A gritty scraping sound accompanied the inward opening of the door. Light slanted into the rectangularly shaped bunker. The air was stale, musty but breathable. Air shafts and ventilating tubes connected to hidden surface vents.
Squatting on the bunker’s stone floor was the scout car. On the inner wall to one side of the doorway was a round metal fixture inset with on-off switches. Kilroy switched them on, filling the vault with electric light.
The SUV had to be gotten out of sight to avoid the suspicion its presence might provoke in any chance passersby who came this way. This was an empty land, and dangerous for those who traversed it, the haunt of nomads, smugglers, fugitives, and brigands. The recent violence in the hills had cleared the land of their presence. But there was no point in leaving the SUV out in the open where it might be seen.
Topside, Vang Bulo reversed the SUV, backing down the ramp and into the bunker. The vault had room for two such vehicles, no more. The SUV stood facing out for a quick getaway.
Kilroy and Vang Bulo went to work on the scout car, giving it a tune-up. The Ugandan was a mechanical whiz and did most of the real work, with Kilroy mostly handing him the proper wrench or pitching in when some extra muscle was needed. When it came to overhauling the armaments, though, Kilroy came into his own, making sure the minicannon and heavy machine gun were in fine working order.
The overhaul was hard, dirty work that ate up the afternoon and went on into evening. They finished at dusk. They didn’t want to wait to leave but they had to, at least until it was dark.
Finally the SUV rolled up the ramp to the surface. The stone door was once more set flush with the wall and the remote locking mechanism was triggered, to the accompaniment of a ponderous metallic click.
The SUV crept across vast, sprawling fields, arrowing southwest. It drove with the lights out, in the dark. The sky was murky with airborne dust, dulling the stars. The rising moon looked like it was shining through a burlap screen.
The vehicle cut into the highway and headed west toward Greentown. Hot winds gusted from the south, slamming broadside into the SUV. A storm was rising.
Five
Debbie Lynn Hawley was a screamer, as Kilroy found out later that night when he went with her to her room in the Visitors’ Quarters.
The building had a modest day room on the ground floor. Some of the guests liked to hang out there after hours. There was a Ping-Pong table and a bumper pool table with one cue and half the balls missing. A soda machine stood against the wall, under a dial clock. At the rear of the space was a kitchenette, complete with an ice chest, sink, and paper cups.
Alcoholic beverages were officially discouraged in the compound, “for fear of offending our Iraqi hosts,” as the line went. Alcohol was forbidden to the believers, according to Islamic law. It was one of the factors that made serving in Iraq the most beat duty for any American G.I. since the worst days of the Korean War. And even then, in Korea there had been booze and women. In Iraq, booze was forbidden. As for women, Iraqi women, well, forget it. If an Iraqi woman made a date to meet a U.S. soldier in a nice secluded place, it was almost always to lure him into a death trap. As for Western women, a handful of them worked for the Coalition, but a guy had to rate pretty high to get a second look from them.
In Greentown alcohol wasn’t even officially available. Getting around that was no problem, of course. Every base had its purveyors of beer, wine, and the hard stuff. It was tolerated. Even the most tight-assed company commander occasionally had need of alcohol, if only to entertain visiting dignitaries such as Pentagon disbursement officials, U.S. civilian contractor executives, Iraqi government administrators, and similar vest-pocket potentates. Drinkers were expected to be discreet, which in practice meant anything short of busting up the furniture.
Returning from the field to Greentown, Kilroy went to his room in the Visitors’ Quarters. He was hot, tired, and dirty from hours spent working in the underground bunker. His muscles ached. A long, hot shower soaked some of the stiffness out of them. So did a couple of shots of Wild Turkey from a bottle he had stashed in his room. He dressed and met Vang Bulo, and they went to the mess hall. It was after the dinner hour, but there were still some guys on duty in the kitchen. They were able to scare up some sandwiches and snacks, which the duo wolfed down.
They went outside and took stock. A locator reading indicated that The Package remained in the same place in Azif it had occupied earlier this day. A number of methods lay open to Jafar to communicate with them if he wanted to, including special one-use-only cell phones, text messaging, and third-party messengers and go-betweens. None of them had been set in motion.
