"Which Fayetteville?" said Martin. "There is a whole raft of them in this country, all called after Lafayette, I guess. We used to like the French in those days."
"Fayetteville, North Carolina," said Kilmara.
"Uh-huh!" said Martin. "Fayetteville is right next to FortBragg, home of the 82 ^ nd Airborne, Delta Force, and other peaceful people."
"The very place," said Kilmara. "Not a high-crime environment like Washington. Peaceful. Lots of young men and women doing healthy things like jumping out of airplanes and learning how to survive on snakes and weevils. And we might do a little touring."
"What's this exhibition?" said Martin.
"A sort of Ideal Homes exhibition, except the booths don't show microwaves and Japanese bread cookers. This one is focused more on my kind of work."
"Which is what these days?" said Martin. He smiled. "Given your advancing years and all." He knew perfectly well what Kilmara did, but was not quite clear what he was leading up to.
"Special operations," said General Kilmara guilelessly.
*****
"Maury, I have never seen anything like it in my life," said Fitzduane quite truthfully. "That isn't a mobile home. It's a whole way of life. If it was any bigger, it could apply for statehood."
Maury beamed. He loved to travel, and no more so that around the United States. But meeting strangers day after day was a strain. He had designed his own solution and built it himself.
"Power steering; air conditioning; quad sound; satellite dish; multichannel TV; microwave; dishwasher; three bedrooms; two showers; and four networked computers. All the comforts of a luxury condo, and it travels," said Maury proudly.
"And you can train for the Boston Marathon while running up and down the aisle," said Fitzduane dryly. "Maury, this thing is HUGE! Is it legal? What does it eat? Aah!"
Kathleen retrieved her elbow from her husband's ribs. True, it was the weirdest mobile home she had ever seen, but she and Romeo y Julietta were not averse to some modest adventuring. And if two-thirds of the present family felt like that, well – Hugo could come too. It was democracy. He was outvoted.
Fitzduane had planned to fly to Fayetteville via Raleigh. Maury had pointed out that by the time they had changed planes and hung around the airport for the connection, they might as well drive. Further, he would drive them. He had met Kathleen and it had been devotion at first sight. He was, he had announced, instantly enslaved.
Neither Fitzduane nor Kathleen found any reason to disbelieve him. Maury, once he had broken through the initial contact barrier, was proving to be no fan of moderation. On the other hand, he was a marvelous companion and had snippets of information about practically everywhere and everything.
General Shane Kilmara was more dubious. He had reached the stage in life where he had a sense of order. But he was prevailed upon. America, he had found, had that kind of effect on him. The impossible suddenly seemed possible.
They set out for North Carolina with Maury acting as a human guidebook. As they passed one Civil War site after another, Kathleen was strangely moved.
"It's all so much and it's all so close," she said quietly. "It has an effect. You can see – feel – why they fought. I'll never feel quite the same about the South again." She wanted to cry. There were reasons why people fought and died, and some of them were good reasons. She reached out for her husband's hand and grasped it, and he put his arm around her and hugged her to him.
General Shane Kilmara, who had seen more of war than most, felt exactly the same way as he looked out through tinted picture windows.
He had been there before, and he always did. He was reminded of a visit to ArlingtonNationalCemetery just south of the Pentagon and within no distance at all of Washington, D.C. The graveyard had originally been Robert E. Lee's home until a Northerner, disgusted by the bloodshed, had made sure Lee would never return again by using the immediate surrounds of the house in which to bury the dead. The cherry orchards were cut down and it became the NationalCemetery.
Not far from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Kilmara had found an impressive monument erected to the memory of the Southern dead and had expressed some surprise. This had started, after all, as a Northern graveyard, and the South were the vanquished. Yet their dead, the enemy, were honored and within living memory of the war itself.
"Don't be surprised, General," his guide, a young lieutenant from the Old Guard, had said. "It's appropriate, sir. You're standing in Virginia."
6
Dana and Texas watched Maury's custom-built mobile home pull into the forecourt of the BastogneInn amp; ConferenceCenter in Fayetteville with some relief. They had been assigned by Lee Cochrane to keep an eye on the Fitzduane party and had followed them down all the way from Washington. They had not enjoyed the scenery. On the open road they considered that goddamn mobile home too damn vulnerable.
They could not figure out why four sensible adults who all knew they were potential terrorist targets should expose themselves in this way. They had finally come to the correct conclusion that even if you were a target you had to try for some semblance of a normal existence or life would scarcely be worth living. You would be a prisoner. It was the same thinking that had kept the security down to two. Still, however understandable that was, it was tough on your bodyguards.
A vast sign reading ‘The Spec-Forces Show’ was festooned across the front of the hotel. A large sticker in the rear window of a pickup advised: "Special Operations Exhibition – Don't Drink amp; Drive: You Might Spill Your Drink.’ Another simply read: ‘I Don't Brake For Terrorists.’
Dana, who had been driving, glanced across at Texas. "Boys will be boys," she said. "I guess we're in the right place."
