A PATRIOT TREASON

By J. Fontana

A discredited CIA agent, Evan Trent,  is dispatched to Barbados to orchestrate the escape of  a Barbadian soldier who is being sentenced at a Court  Martial  awaiting execution for the murder of a civilian.  The CIA official in Miami, Col. Rankin, has learned that the Barbadian soldier posseses  valuable information about an international conspiracy to compromise America's defenses. With the help of Barbadian songstress, Paloma, Trent succeeds in releasing the soldier and discovering the truth about the conspiracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. GALLICANO
• Release date: Jan 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393843634

Book preview

An Arcanum is a mystery or secret; more likely it is a combination of both.

The Elbe is a river in Germany.

* * *

Visionaries think the unthinkable.

1.

Gun Hill Garrison,

Barbados, BWI

Autumn, 1990

S

entencing a guilty man to death is never easy; sentencing an innocent man to death is more difficult.

Major General Kingsbury, Chief Judicial Officer of the Barbadian National Guard Court Martial, alternately adjusted his tie, stroked his moustache and mopped imagined perspiration from his brow, nervous rituals he performed in moments of stress. With slowness and studied deliberation he unhooked his steel-rimmed bifocals, one ear at a time, and laid the glasses on the polished table in front of him.

The duty of passing the death sentence is more easily discharged if the prisoner is out of focus.

Kingsbury turned in his seat and nodded to the officers seated on either side of him to indicate that he was ready. Only then did he look directly at the blurred form before him, a dazed, soldier standing at rigid attention in the large, airless military briefing room, now afoul with the rancid odors of sweat, tension and stale smoke.

Private Almont! I address you!

Sir!

You have been found guilty of the murder of a civilian person within the confines of this base and as such you are liable to be executed according to the Military Code of Penal Law. Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence upon you?

Yes sir! With respect sir! I am not guilty. The private spoke with curious conviction, looking straight over the heads of the tribunal.

You have been found guilty by this court martial. You dare to still maintain your innocence?

I do, sir. I have stated under oath in testimony, I had left the drinking party well before the fight broke out. I have never owned a knife like the one produced here. I had no quarrel with the civilian.

Nevertheless he is dead.

I did not kill him, sir!

Your testimony was considered and rejected Private Almont.

A daytime nightmare, at once constricting and bizarre, enveloped Almont. What was happening? I have killed no one. Where is my control from Havana, that kindly little cherub from the Russian Embassy who had brought me this far? What was it he had said? You are never to worry Simon, we will always be there to help you, to assist you if get into difficulty. Do not fear, he had said. But I have heard nothing from him for many months now. Almont tried to picture the cherub whose was face as pink as the uncooked sausages he was always munching. Where was he? Six months now. Not a long time in this business. I have no right to complain. They told me there would be long periods of time with no contact. But now I am in trouble. Serious trouble.

These thoughts cascaded upon the bewildered and embittered Private Almont, penetrating the tranquilized haze, forcing him to focus on the terrible reality of his situation: this court martial, the testimony of lies he had been subjected to, the barked verdict, Guilty as charged!, and now the sentence that was about to be imposed. How had it come to this?

The day it had begun was still strangely immediate to him, that windless, sweltering day when he was working, happily cutting cane in the fields of Oriente province with a dozen other Cuban Youth For The Revolution. The images were still vivid and exciting: being approached by Colonel Ortiz who introduced him to the cherub, the pride of being one of the selected few, the thrill of hard training, terminated at last by the long overnight boat trip when he had been put ashore on Barbados on an isolated beach near Bathsheba.

He remembered the great elation of that night, six years ago when his little group departed Cuba in the night.

Fidel Castro, the Great One, had come down personally to the dockside to impart his blessing to the group. The towering man had patted little Simon on the head. The world revolution, he had said, is upon us and you will be one of its heroes. But if you should disobey, fail, or show cowardice, then Colonel Ortiz will be waiting for you. There had been a dramatic, malevolent tone to Castro's voice and then he had laughed in a fatherly way. But Simon had not been put at ease by the laughter and he had shuddered at the punishment that Colonel Ortiz might inflict.

The boys had nick-named Ortiz The Confessor because all disobedient boys were made to confess their misdeeds to him one way or the other.

Simon had heard the rumors of torture and evil deeds from boys in other training groups who had been made to answer to The Confessor for their misdemeanors. The very young ones had sometimes broken into tears at the mere mention of Ortiz' name.

But Simon had put these thoughts out of his mind; he must not show cowardice.

