"I'm just curious," said Bob finally, and Russ knew that he'd played out the whole long hand, nursed the man's vanities and ego, gotten through the bullshit lecture on "individual heroism vs. team spirit and body count" to get to this point at last, "what sort of administrative control could there have been on the units themselves? Was it standard infantry arms-room administration; was it more stringent? Who actually controlled controlled the units? The actual M-3s?" the units? The actual M-3s?"

"Technically, I did, though the true administration of the project fell in the hands of my first sergeant, whose name was Ben Farrell. Very good NCO. Killed outside Da Nang in '64."

"Who controlled the arms-room keys?"

"Well ... what does this have to do with anything?"

There was an awkward moment.

Then Russ said, "The truth is, we think there's a movie potential for this book. And the reason I wanted to talk about night vision was that I had an idea for a funny scene. Young soldiers break into the armory and steal some night-vision devices. They use them to spy on a WAC encampment, some girls with nice tits. Tits and ass. That's the kind of wacky stuff the movies love."

"Oh, Lord," said the general. "Why don't you just make it up? What do you need my help for?"

"Sergeant Swagger insisted that everything be at least based in reality."

"Well, I can assure you nobody used our our hardware to spy on WACs and if you knew anything about the WACs of the fifties, you wouldn't want to spy on hardware to spy on WACs and if you knew anything about the WACs of the fifties, you wouldn't want to spy on them them either." either."

"We could make it nurses," said Russ. "Would that be better?"

The general made a face of disgust. "Hollywood," he said. "No, it's impossible. There were only two arms-room keys. Three, I assume the base commander had one but he paid us no mind. We had our shop, our barracks space and use of three range facilities and various field assault courses. The only two keys were controlled by First Sergeant Farrell and myself and he was a Prussian in the discipline department. No one used those weapons without our permission or knowledge. Which means no one used them, period."

Bob veered away from the point.

"Did you find the units equally effective?"

"No," said the general, relaxing somewhat, and expelling a long whoosh of dark smoke, and went on to explain the difference in the units, the difference in the lots of ammunition, the difference in the three carbines themselves.

It went on like that, Russ pretending to keep notes, Bob prodding with gentle questions, up to and including the general's astonishingly successful stewardship of the Tiger-cat Sniper School, the record number of kills racked up once the mounting problems for the Starlight on the M-21 were solved, and so on.

Late in the afternoon, Bob circled in for another pass.

"Could we just get back to BLACK L LIGHT one more time, sir?" he asked. one more time, sir?" he asked.

"Certainly, Sergeant," said the general.

"We agreed, the young man and I, that this book would be better if there were some personalities in it. So I'm thinking: there at Chaffee in '54 '55: any outstanding personalities involved? How big a team was it? Who were they?"

"The usual. Good men. Toward the end, representatives from Varo Inc. and Polan Industries, who ultimately got the initial Starlight scope contracts. Some civilians TDY from Army Warfare Vision at Fort Devens. You know, I have a picture. Is that interesting to you?"

"Yes, sir. Like to see it."

"It's over here, on the wall."

He led them to the wall and pointed the picture out. Like the others it was a mixed group of civilians and soldiers standing and kneeling; Preece himself, much thinner but somehow rawer, crouched in the front row, holding the carbine with the huge optical device mounted. He wore army-green fatigues with his name on a white name tag and one of those goofy turret caps that were issue in the fifties. The men around him were doughy, unimpressive, unmemorable: they looked like NASA flight controllers, faintly ridiculous in the casual clothes of the era, mostly short-sleeved white shirts with slacks and lumpy oxfords.

"I should have had them write their names down," the general said with a laugh. "I only recognize a few. That's Ben Farrell. That's Bob Eadings, of Polan."

"Who's that one?" asked Bob, pointing to a kneeling figure at the edge of the photograph, a young man with a certain pugnacious set to his square, blocky head, who looked strong beneath his clothes and had a set of fiercely burning eyes.

"That guy," said Preece. "Lord, I remember him. He was from Motorola, I think. He was only on the project for two weeks but it happened to be the two weeks we took the picture. I cannot for the life of me remember the name." guy," said Preece. "Lord, I remember him. He was from Motorola, I think. He was only on the project for two weeks but it happened to be the two weeks we took the picture. I cannot for the life of me remember the name."

"Were all these men shooters?" Russ asked.

"No, not really. Ben Farrell was a very good shot. Not exceptional, but excellent."

"Who did the shooting? Was it a team?"

"Oh, there was only one shooter," said the general, exhaling a long flume of smoke like a dragon's breath. "Me."

After they had gone, the general sat very still for a time. His cigar burned out and he didn't touch it. He didn't call his girlfriend or his daughter or his divorced wife or his lawyer or any of the men on his board of directors or his head engineer or any of the old boys in his sniper cadre.

