They exchanged looks again.

"How does the Goddamned Widow feel about Benning?" Father asked. "Is she pissed because you came here, or with you being in the Army, period?"

"Me being in it, period. She says she can't go through having another husband blown away-put Allan through that again."

"It's up to you, pal," Lunsford said. "When Jack brings the L-23 back, you can go to Rucker with the understanding that if you can't get your act together, you're out of here."

Oliver nodded.

"What have I got to lose?" Oliver said. "Thank you, Father."

"There is yet another option," Father said. "Which I don't think will interest you."

"Which is?"

"I have been satisfying my carnal hungers with the Puerto Rican nurse in C-27."

"Good for you."

"She has a roommate," Lunsford said. "Who has expressed an interest in you."

"Bullshit."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Lunsford said. "I'm headed there now. Maybe a little piece-i-e piece-would relieve the pressure on your gonads and clear your brain." piece-would relieve the pressure on your gonads and clear your brain."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"I'm desperate, pal. I don't want to lose you."

Oliver looked at him for a long moment.

"For the absolutely last time," Oliver said finally. "I'll try to get her on the phone. And if what I think will happen happens, I'll join you in C-27."

"And go to Rucker later? Overwhelmed with shame and remorse? "

"If what I think will happen happens, I won't be going to Rucker."

Lunsford nodded.

"One last word. If what you and I both think will happen happens, and I come back here and find you shitfaced, that'll be it."

"Understood."

"Give me a couple of minutes for a quick shower and some cologne behind my ears, and I'll be out of here," Father said.

Five minutes later, Lunsford, now in a sport coat and slacks, stood at the apartment door.

"I hope it works out, pal," he said, and then left.

Oliver stared at the door for a moment, then looked at the television, saw what was playing, uttered a disgusted "Shit," and turned the television off.

He walked to the telephone, looked down at it for a long moment, then picked up the receiver and dialed.

"This is it," he said aloud when it started to ring. "Whatever happens, this is it."

After the fifth ring, Liza's voice informed him that she was sorry she was not at home, but if he left his name and number, she would get back to him just as soon as she could.

He put the receiver back in its cradle.

"Fuck it," he said aloud. "I don't know what the hell I would say if you did answer the goddamned phone."

Well, I can still fly down there tomorrow, or whenever Jack brings the L-23 back, and face her face-to-face.

Fuck that! I've made enough of an ass of myself. I said that would be it, that was it.

The Heineken bottle was on the chair side table.

I will finish that beer, and I will have another one, or two, with the girls in C-27. If I can't handle that, and get shitfaced, I will admit I can't handle the booze, and will join Alcoholics Anonymous.

And who knows, maybe Father is right, a piece of ass might be just what I need to come to my senses. And I suspect that the other Puerto Rican nurse will be a very interesting roll in the hay.

He drained the Heineken and went into his bedroom, stripped, showered, and was almost dressed when the doorbell rang.

What the hell is that?

Did Father, knowing that what we both knew would happen, happened, come back to hold my hand? To make sure I stayed off the sauce?!

He went to the door, opened it, and said after a moment, "What's this?"

Liza Wood was standing there, holding Allan's hand. There were four suitcases on the floor beside them.

"What does it look like?" Liza asked. "It's a goddamned camp follower and her fatherless child."

He didn't know what to do, or trust his voice to speak, so he scooped Allan up, and growled in his neck.

"Horsey, Johnny," Allan said. Johnny," Allan said.

He swung the child so that he was on his shoulders, and then he put his arms around Liza and held her tight against him, and the three of them bounced up and down together.

[ TWO ].

SECRET SECRETCentral Intelligence Agency Langley, VirginiaFROM: Assistant Director For Administration Assistant Director For AdministrationFROM: 25 January 1965 1510 GMT 25 January 1965 1510 GMTSUBJECT : Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #37.) TO: Mr. Sanford T. Felter Mr. Sanford T. Felter Counselor To The President Room 637, The Executive Office Building Washington, D.C.By CourierIn compliance with Presidential Memorandum to The Director, Subject: "Ernesto 'Che' Guevara," dated 14 December 1964, the following information is furnished:(Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA Conraky, Guinea) SUBJECT departed Conraky 1525 GMT 24 January 1965 aboard chartered aircraft, announced destination, Cotonou, Dahomey.

Howard W. O'Connor HOWARD W. O'CONNORSECRET [ THREE ].

Apartment B-14 Foster Garden Apartments Fayetteville, North Carolina 1735 27 January 1965 As Mrs. Jacques Portet put her key in the lock of B-14, she had a sudden chill. Jack expected her. They had telephoned an hour before to report themselves an hour out of Fayetteville. Jack was a lunatic. That translated to the very real possibility of him answering the door in his birthday suit, with a lustful leer on his face.

Ordinarily, she would have been privately pleased, but Captain Darrell J. Smythe was standing behind her. Despite her assurances that she could make it from his Buick to her door without assistance, he had insisted on walking up with her.

Captain Smythe, she had learned, was something of a prig.