Kilroy said, “My guess is that Hassani won’t jump tonight. Too soon after last night’s little shindig. He’ll want to get all his ducks in a row when he makes the delivery, and that means waiting for the storm. It won’t reach its height until at least tomorrow.”
No action tonight. Of course, they were never really off duty. If Hassani Akkad pulled a fast one and went tonight, they’d get in harness and get after him. Tonight they would be on standby, sticking close to Greentown.
Vang Bulo decided to catch the last feature at the compound’s movie theater. He didn’t know what was playing and didn’t care. He was a big movie fan. The louder, brighter, and stupider the films were, the better he liked them. Hollywood product was so far removed from anything even remotely approaching reality that it allowed him to escape into a candy-colored fantasyland. It didn’t matter if he missed the beginning of the picture or came in at the middle and fell asleep before the end. In fact, it was better that way, since he didn’t have to follow the inane plotlines.
Kilroy said, “I’m going back to my room. I’d rather sleep in a bed than a cramped movie seat. More comfortable.”
They went their separate ways, Kilroy to the Visitors’ Quarters building, Vang Bulo to the movies. Kilroy entered the lobby. Voices and movement came from the back of the building. Kilroy decided that he wasn’t ready for sleep just yet. He strolled past the front desk and into the day room.
The lights were low, unobtrusive. There was enough to see by without being blinded by the glare. After the harsh contrasts of the Iraqi landscape, the pattern of shadows alternating with soft lights was soothing to the eye. The green and white marbled linoleum floor, waxed and buffed, reflected overhead lights with a smooth, burnished glow.
A cone of muted yellow light fell on a handful of small, square folding tables near the soda machine. A handful of people were scattered at the tables. One table held a couple of civilian construction contractors. Another, a group of administrators.
A third held Prester and Debbie Lynn Hawley. Prester motioned for Kilroy to come over. He and Debbie Lynn were drinking out of paper cups. Between them stood a clear plastic bottle of a name brand of bottled water.
Kilroy went up to the table. Prester, red faced, seemed to radiate heat. His eyes were glittery and glazed at the same time. His shirt was unbuttoned down to midchest.
He hailed Kilroy. “How goes it in the postal inspection line?”
“The good news is that the mail is getting through,” Kilroy said. “The bad news is that the post offices keep getting blown up.”
Debbie Lynn frowned, giving her a look of serious concentration. “Again? Damn! I’m waiting on some important letters from back home.”
“I was just kidding,” Kilroy said. “There weren’t any post offices blown up today. Not in these parts, anyhow.”
Prester said sardonically, “Have you checked lately?” He gestured toward the table. “Sit down and join us, Joseph. Make it a threesome.”
Debbie Lynn gave Prester a look that said, There he goes again. She raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes.
“I don’t know nothing about no threesomes,” Kilroy said doubtfully, “but I’ll take a load off.” He pulled out a chair and sat down beside the woman.
Prester said, “Just some good-natured ribbing, my dear.”
She said, “Pre
ss’s joshing. He likes to make fun of me for being a prude.”
“Not at all, not at all,” Prester said. His face contorted in a grotesque combination of a squint and a leer that was supposed to be a knowing wink. He tried to affect the manner of a man of the world, cynical and amused, but he just looked owlish.
“In fact, I happen to admire your good sense in never having slept with me throughout the time of our acquaintance,” he said.
Debbie Lynn said, “It was for your own good. I didn’t want to leave you more of a wreck than you are now.”
“It’s true. I am a wreck.” Prester’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You should leave me abandoned by the side of the road, Debbie Lynn, along with the rest of the burnt-out wrecks littering the landscape.”
“You’re getting maudlin, Press.”
Kilroy said, “I don’t know, maybe he’s right.” He indicated the water bottle. “You must be slipping, Prester, sticking to plain old H2O-type water. That’s a lot lower octane than your usual variety.”
“That’s what you think,” Debbie Lynn said. “That’s not water, it’s vodka.”
