World War III

Caffey nodded. He searched for something on his desk. “Now, George, there are some other loose ends I’d like to get straightened out.” He found some pages clipped together and handed them over to Devery. “Did you mark these ‘priority’?” Devery glanced through the papers using one hand. He still held the doughnut in the other. “I believe I did, sir. Colonel Klugen left some things for you that he said were priority.” He looked sheepishly at Caffey. “The deputy brigade commander has always handled matters like this.”

“Well, then, let’s handle them. I don’t want to patronize this job, do I, George?”

“Ah, no, sir.”

“Priority number one,” Caffey said, holding a memo before him and reading from it, “To executive officer acting as DEC’—me—” he said ‘“reply necessary in response to correspondence from Mrs. M. Burrows 7/23, 8/5, 8/19, 8/28 and 10/8. Information concerning the welfare of her son, Bernard A. Burrows, E-Three, Private First Class, Platoon eight, 171st Infantry Brigade. Request for explanation of her son’s lack of letter-writing.’ Etcetera, etcetera. ‘Please investigate.’” He looked at Devery. “Have we investigated?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“As far as we can determine, Colonel, there doesn’t seem to be any E-Three Private First Class Bernard A. Burrows in the 171st Infantry Brigade… or the 172nd, or the 22nd Aviation Battalion.”

“Have you tried the Coast Guard?”

“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t think—”

“Order of the day, Captain,” Caffey interrupted. “Find Burrows at any cost.”

“Yes, sir.” Devery nodded as if he were making a special mental note. “Colonel, ah, we do have a Bernie Burrows… no middle initial.” Caffey looked at him incredulously. “What?”

“He isn’t an E-Three, sir. He’s an E-Two. He’s a clerk typist… works down the hall.”

“Burrows? Our Burrows!”

“But no middle ini—”

“I’ll give him an initial!” Caffey stomped to the door.

“Some of the work here is more interesting, Col—”

“Burrows!” Caffey yelled into the hall. “Bernie Burrows, you sonofabitch, wherever you are! Write your mother — or I’ll ship you to an ice floe on the

Bering Strait!” He slammed the door and turned to

Devery. “Now, Captain, what other priority work have we to do?”

The call Caffey expected came less than an hour later. It was General Roberts, and he wasn’t happy.

“Caffey, get over here on the double!”

Caffey didn’t have time to reply because the line disconnected.

“I’ll be in the general’s office,” he said to Devery as he passed the captain’s office. He walked slowly, adjusting his tie. Roberts wanted efficiency and no initiative, that’s what he got.

Roberts’s office was three times the size of Caffey’s. The walls were covered with unit citations, plaques, photographs and two enormous flags flanked his desk. The general was standing before a huge map, following some line with his finger. As Caffey entered, Roberts spun around in a rage.

“What the hell are you doing down there, Caffey?” he said. His face was slightly red. A large cigar was burning in his ashtray. “Jesus Christ, I just spoke to Major Davis in Records and he tells me you’ve requisitioned a complete file re verification. Personnel says you want an update on the survival training status of every man in the brigade. And my secretary said something about a lunatic hollering in the corridors for the head of — he stopped to glance at a note on his desk—”a Private B. A. Burrows.” He looked at Caffey with fire in his eyes. “What the hell’s going on!”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Caffey said. “Colonel Klugen left a list of items to be looked after by his replacement. Priority marked.”

“That square-headed sonof—” Roberts shook his head. “Never mind. Look, Colonel, I told you we had a smooth operation here. I don’t want you or anyone else fucking it up. Understand?”

“Understood.”

“Damn better be.”

“Is that all, General?”

“No, goddamnit! I’ll tell you when I’m finished.” He took his cigar from the ashtray and puffed it several times until he’d produced a heavy cloud of smoke around his head. “We’ve got other problems.” He walked to the map and jabbed a finger in the northwest section — the Philip Smith Mountains.

“Here,” Roberts said gruffly.

Caffey moved closer. “What’s the problem?”

“We have a company on competitive maneuvers up there. Four National Guard squads were on a timed march and reconnaissance sweep of this area.” Caffey studied the map. “And?”

“Three squads returned to the fire base. One’s missing.”

“Any contact?”

“No. The weather is terrible up there. Communications are all screwed up. NORAD reported they lost one of their Dewline stations. They went down for repairs and were never heard from again. And nobody can get to them until this weather clears.”

“A NORAD radar site,” Caffey said to himself. He glanced over the map again. “How long has that squad been missing?”

“Last contact was 0600 yesterday.”

“Is it an experienced squad of men?”