When Marjorie pushed the door open she found her husband fully clothed, sitting on the living room floor. Also sitting on the floor was Major George Washington Lunsford. Major Lunsford was assisting Master Allan Wood in the driving of a toy, wire-controlled M-48 tank. Lieutenant Portet was in command of a toy, wire-controlled Russian T-34 tank. There were three bottles of Heineken beer sitting upright on the carpet.

Terrain had been improvised using pillows from the couch, a silver champagne cooler, three empty Heineken bottles lying on their sides, and an empty Heineken six-pack.

"Hey there, Jeremiah," Major Lunsford called. "You're armor. Come on in and give Jack a hand; Allan and I are whipping his . . . armor tactics."

"Hi, Aunty Marjie," Allan called.

"Hi, sweetheart," Marjorie replied tenderly. And then, less tenderly: "What's going on here?" and then, as Allan reached for one of the upright Heineken bottles, "My God, you're not giving that child beer?"

Allan picked up a Heineken bottle, cried, "Beer, beer, beer," and took a healthy swig.

Marjorie ran to take it away from him.

"As in root beer, light of my life," Jack said. "What did you think?"

"What's he doing here?" Marjorie asked.

"Allan's mommy and uncle Johnny are discussing world ecological problems in my apartment," Father said. "We are taking care of Allan."

"If she sees him drinking out of that beer bottle, she'll be furious, " Marjorie said.

"God, I hope so," Father said. "Johnny may have forgiven her, but Jack and I damned sure haven't."

"When did she get here?" Marjorie asked. "What's going on?"

"She confessed, in the few minutes we've seen either of them, that she was inspired by our married bliss when we called," Jack said. "Actually, what she said was that when we didn't talk about Johnny, she thought there was something wrong. She was too proud to ask, of course, but after we left, especially when Allan wanted to know where Johnny was, and threw a fit when she told him he was going to have to forget about Johnny-"

"Oh, God," Marjorie said.

"-she realized (a) that had been selfish of her and (b) that she really cared about him, leading her to conclude (c) that she would really rather be a camp follower after all, and immediately loaded Allan in the car and came here."

"I'll be damned," Marjorie said.

"Come on in, Jeremiah," Lunsford said. "We'll take you out to the post in the morning. After you have a beer, you and I will go to my apartment and throw buckets of water on Romeo and Juliet to cool them down long enough to discuss sleeping arrangements. "

"Father," Marjorie said, "that's disgusting."

"You haven't seen them," Father said.

"I should be mad at you," Marjorie said, "and happy for them. Instead, I want to cry."

[ FOUR ].

Office of the Commanding General The John F. Kennedy Center for Special Warfare Fort Bragg, North Carolina 1015 28 January 1965 "Sir, Colonel Martin asks for a minute," Captain Ski Zabrewski boomed from the open door.

Brigadier General Paul R. Hanrahan nodded, then raised his voice.

"Come on in, Padre!"

Chaplain (Lt. Col.) T. Wilson Martin marched into Hanrahan's office, stopped twelve inches from Hanrahan's desk, came to attention, and saluted.

"Good morning, General. Thank you for seeing me."

Chaplain Martin was almost-not quite-as large as Captain Zabrewski, and if anything, his voice was even deeper. His crisply starched uniform bore the wings of a master parachutist, and he had earned the hard way the green beret he clasped in his left hand.

"At ease," Hanrahan said, and rose from behind his desk to offer Martin his hand. He waved him into the chair in front of the desk.

"Coffee?"

"No, thank you, sir, I'm trying to cut down."

"What's on your mind, Padre?" Hanrahan asked.

Padre is the Spanish word for father. Roman Catholic priests are called "Father," and thus Padre. Chaplain (Lt. Col.) Martin was of the Protestant persuasion-a Presbyterian, or an Episcopal, or maybe a Lutheran, Hanrahan thought; not a Baptist. Chaplain Martin had a cultivated taste for French cognac-and preferred to be addressed as "Chaplain" or "Colonel." is the Spanish word for father. Roman Catholic priests are called "Father," and thus Padre. Chaplain (Lt. Col.) Martin was of the Protestant persuasion-a Presbyterian, or an Episcopal, or maybe a Lutheran, Hanrahan thought; not a Baptist. Chaplain Martin had a cultivated taste for French cognac-and preferred to be addressed as "Chaplain" or "Colonel."

Hanrahan, who privately thought that chaplains should not wear the insignia of rank, because it made their relationships with enlisted men that of officer to enlisted man, rather than shepherd to a member of the flock, called all chaplains "Padre," even if they were Jewish rabbis.

"May I speak frankly, General?"

"You know you can."

"General, I have serious concerns about Captain Oliver and Mrs. Wood."

"How so?"

"I feel they are entering this marriage impetuously."

"What gives you that idea?"

"Sir, when I spoke with them . . . I said I was going to speak frankly . . . it was obvious, forgive the bluntness, that they are very strongly attracted to one another in a physical sense."

"In heat, you mean?" Hanrahan asked, smiling.

"I wouldn't have used those words, but yes, sir."

"Doesn't it say somewhere in the Good Book that we're supposed to be fruitful, to go forth and multiply?"

"Sir, it has been my painful experience that young people often mistake that physical attraction for one another we're speaking of for love. With disastrous results later, when . . . that sort of attraction . . . disappears in the realities of marriage."