Vertical Run (12 page)

The class gives an appreciative titter.

“The training you will receive here at Camp P may come as a surprise to you. It is not this institution’s goal to further the lessons you have already learned. We assume that you have mastered the honorable arts of soldiery. You would not be here if you had not. Rather, our curriculum is devoted to a different craft. This craft has two dimensions. The dimension you doubtless yearn to hear of is our craft’s outer manifestation—uncommon
arms, infernal devices, devilish pranks, and the other rather feral skills demanded of saboteurs, subversives, and assassins. Certainly we shall be teaching you those things. But not immediately. First, we shall focus on the second dimension of the craft, the psychological dimension, the inner dimension, the dimension of the mind. In the end, gentlemen, it is in the mind that the game is played, and it is in the mind that it is either lost or won. Do you take my meaning?”

A few people nod. A Marine officer behind Dave barks, “Yes, sir!”

“Do try to forget the word ‘sir.’ We are a college of equals here. Now, to begin, as good Americans, you gentlemen have grown up in a culture that holds team sports in high esteem. I am sure you all have gone to many games and spiritedly cheered your home team. Like as not, you yourselves have been on the fields, good team players each and every one of you. Perhaps you have even had a moment or two of sporting glory. If so, then you are justly entitled to take pride in it, for surely team sports are affairs of honor. But, alas, they are also matters of a certain primitive simplicity and structure. Consider: the field has but two goalposts. The teams have but two sides. The game is played out over a designated period of time, as governed by a single, simple rule book that is known and respected by referees and players alike. Some have said that sport is a metaphor for war, and war a metaphor for sport. This is not, I fear, the case, although it is a common American mistake to believe so. During the coming few weeks, I hope to disabuse you of this unfortunate error, because, you see, war, and most particularly the sort of warfare for which you gentlemen will be preparing yourselves, has rather more than two sides and rather more than two teams. Nor is there a single set of rules. The game you seek to learn is layered like an onion. Peel off a strip, and another awaits you. And another, and another. The man who seeks to find the secret heart of an onion, gentlemen, is a man who will be bitterly disappointed. For when he has peeled the onion to its heart, he
will hold in his hands nothing. The psychology of that particular truth can be most unsettling. It is my mission to ready you for it. I hope to teach you how to look beneath the surface of things, how to perceive how many layers the onion has, and how to recognize that it is the layers that are the soul of the onion. This is a matter of some urgency, gentlemen, because once you are out of the classroom and into such fresh hells as we will dispatch you, you will swiftly discover that beneath the surface of the game, another game is being played, and beneath that game another still. And their rules, gentlemen, ahh, all their rules will be very, very different.”

Mamba Jack Kreuter is too smart to send a green lieutenant, three weeks in-country, as officer in charge of an assassination mission across the DMZ. Dave Elliot works this much out while he is still in the colonel’s hooch. The fact of the matter is that the good colonel regards Dave as little more than a sacrificial lamb.

Not that Jack isn’t fair about it. He’s given Dave enough—just enough—information to reason his way to the truth.

Kreuter let slip the fact that the Russian Dave is supposed to kill is a KGB major. Kreuter also made it clear that the issue with the major is not his provisioning the VC, but rather the advice he’s giving them.

Question: What sort of advice would a KGB major be giving the Vietcong?

Answer: Advice based on KGB intelligence, intelligence being the stock-in-trade of the good old
Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti
.

Question: Where does the KGB get its intelligence from?

Answer: From agents and informers.

Dave sits in his own hooch, drinking warm beer as he puzzles it through. The Russian major is being fed his material by an informer—maybe one of the Vietnamese officers attached to Kreuter’s command, or maybe somebody else. Whoever it is has to be highly positioned and delivering
quality material. Neither Mamba Jack Kreuter nor any other commander would risk an incursion across the DMZ unless the intelligence loss was serious.

Question: How would you go about catching this particular traitor?

Answer: Set a trap to bag a senior Cong—or better yet, the Russian.

Question: What bait?

Answer: A team of expendable grunts led by an equally expendable lieutenant.