Finally, he got up, opened the cabinet behind his desk, took out a bottle of Wild Turkey and poured himself a tall glass. He sat, looking at it for a time, and then reached for it, noting, as he drew it to his lips, that his hands were still shaking.

24.

Some dang days a fella couldn't win. Duane, going on just a few hours' sleep after having spent all day yesterday bouncing around Polk County on the tail of old Sam, plus answering a few unavoidable police calls, was bushed; but he was up and at it early this morning, on his ordered sweep across all the commercial establishments he could find along the Etheridge Parkway corridor.

Yet he struck pay dirt early enough.

Goddamn, he thought, when the Indian day-clerk woman at the Days Inn at Parkway Exit 7 said yes, an older man and a younger man had checked into a room yesterday at around ten. Was there anything wrong?

Duane puffed and acted like some sort of important investigator, and pretty much bullied the poor woman-she was foreign, with some kind of fucking dot dot on her head, so what difference did it make?-into giving up the whole story. They'd checked in at ten, the boy disappeared for most of the afternoon, the man made long-distance phone calls all day and they'd left about six in a truck loaded with sleeping bags and, technically, still had a contract on the room, at least until checkout time, noon. on her head, so what difference did it make?-into giving up the whole story. They'd checked in at ten, the boy disappeared for most of the afternoon, the man made long-distance phone calls all day and they'd left about six in a truck loaded with sleeping bags and, technically, still had a contract on the room, at least until checkout time, noon.

She remembered, because usually they don't rent rooms before one, but the tall man had insisted.

Duane asked to see the phone records, though he didn't have a subpoena. Fortunately, the woman was too stupid to know or too indifferent to care. In his notebook, he wrote down the numbers in his big silly handwriting, like a child's.

He thanked her, helped himself to a free cup of coffee and by ten was on the phone.

He gave his report to the answering machine, including the numbers, then sat back waiting for praise. It didn't come.

The phone rang.

"Peck, where are you now?"

"Well, sir, uh, I'm in the parking lot of the Days Inn."

"Git back down to Blue Eye. You stay with the old man today, you understand? You let me know what he's up to."

That was it: no nice going, nicely done, good job, just get back on the job.

Damn, you couldn't please please some folks. some folks.

Red Bama had experts everywhere; that was one of the pleasures of being Red Bama. So he called one, a communications specialist formerly of Southwestern Bell who handled telephone problems for him, and inside half an hour had a make on the phone calls Bob had made.

One was to the Pentagon, the office of Army Historical Archives. The other was to a firm in Oklahoma, called JFP Technology. It took another couple of calls to get to the product line and meanings of JFP Technology.

When he did, he whistled.

Fucking Swagger was smart smart. He was inside this deal already, and getting closer and closer to secrets so carefully and professionally buried over forty years ago. This was a powerful antagonist, the best that had come against Red in many a year.

Next, Red made a call to a lawyer he knew in Oklahoma City, a good man who was, as they say, in the life. The lawyer, for a not unsubstantial fee, was quickly able to hire a licensed private detective, and on a crash basis the detective set up a surveillance at JFP after establishing, in the parking lot, the presence of a green Dodge pickup with an odd unpainted fender license number Arizona SCH 2332.

The lawyer reported back to Red, who took a bit of a moment to appreciate what he'd brought off-I found you, you tricky bastard! and then issued further, and very specific, orders. and then issued further, and very specific, orders.

"I want one thing and one thing only. Just the time they leave that office as determined from an observation site as far away as possible. I do not want do not want, and let me say that again because I love the sound of my own damn voice, I do not want do not want any tail jobs or moving surveillance. Nobody's to follow. This boy is too tricky," he told the lawyer. "I don't know what kind of men you got in Oklahoma City-" any tail jobs or moving surveillance. Nobody's to follow. This boy is too tricky," he told the lawyer. "I don't know what kind of men you got in Oklahoma City-"

"Good men, Mr. Bama."

"Yeah, well, not that that good. This boy is very, very smart and he has instincts for aggression you would not believe. I guarantee you: he will see any kind of tail you put on and if he does, every damn thing upcoming will fall apart. Is that understood?" good. This boy is very, very smart and he has instincts for aggression you would not believe. I guarantee you: he will see any kind of tail you put on and if he does, every damn thing upcoming will fall apart. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," said the lawyer.

"The time is very important. Meanwhile, I will think this thing through," said Bama, "and if I need your services I'll call you back. I will expect you to be available."

"Mr. Bama, you've never talked to a more available man."

"They do grow 'em good in Oklahoma City, then," Bama said.

He put down the phone in his little office, took another sip of rancid bar coffee and then felt something very strange upon his face.

By God, it was a smile.

He was happy happy. He was as happy as he'd been in, say, years. Other than the success of his children, nothing filled him with more delight than a good challenge. And, oh boy, was this Bob Lee Swagger proving out.