Kilroy said, “Mind if I fix myself one?”
Nobody minded. In fact, Prester was insistent that he join them for a drink or ten. Kilroy went to work. He went to the kitchenette, filling a paper cup with ice. The vending machine yielded a can of orange soda. He returned to the table, filling the cup halfway with vodka. It was a twenty-ounce cup. He filled the rest with orange soda.
Prester grimaced, shuddering. “Gah! How can you drink that swill? Look at the label and you’ll see it says orange drink. Not orange juice, mind you. Orange drink. Lord knows what kind of artificial crap they put in it. Whatever they use to give it that radioactive glow-in-the-dark neon color, it can’t be found in nature. It must come out of a chemical vat.”
“That’s okay. What’s in that water bottle is sure to sterilize it,” Kilroy said. “Straight-up vodka’s a little raw for me. I need something to cut it with.”
“Suit yourself. It only leaves more for me,” said Prester.
Kilroy glanced across at Debbie Lynn, at the ripe swell of her high, firm breasts where they thrust out against her khaki blouse. The collar was unbuttoned and open down past her collarbone, affording a glimpse of the tender flesh at the top of her breasts.
She said coolly, “Looking for something?”
Unabashed, he said, “I was just admiring the creases in your khakis.”
“Is that right?”
Kilroy nodded. “I was wondering how you got them so sharp and clean edged.”
“I have them starched at the post laundry.”
“The khakis.”
“Yes, of course. What else? My bosom?”
Prester took another swallow of his drink. “I’m getting pretty starched myself. Which is not surprising, really, since vodka is nothing but distilled potato juice.”
“Not always. Sometimes it’s made from wheat,” Kilroy pointed out.
Prester nodded, intoxication exaggerating his bobbing head movements. “Quite right, Joseph. You have me there.”
They sat and drank and made small talk. Prester did most of the talking. That suited Kilroy, allowing him to concentrate on Debbie Lynn. Her face was heart shaped and fine featured, the features so cleanly chiseled that they just missed being sharp. Her nose was slightly snub, with a sprinkling of freckles across it. Her hazel eyes occasionally glinted yellow when the light struck them a certain way. She had a kewpie-doll mouth. The corners of her lips were slightly upcurved so that she looked like she was smiling to herself. She had an elfin quality. Kilroy wouldn’t have been surprised if her ears were pointed. He was surprised that they weren’t.
Prester looked debauched, overripe. His face was flushed bright red. His forehead was shiny with sweat. His eyebrows were pointed in the centers, Mephistophelian style. Several lank strands of hair hung down over his forehead, constantly vibrating with his movements.
Kilroy drained his cup, made a face, and turned to Prester. “You were right. That orange pop has a nasty taste. I’ll take the next one straight.”
Prester looked canny. “Now you’re getting smart.”
“Getting stinko,” Debbie Lynn said tartly. “Your heads will smart tomorrow morning with a hang-over.”
Prester put a hand to his forehead. “Come to think of it, my head already hurts. Good thing I’m too drunk to feel it.”
He stood up, rising from his chair in a series of abrupt straightening maneuvers, like a fire truck ladder unfolding in sections. His hands rested on the table’s edge; his head hung down below his shoulders. His face was very red. It looked boiled. So did he. He was swaying slightly.
Kilroy dubiously eyed the table. It seemed un-sturdy, like it might collapse if Prester put too much weight on it. Ever mindful of what really counted, Kilroy reached out to steady and secure the water bottle.
Prester wagged a chiding finger. “Stealing my liquor? That won’t do, my man. Won’t do at all.”
Kilroy said, “I just wanted to make sure it didn’t get knocked over.”
“It won’t. It’ll be in safe hands—mine.”
Kilroy shrugged goodhumoredly. “Suit yourself. It’s your bottle.”
“I’m not greedy,” Prester said, pouring some more vodka into Kilroy’s cup, filling it almost to the brim. For all his seeming drunkenness, his hand was steady, and he spilled not a drop.
Kilroy said, “Whoa, that’s plenty.”
“That’s all you get, and it could be a long night ahead, eh, what?” This last bit was said in a grotesque parody of a British accent.
