Vertical Run

by Joseph Garber

  The first five court-martials take four days apiece, and are spaced two weeks apart. Their outcomes are as expected.

  Dave spends his days and nights alone in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. The one time he visits the Officer’s Club, the bartender refuses to serve him. His fellow officers will not speak to him. When he goes out for his morning run, everyone in uniform moves to the other side of the street. He is completely isolated, cut off from human contact, except when he is in the courtroom.

  * * *

  COLONEL NEWTON, PROSECUTOR: Lieutenant, you are still under oath.

  FIRST LIEUTENANT ELLIOT, WITNESS: Yes, sir, I’m aware of that.

  PROSECUTOR: You have testified in this matter before?

  WITNESS: Yes, sir, five times.

  PROSECUTOR: Lieutenant, you have heard the Board read the charge sheet against Colonel Kreuter, have you not?

  WITNESS: Yes, sir.

  PROSECUTOR: On the date in question, on or about 1100 hours, you were in or near the village of Loc Ban, Republic of Vietnam.

  WITNESS: Yes, sir.

  PROSECUTOR: Who was in command of your unit?

  WITNESS: Colonel Kreuter, sir.

  PROSECUTOR: Describe the chain of command, Lieutenant.

  WITNESS: We had taken casualties, sir. Captain Feldman and First Lieutenant Fuller had been air-evac’d a day earlier along with three NCOs. The colonel and I were the only officers left. Colonel Kreuter ordered me to take command of team alpha and he led the baker team himself. First Sergeant Mullins was the ranking noncom, so he took the con for team charlie.

  PROSECUTOR: When you arrived at Loc Ban, what did you find?

  WITNESS: Very little, sir. It was barely a village, just a dozen huts in the middle of a rice paddy. Our helicopters had just dusted off the LZ and we …

  LIEUTENANT GENERAL FISHER, PRESIDING OFFICER: Twelve hooches, Lieutenant?

  WITNESS: Sorry, sir. Actually we counted fifteen.

  PRESIDING OFFICER: Be precise, Lieutenant. We’re dealing with capital charges.

  PROSECUTOR: Continue.

  WITNESS: Most of the villagers were out in the fields working. They didn’t pay much attention when we landed. Like they’d seen it all before. So then Sergeant Mullins and his men rounded them up, brought them back to the huts. We knew an enemy patrol …

  PRESIDING OFFICER: Insurgents or North Vietnamese?

  WITNESS: At the time it was reported as Vietcong, sir. We knew that a VC patrol had been seen in the area the day before. So we questioned the villagers as to any enemy activity they might have seen.

  PROSECUTOR: What response were you given?

  WITNESS: A negative, sir. Everyone denied having seen any troops other than our own.

  PROSECUTOR: HOW did Colonel Kreuter react to that?

  WITNESS: He thanked them, and gave the village headman a carton of Winstons, sir.

  PROSECUTOR: What about First Sergeant Mullins?

  WITNESS: First Sergeant Mullins was angry, sir. He wanted to apply stronger interrogation techniques. When Colonel Kreuter ordered him not to, he recommended torching — I mean, burning the village.

  COLONEL ADAMSON, BOARD OFFICER: Lieutenant, you used the phrase “stronger interrogation techniques.” Can you be more explicit?

  WITNESS: Torture, sir.

  PROSECUTOR: Lieutenant, were these quote stronger interrogation techniques unquote common in your unit?

  WITNESS: Common, sir? No, sir, I wouldn’t say that.

  PROSECUTOR: But used?

  WITNESS: Yes, sir, on occasion.

  PROSECUTOR: By whom?

  WITNESS: First Sergeant Mullins, sir.

  PROSECUTOR: Under Colonel Kreuter’s orders?

  WITNESS: No, sir. Nor with his permission. Sergeant Mullins, sir, well, he often exceeded his orders. Colonel Kreuter had reprimanded him a number of times, and for some weeks prior to the episode at Loc Ban had been trying to get the sergeant reassigned to non-combat responsibilities. I think he was worried that the sergeant was getting pretty close to Section 8.

  PRESIDING OFFICER: For the record, Section 8 addresses general discharge from the service by reason of mental instability or incapability, untreatable in the context of active duty.

  PROSECUTOR: DO you remember and can you quote for this board the words exchanged by Colonel Kreuter and First Sergeant Mullins at the time?