He tried to apply his purest intelligence to the problem.

The key was what time they left that visit to JFP. If they left soon, they could easily make it back to Blue Eye before dark, which was not good, because he didn't think he could manipulate his elements and set up what he had in mind fast enough. And everything had to be in place And everything had to be in place. If they came back later, it would be a night drive. He didn't like that at all. He did not want to set up an after-dark hit. Too tricky on the open road. In the city was a different matter, but on the open highway, in the country, at night with a tricky bastard like Bob Lee Swagger, it got real iffy and if the thing fell apart, who knew when he'd get another chance?

So: hope they spend another night in Okie City and come back in the morning. That gets them into the area around midafternoon, which would give him plenty of time.

So: assume they'll come back to Blue Eye from Oklahoma City tomorrow. Next question: which route would they take? Any normal man would do the normal thing, the dogleg: take U.S. 40 like a shot over to Fort Smith, then veer south on the parkway that Hollis had named for his daddy down to Blue Eye. Or maybe, out of sentimentality, Bob would pass up on the new road and choose the slower, more awkward Route 71; his father had died on that road, maybe he would too. But he doubted Bob would feel that sentimental. Bob's nature was essentially practical; sentiment was for late at night, when the day was done.

Red wished he knew how they'd got there in the first place; Swagger wasn't the kind of man to come the same way twice. He pored over the map, wishing he had something more expressive, more revealing. He wanted data, information, numbers, facts, he wanted to drown himself in them.

He saw quickly enough that there were really only two other routes into Blue Eye. Both were more or less direct east-west roads, though much smaller than the Fort Smith route. Both involved dropping down from U.S. 40 to McAlester, then heading east on a two-lane blacktop to Talihina. Shortly thereafter, they diverged: One, Oklahoma 1, followed the crest of the Ouachitas from Talihina fifty-seven miles into Arkansas, where it turned into Arkansas 88. It would be a high road, a couple of thousand feet up, with plenty of visibility. It was called, combining the names of the towns on either of its ends, the Taliblue Trail, and the state had designated it as a beautiful road, with mountain vistas on either side. He had driven it himself in a Porsche he once owned and had a goddamned great old time.

The other road, Oklahoma 59, crossed Oklahoma 1 at about the halfway point, then became Route 270 as it cut east and ran parallel to 1/88 on the valley floor beneath it, eventually linking up with 71 a little above Blue Eye. He realized that was the road off of which Bob's Blue Eye property lay, where the man now had his trailer. Maybe he'd go that way and set up again at his trailer. That That was the logical way. Or was it? was the logical way. Or was it?

He looked at it: very simple. High road or low road. He didn't have enough people to play it both ways, at least not under the mandate of maximum firepower.

High road or low road?

And then he knew the answer.

He's a sniper sniper. He's a shooter shooter. He works by seeing. His whole life is built on seeing. The input he gets from the world is all visual information, which he processes and from which he makes his decisions. He sees and he likes to see things a long way off. He doesn't like surprises. He likes to be be the surprise. the surprise.

The high road.

A plan formed in his mind. Three cars and a truck, coming from different directions, snaring Bob in the middle, ramming him off the road, burying him with full automatic fire. Ten men firing full automatic in the first second after the crash.

The phone rang.

"Hello."

"Sir?"

It was the lawyer in Oklahoma City.

"Yes?"

"They just left."

Ray looked at his watch. Jesus, it was after five. They weren't going to drive home tonight. He'd won!

"Good work."

"Sir, we found the rooms they rented. The Holiday Inn, near the airport."

"I told you-"

"Very discreet, Mr. Bama. No direct inquiries were made. We were able to get into the chain hotel computer directories. They reserved their rooms for two nights. Checkout time ten A.M A.M. tomorrow."

"Good work," said Bama. "Are you looking for a job?"

"Mr. Bama, I'm very happy where I am."

"The check is in the mail, then."

"I know your word is good."

"It's good in every city in this country," Red said, hanging up. He quickly dialed Jorge de la Rivera.

"Yes?"

"The team is ready?"

"Yes sir. All stood down, relaxed. The girls you sent over went over real nice. They all been fucked or sucked, they all been fed, their weapons are cleaned."

"Here's how it's going down. It'll be tomorrow, midafternoon, on Oklahoma 1, about ten miles east of the 259 crossroads. It's called the Taliblue Trail. Nice high mountain road, not heavily traveled, should be nice and private and wide open. You site your cars in opposite directions and let him get in the middle, then you close in on him so he's got no place to run. You'll want to take him off the road and get the guns working overtime right away. You want to bury him. You've got the advantage of both surprise and firepower."

"It sounds very good. Muy bueno Muy bueno. Easy to do. We get him for you. But sir-how will we know he's coming?"