by Jack Higgins
"Right." Quinn turned to Palmer. "Move out, Sister."
She did as she was told, following with the children. They came to a shallower spot, a knoll sticking out of the water. There was room for all of them. Jackson sat there and Quinn ripped at the jagged rent left by the bayonet, exposing the wound.
"Battle packs in the bag?"
Sister Sarah Palmer reached for it. "I'll handle it, Sergeant."
"Are you sure, Sister?"
She smiled for the first time. "I'm a doctor. The Little Sisters of Pity is a nursing order."
Behind in the reeds, they heard many voices, like foxes crying. "They're coming, Sarge," Jackson said, clutching his rifle and leaning over as she went to work on him.
"Yes, they are. I'll have to put them off."
"How can you do that?" Sister Sarah asked.
"Kill a few at random." Quinn took a couple of flares from his pocket and gave them to Jackson. "If the cavalry make it and I'm not back, get the hell out of here."
"Oh, no, Sergeant," Sister Sarah said.
"Oh, yes, Sister," and he turned and plunged into the reeds.
H e could have used his bayonet, a silent killing, but that wouldn't have caused the panic he needed. His first target was providential, two VC standing so that they could survey the marsh, their heads and shoulders above the reeds. He shot both in the head at a hundred yards.
Birds lifted in the heavy rain, voices called to each other in anger from various areas. He selected one and moved in, shooting another man he found wading along a ditch. He got out fast, easing across the reeds, crouched by another pool and waited. Special Forces had developed a useful trick for such situations. You learned a few Vietnamese phrases as fluently as possible. He tried one now and fired a shot.
"Over here, comrades, I've got him."
He waited patiently, then called again. A few moments later, three more men appeared, wading through the reeds cautiously.
"Where are you, comrade?" one of them called.
Quinn took out his last grenade and pulled the pin. "Here I am, you bastards," he cried in English and lobbed the grenade. There were cries as they tried to scramble away and the grenade exploded.
By now there were shouts everywhere, as the panic he had sought for set in. As he moved on, he saw a road, Vietcong scrambling onto it. He eased back into the reeds to get his bearings and became aware of engines throbbing close by, but by then the late afternoon light was fading and it combined with the tropical rain to reduce everything to minimum visibility. A flare shot into the air, disappearing into the murk, a Huey Cobra gunship descended three hundred yards away and he heard others whirling above, but the Huey was too far away, and he plunged forward desperately, already too late.
T he flare that Jackson had fired had worked, and two crew-men jumped out of the Huey and bundled the children inside quickly, followed by Sister Sarah.
The black crew chief lifted Jackson by the arms. "Let's get out of here, man."
"But the Sergeant's still out there, Sergeant Quinn."
"Hell, I know him." Shooting started again from the reeds and bullets thudded into the Huey. "Sorry, man, we've got to go. It'll be dark any time and we've got to think of these kids."
He raised Jackson to the waiting hands that pulled him in, followed and called to the pilot at the controls, "Let's go."
The Huey lifted. Jackson was actually crying and Sister Sarah leaned over him anxiously.
"But what about the Sergeant?" she said.
"There's nothing we can do. He's dead, he's got to be dead. You heard all that shooting and the grenade exploding. He took on all those bastards single-handed." The tears poured down his cheeks.
"What was his name?"
"Quinn, Daniel Quinn." Jackson moaned in agony. "Christ, but it hurts, Sister," and then he passed out.
B ut Quinn was still in one piece, mainly because the enemy had assumed he'd escaped in the Huey. He made it to the river as darkness fell, thought about it, then decided that if he were to stand a chance he needed to be on the other side. He approached Bo Din cautiously, aware of the sound of voices, the light of the cooking fires. He slung his M16 around his neck, waded into the water, and with his combat knife sliced the line holding one of the flat-bottomed boats. The boat drifted out with the current, and he held on and kicked, Bo Din fading into the darkness. He made the other side in ten minutes, moved into the jungle, and sat under a tree, enduring the heavy rain.
