But five minutes later there were absolutely no signs of civilization whatever, just a sea of treetops stretching to the horizon. If he went down here, he thought uneasily, he never would be found. Even if the plane exploded and burned, it would leave only a tiny black mark in the forest.

"'Take not counsel of your fears,'" he quoted aloud." Thank you General Patton, for that wise observation. Otherwise I would be wondering what the fuck I am doing here." Thirty minutes out of Stanleyville, he turned his AN/ARC-40 radio to the frequency he hoped Father Lunsford might be using.

He wouldn't be transmitting on it in any way that would allow Geoff to use the signal to home in on him. But it was possible, presuming Father's batteries were still hot, that he would periodically press the mike button a couple of clicks and then listen for Geoff's call.

There was nothing in his earphones but a hiss and an infrequent pop; not the sound of a carrier.

An hour out of Stanleyville, he saw a road-just short stretches of it not covered by the forest, but enough to convince him it was the now deserted road between Punia and the Lualaba River.

And then, less than a minute later, he flew across the southern end of the Punia airstrip. He came across it suddenly, shaming him for being so goddamned dumb that he hadn't thought to fly a couple of thousand feet higher to give him a wider view of the ground.

He flew out of sight of the field and then dropped even lower, now very much aware of his limitations as a pilot. It was his intention to fly across the field at a very low altitude so he could see better. That would require him to find the field by seat-of his-pants navigation. Pappy could have done it easily, and so, he thought, could Jack Portet. But he wasn't either of them. He was a brand-new pilot and over his fucking head.

And then he saw what looked like a wave in the treetops and banked toward it.

He'd found it.

A hundred feet off the treetops, he made a wide turn to the left and then lined up with the clearing and flew directly over it, as slow as he dared.

He didn't see a goddamned thing. Father Lunsford wasn't there.

And then he saw bulldozer tracks. Someone had worked on the runway. And then, just before he pulled up to get above the trees, he saw Father Lunsford near the end of the runway at the treeline, standing on the hood of a bulldozer and frantically waving his arms.

"Jesus," Geoff said, wiggled his wings, and stood the OlE on its wing to turn and line up with the runway. Sixty seconds later he was on the ground. Father Lunsford trotted out to the runway and to the plane as Geoff shut it down and climbed out.

They stood looking at each other for a moment. Geoff forced a smile: Father Lunsford looked like shit. He was wearing what once had been a white dress shirt. The sleeves had been ripped off just above the elbows, and it was stiff with filth. Over that he wore an unbuttoned vest, once part of a suit. He had a light brown snap-brim felt hat on his head. His cotton trousers looked as if they once might have been white. Around his waist was a brown leather belt from which hung a saber and a small .32 caliber automatic pistol with its trigger guard fastened to a snap fastener. And finally there was an FN 7mm assault rifle hanging from a frayed web strap around his shoulder. Sores and scabs, some of them suppurating, covered his face and neck and legs and belly.

"I look like shit, huh?'; Father Lunsford said. "Well, fuck you, Lindbergh."

"How are you, Father?" Geoff asked.

"Don't let it go to your head, white boy," Lunsford said, "but I'm glad to see you." Geoff nodded, unable to find his voice. And then they were hugging each other. An unpleasant smell, acrid, animal, came off Lunsford.

"You stink," Geoff said.

"You been running around in the jungle like Tarzan, you'd stink, too," Lunsford said. "You got any booze?" Geoff went to one of the hardpoints and released one of the drop packets.

"There's two quarts of booze, one gin and one Scotch, in here," he said. "More or less cleverly disguised as medicinal alcohol."

"What about the real thing?"

"A quart of that, too. And there's penicillin and some other antibiotics, pills and stuff I can shoot you with. And some rations."

"What I need is some slant-eyed lovely in Bangkok cooing sympathetically as she gently dabs at my skin with some ancient and mysterious balm," Lunsford said. "Remember that? The hot water? The tile bath?"

