"No, but the jeep might be able to make it. That would come in handy if somebody got dinged. Is it towing a trailer?"

"Yeah."

"Tell them to try to bring the jeep and the trailer."

"You want them now?"

"You might as well get them started now. But I don't want to start anything today. It's too close to dark. If we can get them assembled here, by the time they get here, I'll reconnoiter the Simba camp."

"I thought you said you found them."

"I did, but we stopped trailing just before I got on the horn. We don't think the camp is far from here. I'll have to check that out."

"Okay, Thomas. Watch your ass. If they get can't get their radios working, I'll come back."

"Thank you. Out."

"Birddog out."

Thomas took a small coil of nylon cord from his pocket and used it to lash the backpack radio more securely to the tree. Then he climbed down to the ground. He went to his rucksack and took from it a small, squarish pack, three inches thick and roughly a foot square.

Sergeant First Jette squatted on the ground, holding his rifle between his knees, and watched him with unconcealed curiosity.

Jette's eyes widened when Thomas unfolded the pack, turning it into a tent of sorts. There was a flat roof, held up by nylon lines tied to the trees Thomas had looked for and found. The walls were nylon netting reaching to the ground. The floor was separate, and held in place by tree branches Thomas cut and then sharpened and drove into the ground with the heel of his boot.

Thomas went back to his rucksack and took from it the aerosol can of insect spray he had used on Withers's corpse; a plastic bottle that had once contained shampoo; and another, smaller pouch. He went to the tent, raised the netting, sprayed it thoroughly, and then went inside, taking his rifle and pistol with him.

He was now out of the rain in an insect-free environment. Sergeant First Jette was squatting in pouring rain, slapping at an assortment of native insects upon which the rain had no apparent effect.

"If you will take your machete and cut us wood for a fire, Sergeant First Jette, I will share my tent with you."

"Major, sir, if I cut wood, it will not burn. It is wet."

"If you do not cut wood, you will stay there in the rain," Thomas said. "It's up to you."

"When do we kill the Simbas, Major, sir?"

"Not now, Sergeant First Jette," Thomas said. "In the morning. Now you cut wood and I clean my weapons and then eat. Or, if you do not cut wood, then you stay there in the rain and you do not eat."

Sergeant First Jette rose effortlessly to his feet from his squatting position, unhooked his machette from his web belt, and disappeared into the bush.

Thomas field-stripped his Car-16 weapon, sprayed the mechanism with Three-In-One oil, reassembled it, chambered a round, and then laid it on the floor of his tent. Then he did the same thing with his .45 automatic, except that instead of laying it on the tent floor, he carried it with him while he went to the tree where he had hung his rucksack and web gear. He took another plastic-wrapped package from the rucksack and returned to his tent to wait for Sergeant First Jette to finish his wood collecting.

Jette came in about five minutes, his arms full of small limbs of trees.

"Shave some slivers from the bigger pieces," Thomas ordered. "Put them on the bottom, with some leaves from the ground, and then put the larger pieces over them, leaving enough room for air."

"With respect, Major, sir, I know how to lay a fire."

"But you do not know, you tell me, how to make a fire with wet green wood?"

"Wet, green wood, Major, sir, will not burn."

"Lay the fire, Sergeant First Jette, and then as we watch the fire burn, we will have our supper."

When Jette had laid the fire, making a nice conical shape of it, Thomas raised the netting and stepped out into the rain, carrying with him his machete and the plastic bottle that had once held shampoo.

He disappeared into the bush, returning in no more than two minutes with more tree branches, thick with leaves. He sharpened the ends and jammed them into the ground so that they shielded the fire Jette had laid from the rain.

Then he sprayed the fire bed with the contents of the former shampoo bottle, took a Zippo lighter from his pocket, and ignited the liquid.

Sergeant First Jette's eyes widened in appreciation.

"When you have to build a fire in the rain, Sergeant Jette," Thomas said, "there's nothing like a little avgas. Write that down."

"I cannot write, Major, sir," Jette said.

Shit!

Thomas waited until the burning avgas had the leaves and chips burning well, and then added larger pieces of wood.

Without waiting to be told, Jette loped off into the bush and returned with another armful of wood.

"It seems to be burning nicely, Sergeant First Jette," Thomas said. "Put a few more pieces of wood on it, and then come in the tent."

Jette squatted before the fire and nurtured it until he was confident it would remain on fire, then went under the nylon netting.

Thomas handed him dinner: fried chicken and a cold baked potato from the kitchen of the Hotel du Lac.

"There is also two bottles of beer," Thomas said, "but you will have to get them from my rucksack. I forgot."

"I have beer," Jette said. "I did not know if the Major, sir, would approve."

"The major approves."

"You have been in the Bush before, Major, sir," Jette said.

"Not this bush, Sergeant. And not for as long as you. You are a master of the bush."

"What is your tribe?"

"I have no idea," Thomas said. "For all I know, my family may have been from here. I look like you."

Jette nodded his acceptance of that.

"You talked to the airplane, Major, sir?"

"He told me the reaction force is at Outpost George. He will tell them to come here. I could not talk to them on the radio."

