Although Rodgers and August had seen one another only intermittently in the post-Vietnam years, each time they talked or got together it was as if no time had passed.
One or the other of them would bring the model airplane, the other would bring the paint and glue, and together they would have the time of their lives.
So when Colonel August said he thanked his old friend sincerely, Rodgers believed it. What he didn’t accept was the part that included “no.” “Brett,” Rodgers said, “look at it this way. Over the past quarter century, you’ve been out of the country more than you’ve been in. ‘Nam, the Philippines, Cape Canaveral– -” “That’s funny, General.” “—now Italy. And at a nowhere-near-state-of-the-art NATO base.” “I’m moving onto the luxurious Eisenhower at sixteen hundred hours to parlay with some French and Italian hotdogs. You’re lucky you caught me.” “Have I caught you?” Rodgers asked.
“You know what I mean,” August replied. “General—” “Mike, Brett.” “Mike,” August said, “I like being over here. The Italians are good people.” “But think of the great times we’ll have if you come back home,” Rodgers pressed. “Shit, I’ll even tell you the surprise I was saving.” “Unless it’s that Revell Messerschmitt Bf 109 model kit we were never able to find, there’s nothing you can offer me that—” “How about Barb Mathias.” There was an ocean-deep silence on the other end.
“I tracked her down,” said Rodgers. “She’s divorced, no kids, living in Enfield, Connecticut. She sells advertising space for a newspaper and says she’d love to see you again.” “You still know how to stack a deck, General.” “Hell, Brett, at least come back and let’s have a face- to-face about this. Or do I have to get someone over there to order you to come back?” “General,” Brett said, “it’d be an honor to command a team like Striker. But I’d be landlocked at Quantico most of the time, and that’d drive me crazy. At least now I get to travel around Europe and put my two cents in on various projects.” “Two cents?” Rodgers said. “Brett, you’ve got a million goddamn bucks in your head and I want that working for me. How often does anyone there even listen to what you have to say?” “Rarely,” August admitted.
“Damn right. You’ve got a better mind for tactics and strategy than anyone in uniform. You should be listened to.” “Maybe,” August admitted, “but that’s the Air Force.
Besides, I’m forty-five years old. I don’t know if I can go running around the Diamond Mountains in North Korea shooting down Nodong missiles, or chasing a train through Siberia.” “Horseshit,” Rodgers repeated. “I’ll bet you can still do those one-armed pushups you used to practice while we waited for planes at Bradley. Your own little astronaut training program.” “I can still do ’em,” August said, “though not as many as I used to.” “Maybe not, but they’re a whole lot more than I can do,” Rodgers said. “And they’re probably a lot more than the kids of Striker can do.” Rodgers leaned forward on his desk.
“Brett, come back and let’s talk. I need you here. Christ, we haven’t worked together since the day we enlisted.” “We built that model of the F-14A Tomcat two years ago.” “You know what I mean. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think we’d be a good fit. Look, you’ve wanted to have time to write a book about Vietnam. I’ll give you the time. You wanted to learn to play the piano. When are you going to do that?” “Eventually. I’m only forty-five.” Rodgers frowned. “Funny how the age thing cuts both ways for you.” “Isn’t it?” Rodgers drummed his desktop. He only had one more card to play, and he intended to make this one work. “You’re also homesick,” he said. “You told me so the last time you were here. What if I promise that you won’t be landlocked.
I’ve been wanting to send Striker on maneuvers with other special forces teams around the world. Let’s do it. We’re also working on a Regional Op-Center facility. When that’s up and running we’ll move you and Striker around. You can spend a month in Italy with all your Italian pals, then in Germany, in Norway—” “I’m doing that now.” “But for the wrong team,” Rodgers said. ” Just come back for a few days. Talk to me. Look over the team. You bring the glue, and I’ll bring the airplane.” August was quiet.
“All right,” he said after a long time, “I’ll work out leave with General DiFate. But I’m only coming back to talk and build the kit. No promises.” “No promises,” Rodgers agreed.
“And set up the dinner with Barb. You figure out how to get her to Washington.” “Done,” said Rodgers.
August thanked him and hung up.
Rodgers sat back. He smiled a big, comfortable smile.
After the run-in with Senator Fox and Martha, the General had felt like taking the Striker command job himself.
Anything to get out of this building, away from the political bullshit, to do something more than just sit on his ass. The prospect of working with August lifted him up. Rodgers didn’t know if he should be glad or ashamed at how easy it was to get in touch with the little boy in him.
The phone beeped.
He decided that as long as he was happy and doing his job, it didn’t matter whether he felt five years old or fortyfive.
Because as he reached for the phone, Rodgers knew that the happiness wouldn’t last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Thursday, 3:51 P.M., Hanover, Germany
Bob Herbert huffed a little as he wheeled himself away from his car.
Herbert didn’t have a motor on his wheelchair, and he never would. If he was ninety and frail, unable to wheel very far, he simply wouldn’t go very far. He felt that being unable to walk didn’t mean being incapacitated. While he was too old to try to do wheelies, like some of the kids in the rehabilitation center all those years ago, he didn’t like the idea of puttering around when he could wheel himself. Liz Gordon once told him that he was using that to flagellate himself because he had lived while his wife had died. But Herbert didn’t buy that. He liked moving under his own steam and he loved the endorphin rush he got from turning the millstone weight of the wheels. He had never been one to work out before the 1983 explosion, and this sure beat hell out of the biphetamines they used to take in Lebanon to stay awake in times of crisis. Which in Beirut was all the time.
As he guided himself up the slightly inclined street, Herbert decided against going to the registration desk and trying to sign up. He didn’t know a helluva lot about German law, but he guessed he didn’t have the right to harass these people. He did, however, have the right to go to a bar and order something to drink, which was what he intended to do.
That, plus find out what he could about the whereabouts of Karin Doring. He didn’t expect to wrest information from anyone, but loose lips really did sink ships. Outsiders were always amazed at how much intelligence one picked up simply by eavesdropping.
Of course, he thought, first you’ve got to get under the eaves to catch the drops. The crowd ahead might try to stop him. Not because he was in a wheelchair: he wasn’t born that way, he’d earned his disability serving his country.
They’d try to stop him because he wasn’t a German and he wasn’t a Nazi. But however much these hotshots wished it weren’t so, Germany was still a free nation. They’d let him into the Beer-Hall or they’d have an international incident.
The intelligence chief wheeled himself up the street behind the Beer-Hall and came at it from the opposite side.
That way, he didn’t even have to pass the registration area and see any more stiff armed salutes.
Herbert turned the corner and rolled toward the Beer- Hall, toward those two hundred or so men drinking and singing out front. The men nearest him turned to look at him. Nudges brought other heads around, a sea of youthful devils with contemptuous eyes and hard laughs.
“Fellows, look who is here! It is Franklin Roosevelt and he is searching for Yalta.” So much for no one making a comment about my disability, Herbert thought. Then again, there was always one clown in every group. It puzzled him, though, that the man had spoken in English. Then Herbert remembered what was written on his sweatshirt.
Another man raised his beer stein. “Herr Roosevelt, you are just in time! The new war has begun!” “Ja, ” said the first man. “Though this one will end differently.” Herbert kept wheeling toward them. In order to reach the Beer-Hall, he was going to have to go through these natty Hitler Youths. Less than twenty yards separated him from the nearest men.