There will be many like you, Castro had concluded, in many parts of the world. You will not be alone. Then Simon had strutted with pride when he heard that the officials had told his mother and sisters that he was leaving to do special work for the revolution. Little Soldiers of the Revolution they were to be called. Castro himself had suggested the name change. And Simon's mother and sisters would now receive many favors and benefits because of it.

Almont remembered that, at first, as a twelve year old boy shivering alone on the beach at Bathsheba, he had wondered if the great one had lied to him, but by morning he had been contacted and adopted by a family cell of Cuban communist sympathizers. On his seventeenth birthday, a year ago, they had presented him with congratulations and orders from Cuba to enlist in the Barbadian National Guard. He had never seen them since.

Where were they now, he wondered, the officials, the family or the other Little Soldiers? Where were those who were to help him?

Where was the cherub or even Colonel Ortiz? Where?

Private Almont!

Sir!

Almont was shaken back to the present. He heard Kingbury's voice distant, but clear, like an echo.

It is now my duty to pass sentence upon you according to the Code of Procedure and Protocol for Military Executions, promulgated by Government House, Bridgetown.

Kingsbury had mustered renewed vigor and injected a new force into his voice.

"One! At dawn, three clear days from today, you are to be taken from your place of confinement to a secluded area nearby, to be selected by the officer-in-charge, and there you are to be shot.

Two! Prior to your execution the officer-in-charge of the firing party shall inquire whether you wish food or drink. You are to be permitted any drink asked for within reason.

Three! If requested, the attending medical officer will administer a sedative, by injection.

Four! You will be shot either standing up or sitting down strapped to a chair.

Five! The base chaplain will accompany you from your place of confinement to the place of execution. It is undesirable that he should wear vestments or read to you any portion of the burial service before the execution. Do you understand?"

Yes sir.

It was as simple as that. A rubric is uttered and a man is to die, thought Kingsbury. Too bad, the soldier had a good record.

Kingsbury replaced his bifocals.

This court martial stands adjourned, he intoned and the tribunal rose as one and filed out through a side door at the back of the briefing room.

Private Almont remained standing in stunned silence. Beyond the room, through two large windows behind the tribunal's table, he could see out into the sunshine of the diminishing summer, out into the thick fields of cane surrounding Gun Hill Garrison. The cane was high and ripe, like the day when little Simon had been working, the day that Ortiz and the cherub came ...

Two brawny MP's, shirt-sleeves rolled tightly over their biceps, took firm hold of Private Almont and escorted him back to his cell to await his ultimate end.

What had gone wrong?

2.

O

n the same day that Almont was sentenced, one of those climatically wistful days when just the slightest quickening of pace suggests nature's preparation for fall, two men, both in their early seventies, sat under a large umbrella on the flagstone patio of an unpretentious but impeccably clean old ranch house perched on a promontory of California’s Sierra Madre mountains.

From the patio, the eye was inexorably drawn to the crisp line of the Pacific Ocean presenting itself in unbroken view in the distance, seemingly nearer than it really was, reflecting silver and blue in the sunshine. The house had been so positioned as to favor this bountiful view, hence the name, El Rancho Vista del Mar.

One of the men, the elder of the two although not perceptibly so from a distance, was dressed in slacks, red checkered shirt and a pair of very worn, grass stained Addidas that disclosed a fondness for outdoor hiking. The man's companion wore a dark blue three piece business suit, white shirt and subdued maroon necktie. The latter gentleman's only concession to the warm climate was to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt collar. On the table between the two men a game board lay open with two packets of cards on it, all of which was being held down against a slight breeze by two glasses and a pitcher of iced tea.

Roll'em again, said the man in the blue suit.

Checkered Shirt rolled the dice and moved a yellow marker along the board.

History again, he announced with a note of triumph. I guess this is my lucky day Larry.

We could all use a good dose of luck right now, Mr. President, Larry replied as he selected a card at random from the packet. And let's hope there's enough of it left over in case the thing doesn't fly, Mr. Pres ...

Ben. Just plain Ben, okay? the President interjected.

There's no one listening Larry. My staff here is all hand-picked. They're all with us.

Thanks, Ben. I'm getting real edgy as D-Day approaches. It's that feeling you get when you've done all you can do and something is out of your hands. So it's nothing but luck from now on; if our luck just holds for the main gambit ...

If it doesn't, we'll be up to our asses in so many alligators it won't make a damned bit of difference, so why worry about it now. Read the question Larry.

Larry read from the card: What two European countries entered the war of American independence against the British?

France and Spain.

Right. Roll'em again.

The president rolled and advanced the marker three spaces. Ah, history again, he chuckled. Sorry to do it to you Larry.