  WITNESS: Not word for word, sir. But I do recollect the sense of the argument. Sergeant Mullins was convinced that the villagers were lying, and that they were collaborating with the VC. Colonel Kreuter replied that there was no evidence to that effect, and that the people looked like peaceful farmers to him. The sergeant said they were all liars the same as every Vietnamese was a liar. He said that if he could take his K-Bar knife to the village headman’s wife, the headman would tell the truth. The colonel ordered him to belay that, and then gave the command for everyone to move out. While we were leaving the village, First Sergeant Mullins said that if the villagers were lying, he would come back. He said he would crucify them one by one to the walls of their hooches. He screamed it at them, sir. He screamed it over and over until we were out of earshot.

  PROSECUTOR: Before we move on to the events of the evening, Lieutenant, I wish to ask you whether you experienced any friction with Colonel Kreuter on the occasion in question or any other occasion.

  WITNESS: NO friction, sir. If I may say so, I consider the colonel to be a fine man and fine soldier. I honor him, sir, and I always will.

  PROSECUTOR: Then there was no bad blood—

  MAJOR WATERSON, DEFENSE OFFICER: My client wishes to make a statement.

  PRESIDING OFFICER: The accused officer will not—

  COLONEL KREUTER, ACCUSED: I got me something to say.

  PRESIDING OFFICER: Sit down, Colonel. That’s an order.

  ACCUSED: What you going to do, court-martial me?

  PRESIDING OFFICER: Colonel—

  ACCUSED: I’m going to say this one thing, General,

  whether you like it or not. Lieutenant Elliot is as honorable an officer as ever served under my command.

  PRESIDING OFFICER: You do yourself no service, Colonel. Be at ease.

  ACCUSED: No bad blood between us. There wasn’t then. There isn’t now. There never will be.

  PRESIDING OFFICER: I said at ease, Colonel.

  ACCUSED: And another thing—

  PRESIDING OFFICER: This court is adjourned for an hour. Major Waterson, counsel your client. Turn off that damned steno machine, Corporal.

  3

  Dave cruised along the avenues west of Times Square. During the twenty years that he had lived in New York, every mayor who had taken office had begun his administration with a pledge to renovate the area, drive out the riffraff, and bring decency and dignity back to the neighborhood.

  Somehow or another, none of them ever quite got around to it. Not that it mattered. No one believes the mayor of New York anyway.

  At this late hour the action was slowing down. The hookers were no longer patrolling their beats. Instead, they had gathered in small packs, leaning wearily against graffiti-coated walls, sharing cigarettes, and boasting of their pimps. The pimps themselves were out of their flashy cars, standing in their own circles, and negotiating such barters and trades as the day’s business conditions demanded.

  The “Triple X–X-X” movie houses were closed, but the bars were still open, their garish neon brightly inviting imprudent fools to enter. Doors periodically opened to admit or eject hunted-looking nighthawks who might make it home safely to bed — but only because the predators were too glutted with earlier prey to stalk them.

  Most of the drug hawkers were gone. The touts for the “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and “Live Sex Acts on Stage!” joints were off the streets too. A few sailors, clustered together for protection, stumbled drunkenly down the sidewalk. Three teenage boys circled a trio of bored prostitutes. One boy finally worked up his nerve, and stepped forward. The prostitutes smiled. Dave drove on.
/>
  He stopped at a red light. A blue and white patrol car pulled up beside him. The driver glanced his way, and then turned to study the street.

  Good. He didn’t even give you a second look. Shaving and dyeing your hair was an inspired piece of work. Even if I do say so myself.

  Dave’s stomach grumbled. It had been fourteen hours since his last meal. He was hungry. Worse, exhaustion was catching up with him. He needed coffee, the stronger the better.

  There was an all-night cafeteria in the middle of the Forty-fourth Street block. Dave pulled out of traffic and squeezed the rent-a-car between a dumpster and a candy-flake, tangerine orange pimpmobile. He climbed out and stretched.

