World War III

Caffey knelt beside one of the cots where a soldier lay on his back, half his face covered with gauze so that only one eye was visible. His dog tags identified him as Pvt. William P. Toole. Caffey glanced at his buddy sitting against the edge of the cot. He was staring at the fire through the stove’s grate door, fingering a used plastic syringe. There weren’t any medics. “How is he, Private?”

“His cat’s gone, sir,” the private said. He didn’t look up. “He’s asleep now.” The young soldier glanced up. “There isn’t any more morphine, sir. He… he cries when he’s awake.”

“I’ll find you some more,” Caffey said. He looked up at Parsons. The lieutenant shook his head. “Give him Thorazine, then.” Caffey patted the private’s shoulder. “We’ll get him out of here soon.”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier nodded by rote.

Caffey climbed to his feet. “How many are we, Lieutenant?”

“Fifty-two, Colonel… that’s including the eleven wounded.”

They walked to the end of the hangar in silence. At the door Caffey looked back. “Goddamn,” he whispered in a choked voice.

“Do you want to say anything to them, sir?”

Caffey shook his head. He pulled the parka hood up. “I wouldn’t know what else to say.”

The wind whipped at the two figures as they fought their way across the runway to the cabin. They passed the cannibalized helicopter left over from the first raid. The tail rotor whistled above the storm, windmilling a shrill cacophony like the screams of a thousand demons, as the tie-downs strained to hold the machine to the tarmac. The ghost of Christmas past, Caffey thought bitterly, reminding him of his failures.

Kate was beside the radio operator as Caffey entered. “Anything?” he asked as he stomped his feet.

She shook her head.

“Keep at it.”

“We are, Jake,” she said wearily. “We are.”

Caffey slung his parka in a chair and moved to the fireplace. “We’re down to forty-one able bodies,” he said. “That includes you, me and Parsons. We’re out of morphine, compresses, bandages… Christ, we have people wrapped in fucking blankets and gut wounds held together with Band-Aids!”

“I know,” Kate said softly.

“They have to get something through to us! Anything!”

“We’re trying, Jake.”

Caffey touched his forehead to the mantle as he stared into the fire. “Goddamn them,” he said in a breath that was barely audible. “Goddamn them all.”

“This storm can’t last forever.” Kate moved beside him. “We’ll hear something soon. We have to.”

“They can’t take it,” Caffey said. “Those boys can’t do it again. I can’t do it again. One helicopter and a bucket of fuel is not going to stop those bastards.”

“You need rest, Jake. C’mon.” She took his arm.

“It’s the fucking cold,” Caffey said as he allowed himself to be lead to the Joneses’ bedroom. “It’s the cold and the snow and… goddamnit! I should have known! I should have hit them earlier… from a defensible position! We could have taken out the fucking rockets!”

Kate made him lie down. There were tears in her eyes. “Go to sleep, Jake. I’ll let you know if… when we get a call through. You have to rest.”

“They could drop us something,” Caffey mumbled. He rolled on his side, only half conscious. “We can’t send boys… against missiles.” He closed his eyes. “Tell… Cordobes… briefing at midnight.

We have to… think… something. There’s no morphine. Have… to have… morph…”

Exhaustion overcame him before he could finish another word. Kate draped a blanket over him and sat on the floor beside the bed. “Someone will come,” she said softly to his back. “Goddamn them, Jake Caffey, they have to come.” She touched his hair, smoothing the matted lumps. Then she closed her eyes and wept.

Milton Weston dialed the number from the study of his Washington residence. She’d written it down for him because it was an unlisted number.

The telephone rang only twice.

“Hello?”

“Miss Longworth, it’s Milt Weston.”

“Senator,” she said pleasantly. “What a surprise.”

“I wanted to talk to you—”

“Why don’t we meet somewhere, Senator,” she said quickly.

“No, this won’t take long. I called you at home because I knew you’d be alone.”

“I hope that wasn’t meant to be complimentary.”

“I spoke to Alan Tennant earlier this evening,” Weston said. “Alan and I go way back. He trusts me.”

“So?”

“We had a long talk.”

“Oh? And?”

“It isn’t good news.”

There was a pause. “Look, Senator, why don’t we meet somewhere?”

“No, I don’t think that would be wise.”

“The… Christ! Wait a second, Senator. Let me get a pen.”

Weston heard the phone bang against something. She was back in less than ten seconds. “Okay, Senator, I’m ready.”

“I’m only calling you because I think it is the proper thing to do under the circumstances. I want you to understand that. I wouldn’t otherwise make this call. But I think it’s more important that you get all this straight.”

“I understand exactly,” she said eagerly. “You said it was bad news. I knew—”

“I said it wasn’t good news. I meant that in a journalistic sense.”