"I remember," Geoff said. "And she stole three hundred jacks."

"Well, that shit she had, whatever it was, worked. It was worth the three hundred. I wish I had some of it now." He stripped out of his clothing.

"Since I'm stuck with you, soak a bandage in alcohol and wipe the sores," he said.

"What are they?" Geoff asked. "Just insect bites?"

"Who the fuck knows?" Lunsford said, holding up two plastic quart bottles filled with clear liquid. "Which is which?"

"The label on the one with the gin has a corner torn off," Geoff said.

Lunsford handed him the other one, unscrewed the cap of the one with gin, and took a healthy swallow.

"I don't suppose you brought me any mail?" Lunsford asked.

"Yeah, in the other drop bag." Lunsford's eyes lit up.

"Father, I got to take it back with me," Geoff said. "Or burn it."

"Take it back," Lunsford said. "I'll read it later."

"Why don't you come back with me? You're all fucked up."

"Jesus, I'd like to Geoff."

"Then come just get in the goddamned airplane. In an hour you can be in a hot bathtub. I can probably even arrange for a native damsel to rub balm on you."

"Lieutenant, you are speaking to an honor graduate of the Command and General Staff College. What would my fellow future leaders of the Army think of me if it got out that I quit my post before being properly relieved, just because I was being eaten up by hordes of mysterious and poisonous insects?"

"Fuck 'em."

"With an attitude like that, Lieutenant, you will never rise to a position of great trust and responsibility."

"Fuck 'em, Father, come on out. I'll bring you back in a couple of days."

"When I get out of here, Geoff, I'm never coming back," Lunsford said, his voice now serious.

"Send in somebody else, then. Your exec."

"He'd last about three minutes. He speaks Swahili only, for one thing. And that badly. I don't particularly like the fucker, between you and me, but I don't think that's enough reason to put his liver on the Olenga ration."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that certain elements of General Olenga's forces practice cannibalism, is what it means. They like liver."

"Christ! "

"And you thought the VCs were bad guys? Or that the 'Nungs were primitive?"

"Another reason to get out, then, for Christ's sake!"

"Not yet, Geoff," Lunsford said. "Give me my mail."

"Why not?"

"They keep talking about 'the arms coming,'" Lunsford said.

"I'm beginning to believe them. I want to get my hands on some of those arms. Or catch me a Chinaman delivering them. Proof that some striped-pants sonofabitch in Washington won't be able to explain away."

"You can't do that yourself," Geoff said. "Who do you think you are, John Wayne?"

"I can try."

"Come on, Father, you're talking out of your asshole."

"Lieutenant, no further comments on the subject from you are desired or will be tolerated," Father Lunsford said. "Do I make myself clear?"

Geoff just met his eyes.

"The response expected from you, Lieutenant," Lunsford said, "is, 'Yes, Sir.'"

"Yes, Sir," Geoff said after a moment.

"Now give me my fucking mail and go take a piss or something while I read it," Lunsford said, punching Geoff affectionately on the arm.

Thirty minutes later the unmarked OlE took off from Punia.

When First Lieutenant Geoffrey Craig last saw Captain George Washington Lunsford, C&GSC '63, he was standing at the edge of the jungle, leaning on a tree. At the final moment, as Geoff flashed past him, he took his snap-brim fur felt cap from his head and made a sweeping bow.

He was just a little drunk. Whenever Father Lunsford had half a bag on, he got a little silly. When Geoff turned and flew over the Punia strip again, Father Lnnsford had disappeared back into the jungle.

II.

Two) Leopoldville, Democratic Republic of the Congo 19 July 1964 Captain Jean-Philippe Portet and Lieutenant Geoffrey Craig were having dinner at the Cercle Sportif when Geoff was summoned to the telephone. He was pretty sure he knew who it was.