At first light, he moved out, opening a can of field rations, eating as he went. He hoped for a gunboat on the river, but there was no such luck, so he kept on walking through the bush and, four days later, returned from the dead, arriving at Camp Four on his own two feet.
B ack in Saigon, the general attitude was disbelief. His unit commander, Colonel Harker, grinned when Quinn, checked out by the medics and freshly uniformed, reported as ordered.
"Sergeant, I'm at a loss for words. I don't know which is more extraordinary--your heroism in the field or the fact that you made it back alive."
"That's very kind, sir. May I ask about Jackson?"
"He's in one piece, though he nearly lost a lung. He's at the old French Mercy Hospital. The army runs it now."
"He behaved admirably, sir, and with total disregard for his own safety."
"We know that. I've recommended him for the Distinguished Service Cross."
"That's wonderful, sir. And Sister Sarah Palmer?"
"She's helping out at the Mercy. She's fine and so are all the kids." Harker held out his hand. "It's been a privilege, son. General Lee will see you at headquarters at noon."
"May I ask why, sir?"
"That's for the General to tell you."
Later, at Mercy, he visited Jackson, and found him in a light, airy ward with Sister Sarah sitting beside him. She came round the bed and kissed him on the cheek.
"It's a miracle." She appraised him quickly. "You've lost weight."
"Well, I wouldn't recommend doing it the way I did. How's our boy?"
"His left lung was badly injured by that bayonet, but it will heal in time. No more Vietnam, though. He's going home," and she patted Jackson's head.
He was overjoyed to see Quinn. "Jesus, I thought you long gone, Sergeant."
"Daniel," Quinn told him. "Always call me Daniel, and if there's ever anything I can do for you back in the States, just call me. You hear? And congratulations on your Distinguished Service Cross."
"My what?" Jackson was incredulous.
"Colonel Harker's put you up for it. It'll go through."
Sister Sarah kissed Jackson on the forehead. "My hero."
"This is the hero, Daniel here. What about you, Sarge?"
"Oh, Christ, I don't want any medals. Now settle down. All this fuss is bad for your lung. I'll see you later." He nodded. "Sister." And walked out.
She caught up with him at the rail of the shaded terrace, lighting a cigarette, handsome in his tropical uniform.
"Master Sergeant Quinn."
"Daniel will be fine for you, too. What can I do for you?"
"You mean you haven't done enough?" She smiled. "Colonel Harker was kind enough to tell me a bit about your background. With all you have, why did you choose to come here?"
"Easy. I was ashamed. What about you? You're English, dammit. This isn't your war."
"As I told you, we're a nursing order. We go wherever we're needed--it doesn't matter whose war it is. Have you ever been to London? We're based at St. Mary's Priory on Wapping High Street by the Thames."
"I'll be sure to look you up the next time I'm there."
"Please do. Now would you like to tell me what's troubling you--and don't try to say you're not troubled. It's my business to know these things."
He leaned against a pillar. "Yes." He shook his head. "I've killed before, Sister, but never like in the swamp. At least two of them at close range were young women. I was on my own, I had no choice, but still..."
"As you say."
"Bu
t still a darkness came over me. I saw only the killing, the death and destruction. There was no balance, no order."
"If it worries you, make your peace with God."
"Ah, if only it were that simple." He glanced at his watch. "I'd better go. Generals don't like to be kept waiting. May I kiss you good-bye?"
"Of course."
He touched her cheek with his lips. "You're a remarkable young woman," and he went away down the steps. She watched him go, then returned to Jackson.
At headquarters, he was passed through to General Lee with unusual speed, and soon found himself showed into the great man's office by a smiling Captain. Lee, a large, energetic man, jumped up behind his desk and rushed around. As Quinn tried to salute, Lee stopped him.
"No, that's my privilege. I'd better get used to it." He clicked his heels and saluted.
"General?" Quinn was bewildered.
"I've had a communication this morning from the President. Master Sergeant Daniel Quinn, I have the honor to inform you that you have been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor." And he saluted again, gravely.