"When they get here, we kill the Simbas, Major, sir? When the rain stops? When it is dark?"

"It is best, Sergeant First Jette, to know all you can about the enemy and his position before you attack, and it is better to attack with twenty men than two."

Jette nodded his acceptance of that philosophy.

"Tonight, you and I will locate the Simbas precisely. And in the morning, with twenty men, and with a little luck, a machine gun, we will attack them."

Jette nodded again.

"The airplane will come back if I cannot talk to the reaction force on my radio, and he will tell us when they are coming."

Jette nodded again.

"Get the beer, Sergeant First Jette," Thomas said. "I always like a beer with my supper."

"Yes, Major, sir."

They had just finished their chicken and cold baked potato dinner when both heard the sound of the L-19's engine.

"Oh, shit," Doubting Thomas said aloud. "That means no reaction force radios."

He got to his feet and motioned for Jette to follow him.

It had stopped raining, but the ground and the tree were still rain-slick.

Here lies Master Sergeant William E. Thomas, who busted his ass climbing a fucking tree.

"Birddog, Hunter, I'm back in the fucking tree. How read?"

"Five by five," Geoff Craig replied. "All their batteries are dead."

"Oh, shit!"

"Yeah. Well, they're on their way. Twenty shooters, no machine gun, and a jeep, no trailer."

"Okay."

"I'm going to Woolworth. There's batteries there. I'll be back at first light-first light here, I can take off from there in the dark-and I'll drop the batteries to the smoke clearing. When you hear my engine, pop yellow smoke."

"I have one only yellow. Can you get me more?"

"Sure."

"And four bottles of beer, and enough fried chicken for two."

"Done, and don't get yourself eaten by a hungry lion while I'm gone."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Be careful, Bill. See you in the morning. Birddog out."

"Hunter out."

When he'd reached the ground again, Sergeant First Jette had a worried look on his face.

"What's bothering you?" Thomas asked.

"If we can hear the airplane, the Simbas can hear the airplane," Jette said.

"It's almost impossible to tell the direction of an airplane from the sound," Thomas said. "And he was flying close to the tree-tops, so they couldn't see him."

Jette considered that for a long moment, then nodded.

"If the Major, sir, wishes to sleep, I will stay awake," he said.

"We will take two-hour turns, Sergeant First Jette," Thomas said. "That way we both get some sleep."

Sergeant First Jette nodded.

[ THREE ].

Stanleyville Air Field Stanleyville, Oriental Province Republic of the Congo 1845 8 April 1965 "Woolworth, Woolworth, Birddog Three," Geoff said into his microphone.

"Where the hell are you?" the tower operator replied.

That was not the standard response of a tower operator, but the tower operator in this case was not a tower operator but rather Major George Washington Lunsford, and Major Lunsford had been troubled over the past six, even seven hours over several things.

For one thing, no one had been able to establish radio contact with Outpost George, and Major Lunsford had been unable to establish contact with Colonel Jean-Baptiste Supo to report the situation.

The last time Major Lunsford had seen Colonel Supo was when, after they had dropped off the corpse of SFC Withers, Colonel Supo and Lieutenant Jacques Portet had taken off in the Beaver for Costermansville. Inasmuch as neither Colonel Supo nor Lieutenant Portet was in Costermansville, the possibility existed that they and the L-20 were down somewhere between Woolworth (Stanleyville) and Costermansville.

Further, although it was unlikely, the possibility that Outpost George had been overwhelmed again had to be considered. It was not possible to dispatch the reaction force to Outpost George, because the reaction force had already been dispatched to Outpost George, which opened the possibilities (a) that it had been ambushed after Major Lunsford had flown over it on Route 5 when it had been en route to Outpost George, or (b) that it had been overwhelmed after it reached Outpost George.

Under that circumstance, Major Lunsford had deemed it unwise to dispatch a reconnaissance team from either Outpost Fox or Outpost Item (the nearest outposts, on either side of George). Such reconnaissance teams would stand a high risk of ambush if, in fact, the reaction force had been overwhelmed before or after reaching Outpost George.

It would be wiser, Major Lunsford had decided, to wait until contact was established with Birddog Three (Lieutenant Craig), which, at Lunsford's order, was engaged at overflying all the outposts to determine (a) how long it actually (as opposed to theoretically) took to fly from one to the next and, (b) to test and judge the efficiency of the ground-to-air communications thereof.

Birddog Three's ETA at Woolworth had been 1630, opening the possibility that Birddog Three, now two hours and fifteen minutes overdue, was down somewhere, God only knew where.

If the reaction force had been overwhelmed, that would mean that it had been attacked by a superior force, which meant that everybody was now in a much larger ballgame, the ramifications of which Major Lunsford did not even wish to think about, but privately thought was going to be a three-star fucking mess.

In addition to which, of course, he had considered the possibility that he was going to have to be a notification team of one to tell Mrs. Jacques Portet that her husband was missing and to tell Mrs. Geoffrey Craig very much the same thing.

"I'm over the river, about ten minutes out. Will you light it up, please?"