  Three years earlier he and Helen had gone on a photo safari to Tanzania. It had been a luxury affair, managed by the exceptionally competent (and exceptionally expensive) firm of Abercrombie & Kent. Safely seated in mammoth Toyota Land Cruisers, Dave and the other tourists had oohed and ahhed as they passed by hunting lions, stalking leopards, and leering hyenas speckled with blood. As the Land Cruisers approached, the animals cheerfully went about their gory business, not paying the least attention to the sightseers. Nor would they — unless one of the plump pink bipeds left the protection of the truck. Leaving the truck changed the nature of the relationship. Leaving the truck made you meat. Meat!

  Dave barely had placed his foot on the sidewalk when a pair of prostitutes moved in on him. One wore a see-through net blouse and hotpants the color of lemon meringue pie. The other wore a Mickey Mouse tank top and a lime green miniskirt.

  Citrus colors must be this year’s fashion among the demimonde.

  The one in the hotpants began to speak. The second hooker touched her on the shoulder and whispered something in her ear. Hotpants nodded, giving Dave a slightly pitying look. “Sweetie, you’re on the wrong side of town. The kind of trick you want hangs out over on Third Avenue in the lower Fifties.”

  Dave gaped. The two turned to walk away.

  It’s your new hairdo. It makes you look a little, well …

  Dave rubbed his hand across his newly bald dome and smiled.

  * * *

  The air inside the cafeteria was thick and humid. An odor of strong coffee hung in the air, mingling with the smell of greasy meat and cigarette smoke. Most of the tables were occupied, and the place buzzed with low conversation.

  Dave walked to the counter. “Large cheese danish, please.” The counterman needed a shave. His eyes were red, and he seemed to think his night would never end. “Outta cheese. They don’t deliver until 6:00, maybe 6:30.”

  Dave nodded. “Have you got anything else?”

  “Apple. But it’s stale. Like I say, they don’t deliver until 6:00 or 6:30.”

  “I’ll take one.”

  “No returns. No refunds.”

  “Make it two. I need the carbohydrates. And give me a coffee. Black.” Dave paused, then added, “In a paper cup, okay?”

  “All I got is styrofoam.”

  “Whatever.” Styrofoam would be as easy to get rid of as paper. All he had to do was tear it into tiny shreds.

  The counterman slapped two stiff-looking pastries on a chipped plate and filled a large styrofoam cup with coffee. “Four-fifty with the tax.”

  The first danish and coffee Dave had ever purchased in New York City had cost him a quarter.

  Dave handed him a five dollar bill. “Keep it.” He slid his wallet into his rear pocket.

  Someone bumped into his back. Dave knifed his elbow backward. It drove into something soft. There was a gasp of pain. Dave turned. The pickpocket was doubled over, clutching his chest. Dave retrieved his wallet from the man’s fingers and smiled. “Thanks, I guess I dropped it.”

  The pickpocket muttered, “No problem, man.” He backed away.

  One or two people looked at Dave. Their eyes were expressionless.

  He took a table by the window, wolfed down his pastries, and savored his coffee. The pastries tasted dry but good. You can’t get a bad danish in New York. Dave went to the counter for a second serving.

  When he returned to his table, he glanced out the window. His jaw dropped. The rental car had disappeared. How long had it taken for someone to steal it? Ninety seconds at the outside.

  Africa, he thought. It’s like a tourist leaving the safety of his truck and stepping out onto the veldt.…

  Three giggly black women were sitting at the next table. One tapped a cigarette from a pack of Virginia Slims. As Dave watched her, hungrily remembering all the pleasure that tobacco brings, an idea came to mind. Virginia Slims …

  He leaned across the aisle. “Excuse me, miss, might I ask you for a smoke?” The woman’s eyes widened. Dave added, “I’ll pay. In fact, I’ll give you a buck for a pack.”

  “Chil’, coffin nails cost two-fifty a pack in this city, an’ what planet do you come from?”

  Dave handed her a five. She reached in her purse and removed a fresh pack of Virginia Slims. “Profit’s profit, honey, and you don’t look like anyone I can make money off of the usual way”

  The other women at her table found her comment hilarious. They dissolved into gales of laughter. “Here. Best take these matches, too.”

  Dave broke open the pack, drew out a cigarette, and, for the first time in twelve years, lit up a smoke.

  What the hell, pal. You’re going to die anyway.

  4

  Grand Central Station spooked him. At this late hour it was another place entirely — eerie, almost eldritch. The building was almost empty, and that alone was both unnatural and unnerving.