When Geoff and Pappy Hodges had returned from Stanleyville and reported to Colonel Dills, Dills had told them it was rime to let the Attache in on what was happening. In addition to the brief, relatively informal report they had given to Dills himself and which he would send to STRICOM, he had ordered Pappy to prepare a more formal and comprehensive report, this one addressed to the Ambassador through channels-in other words, through the Military Attache.

Pappy Hodges had naturally told Geoff to do the report for him, cheerfully admitting that writing anything longer than his signature on a check was beyond his literary talents. By now, Geoff reasoned, the report had had time to reach the Attache, and the Attache wanted to talk to him about it before he sent it on to the Ambassador.

Typical Army/Government bullshit, Geoff thought. The Ambassador already knew what the report said. Dills had gone right from the airport, where he had met them, to see the Ambassador.

But the Attache didn't know that; and the Ambassador would probably pretend surprise when he got the report. That was easier than telling the Attache that things had been going on under his nose that they hadn't wanted him to know about.

"Lieutenant Craig," Geoff answered the phone, in the proper military manner.

"When I called the house," a voice with a slight but unmistakable German accent said, "they told me where you were."

"Where are you?" Geoff asked after a moment's hesitation.

"In a bar on the Boulevard Leopold," Karl-Heinz Wagner said. "The Cricou."

"How much time do you have?"

"A hour, maybe two. But not more."

"OK," Geoff said. "You walk out of the bar. People will try to sell you ivory and jade. Act interested. Stand by the sidewalk.

I'll be there in ten minutes, either in a Buick or in a taxi. Watch for it." Karl-Heinz hung up without another word.

Geoff went back into the dining room.

"I hate to ask, but can I have the car for a couple of hours?" he asked Jean-Philippe Portet.

"Of course," Jean-Philippe said. If he had asked why, Geoff realized, I would have said I couldn't tell him. But he didn't ask, at least not out loud.

"That was Ursula's brother," he said. "He's at a bar on the Boulevard Leopold." Jean-Philippe met his eyes. "I heard Hoare was in town," he said evenly. "I think it would be better if you-if we-took him out to the house."

"I didn't know Hoare was here," Geoff said.

"I don't think Tshombe wants it known," Jean-Philippe said.

Moise Tshombe had become Premier on July 15. "I'm surprised they let your brother-in-law out of the hotel."

"Tshombe told you?" Geoff asked, genuinely surprised.

"Who do you think went and got him?" Jean-Philippe said with a smile. "Hoare could hardly arrive on the afternoon flight from Jo'burg arid go through customs. People know his face."

"Jesus Christ."

"I didn't know your brother-in-law was with him," Jean Philippe said. "But I'm not surprised. There's six of them, counting Hoare."

"You didn't say anything," Geoff said.

"I thought it was one of those things we just didn't talk about," Jean-Philippe said. "And I will stay here and catch a ride there if you think that's best."

"To hell with it. Come on. And thank you." In the Buick during the short ride downtown, Geoff told Jean Philippe exactly what Karl-Heinz was doing with Hoare.

"I can "See the reasoning," Jean-Philippe said. "But does everybody, especially your brother-in-law, know how dangerous this is? Some of the people around Hoare are really dangerous."

"My brother-in-law has the balls of an elephant," Geoff said.

"Elephants get shot," Jean-Philippe said, and then a moment layrt added: "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

When he drove past the Cricou Bar, Geoff saw Karl-Heinz on the sidewalk, surrounded by four Africans trying to sell him the usual jade, and native crafts. He tapped the Buick's horn and continued on down the Boulevard Leopold to the railway station, where he made a U-turn and headed back.

When he pulled to the curb, Karl-Heinz jumped in the back seat and a moment later they were back in the stream of traffic.

Jean-Philippe turned to face Karl-Heinz. "We're going out to the house," he said. "No one will see us there. And I will send you back downtown in a taxi." "You flew the plane," Karl-Heinz said.

"Yes," Jean-Philippe said. "I did."

"What about your wife?"