and put that knife away.”

“Sure—and then the three of you beat the shit out of me.”

“Hawk and I have no fight with you.”

“What about him?” Connors pointed with the knife in Symington’s direction.

“He won’t do anything either,” Green said. “We’ve got a plane to catch, don’t we, Lucky?” There was an edge in his voice.

Symington was silent for several moments. He obviously didn’t like quitting while he was losing, but at least a portion of his mind realized the value of what Green was trying to do. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I won’t do anything. I’ve got to save my strength for Vegas.”

“See?” Green said to Connors. “Just put that away and the whole thing’s forgotten.”

Hawker suddenly had to lean harder against the door as someone outside tried to push it open. When the strength alone failed, there was a pounding and a voice called, “Military Police. Open up in there.”

Green looked at Connors. “Well?”

Connors looked slowly around the room at the other three men, snorted and folded the blade back into its case. As the black man dropped the knife into his pocket, Green nodded to Hawker, who backed away from the door.

Two MPs entered, each of them bigger than Symington. “All right, what’s the trouble here?”

“No trouble, officer,” Green explained glibly. Taking Symington’s arm, he said, “My friend here just slipped on a wet spot on the floor and fell against the door, cut his forehead a little.”

“Must’ve fallen pretty hard,” one MP remarked dryly, seeing the damage to the stall door.

“Lucky’s a big guy. You know what they say, the bigger they are...”

“That true?” The second MP ignored Green and looked directly at Symington, whose forehead was still bleeding.

The big man did a good job of counterfeiting his normal affability. “Sure is. Can’t a guy even fall in the john without everybody making a federal case out of it?” He smiled and winked at the MP, who only grunted and looked over to Connors for confirmation.

Connors was obviously the most nervous of the lot. Hawker could see beads of perspiration on the black man’s forehead, and his nostrils were still flared in anger. “Sure, he tripped,” Connors said. “You can’t expect no white man to have no coordination.”

The bartender was pushing his way into the room behind the MPs. “I heard yelling in here,” he accused. “There was some sort of argument.”

Green nodded. “Sure. We were trying to remember our first-aid courses, and we were arguing about the best way to stop the bleeding.”

“Then why’d you keep the door closed?” the bartender persisted.

“It must have stuck,” Green said with a shrug.

The bartender shot him an expression of disgust and turned to the MPs. “Are you guys going to do anything?”