Dave is being sent north to lure the enemy out of his lair. Kreuter expects that he’ll blunder up through the boonies, get close enough to the Russian’s headquarters to attract some attention, and draw enough fire to cause some confusion. Meanwhile, a second American team—a larger one with more experienced leaders—will be flanking around the Russian’s base of operation. Once the shooting starts, they’ll move in and seize their prey. That is what the mission is all about.
“Beneath the surface of the game, another game is being played.… ”

Question: What do they call the bait they stake for the tiger?

Answer: A Judas goat.

Question: How many Judas goats get to eat tiger cutlets?

Answer: There’s always a first time.

Although he did not dream of onions, David Elliot awoke thinking of them. Or rather one in particular. Its top layer, he said to himself, was named Bernie Levy.

Tell me more
.

People like Ransome don’t send people like Bernie to do their dirty work for them. They do it themselves. That’s what they’re paid for. The only way that Ransome would have—could have—sent Bernie to kill me was if Bernie made a case, convinced him, argued him down. He and
Ransome probably battled it out. Bernie Levy is a stubborn man. God knows he is a stubborn man. Once he decides that something is right, he sticks with the decision.

That’s only part of the answer
.

The other part is what he said. “Bernie Levy blames himself, and God will not forgive.”

So?

Somehow Bernie thinks that he is responsible for Ransome wanting me dead. If he believes this nightmare is his fault, then he’d believe that killing me was his job. More than his job. His duty. Bernie’s an ex-Marine.
Semper Fidelis
. Duty has always been a big deal with him.

You think Bernie is behind this mess?

Maybe not. He might be just another victim, same as me. My guess is that he is. He had a choice between letting Ransome ice me or shooting me himself. When he came into my office, he was muttering and stammering about not having any alternative. That’s what he meant. He thought he owed it to me. I had to be killed because of a mistake
he
had made. He owed it to me to be the one who pulled the trigger. He owed it to me to not let a stranger do it.

Nice gesture
.

Honorable, I’d say. Bernie was taking the sin on his own soul. It would have been a point of conscience with him.

Okay, so what kind of ungodly hell has Bernie gotten himself into and how are you involved?

I don’t know. I can’t even guess.

You sure you didn’t witness a mob hit or something while my back was turned?

What have I seen? What have I heard? What do I know?

Someone walked overhead, across the raised floor of the computer room. A voice, male, tenor and unaccented,
called out: “It’s almost 3:30, people. El Supremo wants all of the ops staff in the conference room. He’s got a new decree that’s come down from on high.”

Someone sighed. “More salary cuts.”

“Yeah,” another person added. “To offset the growing burden of top management bonuses.”

“Look, people,” the tenor said, “I know it’s been rough around here, but at least we’ve still got our jobs.”

“At least until 3:30.”

The tenor ignored the wisecrack. “El Supremo says he needs an hour with you. Have we got anything major scheduled between then and now?”

A woman answered, “Nothing big, but there is an RJE run on the receivables that’s supposed to init at 4:00. It’s for Fort Fumble, our esteemed corporate headquarters.”

“Okay, Marge, you’re the one who runs that job anyway. You skip the meeting and handle it. I’ll stick around in case you need some help. El Supremo and I ride home together on the train. He can fill me in then. Everyone else, head ’em up and move ’em out. You know how much the boss hates people to be late for his meetings.”

A chorus of three or four voices broke into the opening chorus of
Showboat
, “Niggers all work on de …”

“Cut that out!”

Heels and soles clicked across the flooring tiles. Dave heard a door open and slam shut. It was quiet for a moment. Then steps came his way. Light, tapping—a woman’s shoes, the woman named Marge. She stopped just above his head.

The tenor spoke. “Do you run it from that console?”

“Em, yes.”

The man’s heavier footsteps thumped over Dave’s head. “That’s a 3178, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“I didn’t even know they still made those. Not exactly the right terminal for the job, is it?”

“Make do or do without. That’s the American Interdyne way.”

“Well, how do you …”

“Look, Greg, I’ve been handling this run all by my little lonesome for seven months. You don’t need to hang around. Why don’t you trot off to that meeting? Make El Supremo happy.”