  No more than five people were in sight … a teenage boy and girl slumped sleeping on their backpacks … a lone patrolman circling the perimeter of the main floor … a tired-looking mechanic, greasy in grey-and-blue-striped overalls, tramping wearily out from one of the platforms. Only one of the ticket booths seemed to be manned. The lights above the Off Track Betting windows were dark. The news kiosks were closed and shuttered.

  Spookiest of all, the floors were clean.

  Dave’s shoes clicked hollowly on the marble. No one seemed to be paying attention to him. Nonetheless, he felt eyes watching. Not hostile. Not even curious. Just watchful.

  Cave dwellers. They say this part of town is riddled with tunnels and underground passageways. People live in them, keeping guard through holes and grilles, only coming out when there’s no one around.

  The hair on the back of his neck prickled. New York is strange. Deep in the night, it is stranger still.

  Dave turned east. There was, he recollected, an instant photo booth not far from the Lexington Avenue exit.

  * * *

  He studied the instructions. “PHOTOGRAPHS. Four pictures for $1. Adjust seat height. Insert $1 bill in tray, face up. Push in. No change returned. Green light illuminates when ready. Red light illuminates when complete. Wait 1 minute. Remove pictures from slot.”

  Dave fed a dollar into the machine. The red light winked green. Click. Click. Click. Click. Whirrrrrr. The light turned red again. He counted off sixty seconds, and withdrew a strip of photographs that made his eyebrows arch querulously.

  Jesus, pal, that hairdo makes you look queer as a plaid rabbit. Let’s not talk to any strangers, huh?

  Dave held the strip of photographs between his fingers, blowing softly until it was completely dry. Then he drew a small pocketknife out of his slacks, using it to trim one of the photographs to the size of the picture on the stolen ID card: “American Interdyne Worldwide. M. F. Cohen, Computer Systems Analyst.” He spoiled the first photo. The second was a perfect fit, precisely the same size and dimensions as Marge’s picture.

  He needed something to fasten the photo to the card. His options were few. Indeed, he had no choice in the matter.

  Oh no! Yecch! Ugh! Gross me out!

  He felt around beneath the seat in the photo booth. Sure enough, there were several pieces of chewing gum stuck to it.

  Typhoid! Herpes! Gingivitis!

  He pried one l
oose, tried not to think about what he was going to do, and popped it in his mouth.

  You are a truly disgusting individual.

  The flavor was gone. No matter. He chewed it soft, stretched out a thin strand, and used it to glue his photograph over Marge’s. He slid the result into a plastic window in his wallet, formerly the home of a driver’s license now as useless as his credit cards.

  And now, he needed to make one last phone call.

  Well, not needed.

  Wanted.

  Marge Cohen was on his mind. Marigold Fields Cohen. He liked “Marigold” better than “Marge.” And he needed to be sure she was safe.

  Just a quick call, just to make sure she’d left. She had to be gone, long gone, by now.

  But still, he wanted to check one more time.

  There were five pay phones in a row, right next to the photo booth. Four of them were out of order. One of them worked. Dave dialed. One ring, two rings.

  She has her answering machine set to answer after five rings.

  Three rings, but not a fourth. “Hi, you’ve reached 555-6503. We can’t com — I’ve got her, Mr. Elliot, and if you want her, you know where to find her.”

  There were now five out of order phones next to the photo booth.

  Dave gripped the handset, torn from its wire, though he didn’t entirely remember doing so. He turned it over, studied it with an empty mind, and placed it back on its now useless cradle.

  It was a lie, of course. Ransome up to his goddamned tricks again. Psychological warfare. Mindfucking his prey. Trying to weaken him, frighten him, make him act rashly; it is eminently more useful to destroy an enemy’s spirit …

  It could not be true. Dave had called earlier. Marge’s regular message, a single woman’s thoughtful message, was on the machine then. That could mean only one thing. Marge had made it. She’d gotten free and fled. Then Ransome’s men had returned. They found her gone.

  Dave cursed himself for wrecking the phone. If he hadn’t he could call back, call Marge’s number again. There was something to the way Ransome’s voice sounded … as if it had been coming from too far away. Through a radio? Yes, almost certainly. That’s what had happened. Ransome’s little friends had found Marge missing and radioed for instructions. Ransome, cunning Ransome, had used the radio link to record the message.