He moved to refill Debbie Lynn’s cup but she put her hand over the top of it, thwarting him. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said.
He faced the two of them. “I’m sure you two will find some way to occupy yourselves without me and my bottle. And now, I bid you all a fond adieu.”
Debbie Lynn said, “We’ll meet by the desk at six A.M. That way we can have breakfast before leaving to make our morning rounds.”
Prester shuddered. “The thought of food at that hour—or now, come to think of it—makes me ill.”
“There’ll be plenty of black coffee, too.”
Prester said good night, took his bottle, and went away. He crossed the floor, his center of gravity located in his spreading paunch and heavy hips. He entered the lobby, rounding the front desk and disappearing from view.
Debbie Lynn watched him go and shook her head. “Come morning, though, he’ll be fresh as a daisy, and I’ll be the one with the hangover.”
Kilroy said, “He’s older than you. He’s had a lot more time to practice his drinking.”
“He doesn’t need any practice; he’s a master at it.”
The vodka mingled with melted ice to make a nice slurry mix. Each swallow added to the pleasantly tingling feeling of numbness that began at the back of Kilroy’s neck and soon spread over his cranium and all points in between, bruising his brain. He felt pretty good.
He and Debbie Lynn were chatting about something. Time passed. Kilroy’s elbows were on the table and he was leaning forward, head thrust across the table toward her so that their faces were only inches apart. He was aware that they’d been getting chummier and more intimate for some time. He’d forgotten what they were talking about. It was okay because she was talking, and if he listened long enough he’d pick up the thread of the chatter well enough to fake it.
His elbow brushed against something on the table and set it in motion. It was his paper cup, which lay on its side. Luckily it was all but empty, except for what looked like a teaspoonful of liquid that sloshed around in the bottom of the cup.
He realized that he was a little bit drunkee. He also realized that something was rubbing against his thigh—Debbie Lynn’s leg. She studied him for a moment. “I hope you’re not too drunk.”
“I’m never too drunk,” he said indignantly. Then, after a beat: “Too drunk to what?”
“To take
me to my room,” she said.
“Hell, I was counting on you to take me back to my room.”
They got up and left. Kilroy thought he was walking pretty good, considering the way the floor kept tilting, with a seesaw motion.
Climbing the stairs was a chore, but not without benefits. It allowed him to circle Debbie Lynn’s slim waist with his arm. He could feel the warmth of her flesh through her clothes. As she climbed, the khaki pants were pulled tight against her shapely buttocks, whose ripely rounded curves Kilroy admired as he followed her up the stairway.
It was a long climb. He lost track of what floor they were on. The thirteenth, at least. Which was funny, since it was only a four-story building.
Then they were in a hall, at a door. He was leaning on Debbie Lynn while she fitted her key into the lock and opened it. They went in, the light from the hall shining through the open doorway into the room.
Kilroy and Debbie Lynn went into a clinch. She was about a head shorter than he. She was a nice little armful. Her lips were soft, her breath sweet, and her mouth warm and wet.
One thing led to another, and before too long they were on the bed, naked.
Debbie Lynn had a beautiful little body. Tight. Pear-shaped breasts and pointy pink nipples. A wicked little shape, a provocative ass, pert and dimpled. She was surprisingly wiry and athletic, in top condition. Beneath her satin skin lay powerful, compact musculature. When her folded legs wrapped around his hips, they hugged him with a viselike grip. She was built and conditioned like a gymnast or dancer.
Trouble was, she was a screamer. Kilroy found that out when he started hitting his stride putting it to her. She was vocal about her pleasure. They were making plenty of noise without it. The cot sounded like it was shaking itself apart.
Debbie Lynn sounded like she was getting killed. A couple of times, between hard breathing, he urged her, “Shh, shh.”
She was on her knees with her rear raised up and her head pressed down against the mattress. He knelt behind her, putting it to her doggy style.
That was a good one. Well, who better? If he wasn’t qualified for it, who was? The thought amused him, and he almost laughed out loud.
The Return Of Dog Team Page 8