Dave heard Greg scuff his toe across the tiles. “Well … Marge, the thing is that I didn’t really stay here to help you with the job run.”

“Oh?” Dave thought that Marge’s tone of voice turned a little sharp.

“Uh, yeah. Well, the thing is, Marge, that I … Look, I’ve said this before. You’re a good-looking girl, and I don’t think I’m a bad-looking guy.”

“So are Ken and Barbie, but they don’t come in the same box.” Dave guessed that these were the words of a woman who had held this particular discussion before.

“Come on, Marge. I’m your sort of guy, and you know it.”

“My sort of guy doesn’t have a wife and a kid in Great Neck.”

“I’ve already told you that’s history. You want evidence? Fine! I can show you the lawyer bills!”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“All I’m asking is that we go out together once or twice. Loosen up and have some fun. Have a few drinks, eat a nice dinner. Maybe take in a movie. Just get to know one another a little better. What’s wrong with that? Why won’t you even think about it?”

“Greg, let me make this very, very clear. I have thought about it. A lot.”

“Good. I knew that it couldn’t …”

“And I decided no.”

“What? Why?” Greg’s voice was a little louder than was polite.

“There aren’t any ‘whys,’ Greg. Just a plain old no.”

“You’re not taking me seriously. Listen, Marge, I am serious about this. Very serious. You’ve become important to me, and I won’t have … Hey! Don’t you walk away from me, lady!”

There was a scuffle. Marge’s voice was raised too,
higher than Greg’s. “Let go of me, Greg. Let go of me now!”

“Not until you settle down and listen up! Just who do you think you’re dealing with here anyway? I’m your boss, Marge. Have you forgotten that? I’m the guy who fills out your appraisal form and decides what kind of raise you get. I’m the one who kept you off the last round of layoffs. And if you want to be off the next round, lady, you’d better clean up your act!”

“What? Greg …”

“Forget what the White House says about the economy, babe. It’s a cold hard world out there, and good jobs aren’t that easy to find.”

“No, Greg. There’s some …”

“Especially if you’ve got a black mark on your record. On the other hand, Marge, if you stay with American Interdyne, there are opportunities. You might even get promoted if you play your cards right.”

“Someone else, Greg …”

“Screw him! Just screw your boyfriend, babe.”

“No. I mean behind you.”

Greg, who was holding Marge’s arm twisted behind her back, glanced over his shoulder.

David Elliot smiled at him, although not in a friendly way.

Nudging Greg with his toe, Dave confirmed that lover boy was down for the count.

He shook his wrist, trying to throw off the pain. The knuckles of his left hand were bruised, and blood beaded along his unbandaged wound.

Your hand is filthy. Along with everything else you’re going to get gangrene
.

After a last look at the quite unconscious Greg, Dave glanced up at Marge. His first thought was: great cheekbones. His second thought was: she’s going to scream
any second now. He blurted, “Hi, I’m Dave Elliot and I’ve been having a bad day.”

Marge’s jaw—square, firm, attractive—fell. Her green (deep green, emerald green, green as a small mountain lake) eyes, large behind oversized, rectangular, red-framed glasses, goggled. She opened and closed her mouth twice. No sound came out.

“Actually, a very bad day.”

Humor her. Act a little boyish, a little chagrined
.

Marge backed away. She made a limp gesture with her right hand, as if trying to push something away.

“I guess I look like a mess.”

Marge finally managed to mutter something. “Buster, you don’t know the half of it.”

“A really, really bad day.”

“And you smell.” She wrinkled her nose. Dave liked the way it wrinkled.

“Actually, it’s been the worst day of my life. Look, Marge—that’s your name, isn’t it?—Marge, if you back away any farther you’ll bump into the wall. What I’m going to do is to move over here, away from the door. So if you want to sort of sidle over to the exit, I’ll understand.”

Marge pursed her lips, giving him a narrow look. “Really?”

“Yup, really.” She was an attractive woman. Greg had gotten that part right. A little short, perhaps five foot three, but well proportioned. Black hair, glistening like polished coal, trimmed in an oriental bell cut. In her mid-twenties. Humorous green eyes and lips made to smile. A cute Jewish nose that was sort of, well, saucy, and …