A nd so the legend was born. Quinn was sent home, endured many interviews and ceremonies until he could take no more, and finally, with no interest in a permanent military career, he left the Army. He went back to Harvard and studied philosophy for three years, as if trying to exorcise some kind of demon, and carefully kept out of bars so that he would not become involved in any physical arguments. He did not trust himself enough for that.
Finally, he agreed to go into the family business. At least it meant he'd been able to help his old friend Tom Jackson, who'd received a law degree from Columbia after Vietnam and had risen over the years to head the legal department at Quinn Industries.
He didn't marry until he was in his thirties. Her name was Monica, and she was the daughter of family friends; it was a marriage of convenience. Their daughter, Helen, was born in 1979, and it was around that time that he decided to follow his grandfather's dream, and entered politics. He put all his financial interests into a blind trust and ran for an open congressional seat, won by a narrow margin, and then by ever greater margins, until finally he challenged the incumbent Senator, and won there, too. Congress began to wear upon him after a while, though: the backstabbing and deal-making and constant petty crises, and then, when his grandfather died in a private plane accident, he began to rethink all his priorities.
He wanted out, he decided. He wanted to do something more with his life. And it was at that point that his old friend, fellow veteran and now-President, Jake Cazalet, came to him and said that if Daniel wanted to give up his seat, he understood. But he hoped Daniel was not forsaking public service. He needed someone like Daniel to be a troubleshooter, a kind of roving ambassador, someone he trusted absolutely. And Daniel said yes. From then on, wherever there was trouble, from the Far East to Israel, Bosnia, Kosovo, he was there.
Meanwhile, his daughter followed family tradition and went to Harvard, while his wife held the fort back home. When she was diagnosed with leukemia, she didn't tell him until it was too late--she hadn't wanted to interrupt his work. When she died, the guilt he felt was intolerable. They held a funeral reception at their Boston home, and after the guests had departed, he and his daughter walked in the gardens. She was small and slim, with golden hair and green eyes, the joy of his life, all he had left, he thought, of any worth.
"You're a great man, Dad," she said. "You do great things. You can't blame yourself."
"But I let her down."
"No, it was Mum's choice to play it the way she did." She hugged his arm. "I know one thing. You'll never let me down. I love you, Dad, so much."
The following year she won a Rhodes Scholarship for two years at Oxford University, at St. Hugh's College, and Quinn went to Kosovo to work for NATO on the President's behalf. That was where things stood, until one miserable March day when the President asked to see Quinn at the White House, and Quinn went...
WASHINGTON LONDON
2
W ASHINGTON, EARLY EVENING, BAD MARCH WEATHER, but the Hay-Adams Hotel, where Daniel Quinn was staying, was only a short walk from the White House.
Quinn liked the Hay-Adams, the wonderful antiques, the plush interior, the restaurant. Because of the hotel's location, they all came there, the great and the good, the politicians and the power-brokers. Daniel Quinn didn't know where he fit in on that spectrum anymore, but he didn't much care. He just liked the place.
Quinn stepped outside, and the doorman said, "I heard you were here, Senator. Welcome back. Will you be needing a cab?"
"No, thanks, George. The walk will do me good."
"At least take an umbrella. The rain might get worse. I insist, Sergeant."
Quinn laughed. "One old Vietnam hand to another?"
George took an umbrella from his stand and opened it. "We saw enough of this stuff back in the jungle, sir. Who needs it now?"
"That was a long time ago, George. I had my fifty-second birthday last month."
"Senator, I thought you were forty."
Quinn laughed, suddenly looking just that. "I'll see you later, you rogue."
He crossed to Lafayette Square, and George was right, for the rain increased, sluicing down through the trees, as he passed the statue of Andrew Jackson.