Texas rubbed her eyes. Following a vehicle was exhausting. You were not only keeping an eye on it, but you had to both look out for potential trouble and remember your own security. And that meant covering your ass. She had tired eyes and a crick in her neck. A soak in a hot tub was an inviting prospect. It was more likely to be a quick shower. This was a working trip.
"What's the brief?" she said. Dana was the more cerebral of the pair. She handled the paperwork. Texas tried to focus on the action.
"The hotel is an open rectangle," said Dana. "The main block houses reception area, restaurants, and the actual conference center. Two wings at the back house the rooms. Between the wings there is a heated pool."
Texas groaned. "What I wouldn't give!"
"We should be able to work it out," said Dana. "Special security has been drafted in for the run of the exhibition, and the entire hotel is restricted to exhibitors and invited guests for the duration. There is going to be more firepower concentrated here for the next few days than the 82 ^ nd can deploy. If there is one place where our clients should be safe, it is here."
"So what do we do?" said Texas cheerfully. "Soak up a few rays and maybe connect with a paratrooper or two?"
"We keep a general eye on things," said Dana, "but we focus on Kathleen Fitzduane. She's only here to be with Hugo, and I've got a hunch al this high-tech killing hardware will pall. She will want to do a little touring, and where she goes, at least one of us will follow."
"What do you think of Kathleen?"
"Nice lady," said Dana, "and very dishy. More the homemaker than the feminist. A good match for Hugo."
"More is the pity," said Texas.
Dana and Texas looked at each other and grinned. Both fancied Hugo.
"Amen to that," said Dana.
*****
Fitzduane inserted the key in the elevator lock.
They were staying on the fifth floor. Without the special key, the fourth floor was as high as you could go. Well, that was the theory. It was not the social norm to quiz everyone else in the elevator as to their floor entitlement. So, from a security point of view, the special key helped – but not too much.
Out of curiosity, Fitzduane had checked the fire stairs access and that had been thought through. You could get down the stairs b
ut not back up. The security door clicked shut behind you, and that could only be opened from the inside. Unless you had a passkey, which every cleaner was equipped with.
Security, like most things in life, was a compromise. Perimeter security was much tighter. Yo could not get in or out of the hotel without a special pass that bore your photograph and thumb print. Armed guards enforced the edict. It was reasonable. There was a great deal of very dangerous hardware inside.
Kathleen had accompanied Fitzduane for all of the first day of the exhibition. Now she was tired and said little. It had indeed been a busy day. From Fitzduane's point of view, it had been fascinating. As to Kathleen's reaction, he was not so sure. Or maybe he was and did not want to admit it. Kathleen was unhappy; in fact, she was downright disturbed.
She lay back down on the bed without switching on the light. Some light from the general hotel illumination outside percolated through the blinds, but otherwise the room was in darkness. Fitzduane knew the signs. When Kathleen behaved like this she did not want to be held and caressed, and her thoughts brushed aside. She wanted to think and talk the issue out in her own time.
He sat in an armchair beside the window and waited. Sounds floated up from the illuminated pool below.
Kathleen spoke when she was ready. He had no idea how long it took. It was not important. Her hands were loosely clenched in and rested on her eyes. He could smell her perfume from where he sat. Her long legs gleamed in the ambient light in contrast to the prevailing darkness.
"How many booths are there?" she said. "Three hundred, four hundred? And all devoted to the business of killing. Sniper rifles; grenade launchers; anti-tank weapons; laser range finders; radio-detection devices; silencers; night-vision equipment. It is all about the taking of human life, and here we are bringing another small life into the world. I don't understand it. If frightens me. I just can't work it out.
"God knows, I have been on the receiving end of terrorism, but still, I can't make any sense of it. Surely we can find a better way? Is violence the only answer? Are we making a little baby just to have it blasted into oblivion by one of these terrible devices, or maybe it will just be maimed? It is all incomprehensible to me.
"And then, when I meet the people who supply all this lethal equipment, many friends of yours, I find them so nice and charming. They are not horrible warmongers. They are just ordinary people
like you and me. And that is truly terrifying. THESE FRIGHTENING PEOPLE, THESE KILLERS – THEY'RE US! THEY'RE YOU AND ME, HUGO!"
Kathleen's words cut like a knife through Fitzduane. Their real effectiveness stemmed from the fact that these were the very thoughts that he harbored himself.
"I love you, Hugo," continued Kathleen, "but sometimes you make me despair. You're the kindest, gentlest, sweetest man and the most loving father – and yet when I see you with these people talking about the techniques of killing, I feel I have married a monster." She gave a small sad laugh. "I'm in love with a monster. I'm bearing a monster's child. And I have no regrets."
Fitzduane lay down beside her and put his arm around her. They had had this conversation before and he had run out of answers. Fundamentally, there weren't any. Kathleen was right. But in the real world, being right was not enough.
Kathleen snuggled into him. Then she reached out with her hand and caressed him. Soon, none of it mattered.
*****
Don Shanley, manager of Magnavox's Electro-Optical Division, watched with mixed feelings as the six special forces troopers left.
They had been drinking beer and telling war stories for the past three hours, and it had been good fun. But it had been a long day, and now all he really wanted to do was have a shower and put his feet up. Exhibitions were hard on the feet. You were standing working all day, and standing around socializing in the evening, and it just was not the way, in his opinion, feet were designed to be used. They were useful appendages and really should receive more care and consideration.