It gave him the old enclosed feeling--the man who had everything: money, power, a beloved daughter--and yet, too often these days, he felt he had nothing. It was what he called his "what's-it-all-about" feeling. He was coming to the other side of the square, lost in his own thoughts, when he heard the voices. In the diffused light from a street lamp he saw them clearly enough: two street people wearing bomber jackets, wet with the rain, talking loudly. They were identical except for their hair--one had it down to his shoulders, the other had his skull shaven. They were drinking from cans, and as one of them kicked an empty out to the sidewalk, he saw Quinn and stepped in his way.
"Hey, bitch, where do you think you're going? Let's see your wallet, man."
Quinn ignored him and moved ahead. The one with long hair produced a knife, and the blade jumped.
Quinn closed the umbrella and smiled.
"Can I help you?" he said.
"Yeah, you can give me your money, asshole, unless you want some of this." He waved the blade in the air.
Shaven-head was next to Longhair now and he laughed, an ugly sound, and Quinn swung the umbrella, the tip catching the man under the chin. He dropped to one knee and Quinn stamped in his face, suddenly thirty years younger, a Special Forces Sergeant in the Mekong Delta. He turned to the one with the knife.
"You sure about that?"
The knife swung as Quinn grabbed the wrist, straightened the arm, and snapped it with a hammer blow. The man screamed and staggered back and, as the other started to get up, Quinn stamped in his face again.
"Just not your night, is it?"
A limousine braked hard and the driver came out, producing a Browning from under his left arm. He was very big and very black and Quinn knew him well: Clancy Smith, an ex-Marine and the President's favorite Secret Service man. His passenger, who'd joined him, was just as familiar, a tall, handsome man around Quinn's age, his hair still black, named Blake Johnson. Johnson was the director of the General Affairs Department at the White House, though everyone who knew about it--which wasn't many--just called it the Basement.
"Daniel, are you okay?" Blake asked.
"Never been better. What brings you here?"
"We decided to come pick you up, though I should have guessed you'd be walking, even on a night like this. The hotel told us we'd just missed you." He surveyed the scene. "Looks like you've been having a little excitement."
The two men were on their feet now and had retreated under the trees, a sorry sight. Clancy said, "I'll call the police."
"No, don't bother," Quinn told him. "I think they've got the point. Let's go."
He got in the rear of the limousine and Blake followed. Clancy got behind the wh
eel and drove away.
It was quiet, except for the whimpering of Shaven-head. "For God's sake, shut up," the other one said.
"He broke my nose."
"So what? It's going to spoil your pretty face? Give me a cigarette."
Half a block away, another limousine sheltered under the trees. The man who sat behind the wheel was of medium height, around thirty, handsome with blond hair. He wore a white shirt, dark tie, and leather Gucci overcoat. His passenger was of the same age, a very beautiful woman with jet-black hair and fierce, proud features. There was a slightly Arab look to her, which was not surprising, since she was half-Arab, half-English.
"That was a poor showing, Rupert. You have a rather inferior class of employee, I'm afraid."
"Yes, very disappointing, Kate. Mind you, Quinn was impressive." Rupert Dauncey pulled on a pair of thin black leather gloves.
Lady Kate Rashid waved the thought aside. "We'd better get going. We'll just have to try something else."
"Such as?"
"I understand the President is dining tonight at the Lafayette Restaurant in the Hay-Adams. Perhaps he'd like some company."
"My God, cousin, you do like your fun." His voice was very pleasant, with a strong tinge of Boston. "Excuse me a moment. I'll be back."
As he got out, she said, "Rupert, where are you going?"
"My money, sweetie. I want it back."
"But you've got money, Rupert."
"It's the principle of the thing."
He lit a cigarette as he crossed the avenue to the two men huddled under the trees.
"Well, that was very entertaining."
"You told us he'd be a walkover," Shaven-head said.
"Yes, life can be a bitch sometimes. But you two screwed up royally, didn't you? I want my money back."
"Go to hell." Shaven-head turned to his friend. "Don't give him nothing."
"Oh, dear."
Rupert produced a .25 Colt from his right-hand pocket, a bulbous silencer on the end. He prodded Shaven-head's left thigh and pulled the trigger. The man cried out and went down. Rupert held out a hand and the other got the bills out hurriedly.