Shanley stripped and stood under the shower, the pressure turned full up. The water needled into him and he could feel the layers of fatigue being stripped away. It was just as well. It was after eleven, but his day was still not finished. An exhibition meant a sixteen-hour day, sometimes more.
Tomorrow, he had additional work to do. He was starting the day with a demonstration of the MAG-600 for a cadre of the 82 ^ nd Airborne. The good news about that was that he would not lose any time at the stand, because the paratroopers started so goddamn early. The bad news was that he was not going to get much sleep. All equipment, no matter how inherently reliable, had an amazing knack of letting you down at sales demonstrations. Doubtless, it was the gods playing games.
But interestingly, he reflected, they seemed to play them much less often if equipment was checked out thoroughly and methodically in advance. It was doubly important if the devices had been fiddled about with all day on the exhibition stand. It was impressive how much several hundred pairs of untrained hands could fuck up the most soldier-proof of devices.
Laymen thought you designed equipment for performance. That was the easy part. The hard part was making it stand up to the average soldier's activities in the field. That was not so easy. The military had strange habits. They liked mud and rain and sand and grit and extremes of temperature and humidity. They jumped out of airplanes and helicopters and rattled around armored fighting vehicles. People shot at them with sharp pieces of metal and dropped explosives on them.
All of this was not conducive to good electro-optical performance. No, ‘Mil-Spec’ was not just an arbitrary list of standards. The military were really rough on things.
But it was fair enough, Shanley thought, because they were hardest of all on themselves. And that was hard to take.
Shanley looked like everyone's image of the ultimate professional soldier. His bearing was military. His black hair was cropped short. He was fit and lean, with high cheekbones and a firm jaw. His eyes were blue and piercing and laughter lines showed he could take stress. He was deeply tanned. His demeanor was both confident and encouraging. He had a natural air of command. His voice was a pleasure to listen to, both crisp and authoritative and persuasive. Clothes fitted him as if tailored. He was a man's man and a woman's man. Both sexes automatically warmed to him.
Unprompted, enlisted men automatically called him ‘Sir.’ Officers called him ‘Sir’ also, or ‘Mister’ with respect. He had eyeballed Death and he had not blinked. He was ex-Special Forces or some such elite unit. He was ranger and airborne qualified. He was a warrior.
But he had never served. He had come close, but then Lydia had showed up and civilian life had seemed the better option. But he had always wondered.
The irony of Don Shanley was that none of his military traits or mannerisms was affected. All were natural and were innate to the man. Shanley was just ordained by nature to look the part.
It went deeper than mere looks. Shanley also was a crack shot and had a deep understanding of the military art. He knew weapons and tactics and military history, and how the whole terrible business worked, in very considerable detail.
By nature he was conscientious and thorough, and in his value system you should thoroughly understand the needs of your customer. It went with doing the job right.
Shanley was a decent man. Doing the job as well as it could be done was important to him. Work was how he supported his family, and they were everything to him. Lydia and the twins. They were why he did what he did and why he was proud to do it. He also thought it was necessary. The U.S. military were entitled to have the best weapons that money and technology could provide, and he, Donald Shanley, would see that they had them. On that issue he slept easy.
But when he trained men who were about to put their lives on the line, he felt guilty. He felt the need to pay his dues. To serve in a combat unit in defense of his country.
He was an old-fashioned man with simple values. He had a conscience and he cared.
He picked up the phone and c
alled Lydia in New Jersey. This was something he had done virtually every night he had been away since they had gotten married eight years ago. She was asleep, but she responded to his voice with drowsy warmth.
The twins were fine. Sam adored the new pancake recipe. Samantha wanted to play the guitar instead of the piano. The air conditioner had been fixed. All was well with the world. She missed him and loved him.
Shanley replaced the receiver. He had a good job with a fine company, and he had a wife and children he adored. He should be entirely content. And yet something was missing.
He wanted to – needed to – serve.
He swung his legs off the bed and began checking the equipment. Toward the end, he stripped and cleaned the M16A2 and the Barrett. The Magnavox MAG-600, which he was going to demonstrate to the 82 ^ nd tomorrow, was an interesting piece of equipment.
It was a thermal-imager sight, which meant it responded to heat emanations. With it, you could shoot in complete darkness or through smoke or fog at quite considerable ranges. Variations of it could accomplish the same task when fitted to a Stinger antiaircraft missile.
One of the most interesting applications of all was the application of the Magnavox thermal imaging technology to driving. Using a thermal viewer fed through to a miniature TV monitor mounted on or in the dashboard, you could drive without lights in the absolute dead of night. Image intensifiers required some light. Thermal imagers required none at all.
Shanley finished the weapons cleaning and consulted his appointment schedule.
A Colonel Hugo Fitzduane of the Irish Rangers and party were due at 3:00 P.M. for a personal demonstration. They had some particular problems they wanted to resolve that sounded as if they were right up Magnavox's street. They wanted to equip a FAV – a fast-attack vehicle – with full thermal capability and wondered if the equipment could take the pounding.
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