We'll see. Larry selected another card and read: On what ship, famous in American history, was Christopher Jones captain?

Larry waited for the older man to respond and there was no impatience in his waiting. The leisurely approach the two old friends were taking to their game, the frequent periods of prolonged silence, made it evident they shared some heavy preoccupation. The game was a distraction. The periods of silence occurred when the preoccupation won out.

The man in the red checkered shirt was Benjamin Arthur Wakefield, President of the United States of America. His competitor in the trivia game was Chandler Lawrence Stone Secretary of State, called Larry by his intimates since army days when no one had been able to find a nick name for Chandler which they felt was far too formal for a foot soldier anyway.

Secretary Stone had arrived two hours earlier by USAF JetStar, landing at John Wayne Airport in Newport Beach where he would be less conspicuous, then moving by escorted limo to the ranch. There he had sat prepared to brief the President fully about a curious incident that had just happened up in Canada, the Director of Central Intelligence’s appraisal of what had occurred, and his own views.

He doled out he information to the president in small bites throughout the course of their game. The President pondered each new item of information as it was tendered, digesting it fully before inviting more, as he was now doing, gazing out over the Pacific.

Christopher Jones, Ben?

Captain of the Mayflower.

Right.

That is critical news you bring, Larry. The emphasis was on ‘is’.

I felt it was sufficiently important to bring me here a day early. I couldn't use government communications for obvious reasons.

If Soviet intelligence has somehow stumbled on to us, the whole thing could blow up in our faces, particularly from Mikhailov's end. We would have to call the thing off. All that work and effort for nothing, not to mention a missed historical opportunity. We'd never get the chance again.

That's if it's true. We don't know if it is or not. It was just a single word uttered by an excited, over-the-hill Russian diplomat when he was trying to do us a favor about something else altogether. Pretty thin I'd say.

We have to know for sure, fast. Could he have said ‘Arkady’, the Russian name, Arkady? Some reference to the Shevchenko defection back in the early eighties?

Not likely. It wouldn't have fit into the context of what was being said. They're running it by the translators though for ideas.

Maybe this fellow Harnish made a mistake in what he thought he heard?

Well, State Department says Harnish is a good, reliable man. Remember, it was a somewhat tense conversation between two people on opposite sides of the political divide, no matter how friendly they are.

And the dead Russian?

Diplomatic service, so definitely KGB, not GRU. That may tell us something.

Do our people have anything definite on the penetrator?

Zip. The company's working on it though.

There's no suggestion of any connection between the penetrator and our group?

Not so far. Let's hope the C.I.A blows it. We'll know soon enough.

Not soon enough, Larry. This thing happens in five days, or it isn't going to happen at all.

President Wakefield looked out over distant the Pacific.

Your move again, Ben.

The President rolled the dice and moved his piece to the center of the game board. This is it, Larry. Do you want to concede or do I have to embarrass you?

Center of the board. My option. I get to choose the question.

And it won't be history, I'll bet.

How'd you guess?

Here goes. Topic: Sports and Leisure. Ready? What kind of a ball are you using if you're playing a game called ‘free throw twenty-one’? Hell, Ben, I don't even know the answer to that one myself.

It's a basketball Larry. Sometimes I wonder if you're really a born and bred American yourself, you know that? The men laughed together. The Secretary turned the card over, disclosing the answer.

You're right again! Winner and still champion. What do I have to do to beat you, Ben?

What does Admiral Van Zander say? the President asked, cutting back to the topic that preoccupied him. Did you talk to him before leaving Washington?

A sudden sharp breeze lifted some of the game cards off the table and scattered them across the patio.

Damn right. In person. As far as he is concerned, nothing is changed because of the Ottawa incident. In his words: It's all systems ‘go’. He said his advice to you would be to worry about Congress after the fact, not the Russian establishment before. He says his end is all taken care of. That's as far as he would go.

A Secret Service man materialized from inside the house, gathered up the errant cards and replaced them on the table.

Thank you Mr. Foster. The President waited for the agent to leave.

He's right of course. The Arcanum is in place and can't be stopped now; not by you, not by me, not even by Congress if it knew about it. And whether they've penetrated or not, even the Russians couldn't stop it; there are too many wheels turning. The play has begun. The backfield is in motion, Larry and the play will be reaching the line of scrimmage very quickly now. We wait. We watch.

But will we succeed?

Between you and I? It doesn't make any difference. Either way results in some sort of success. If it works, that's success. If it doesn't work, that's success too because it will make people sit up and think about things and then maybe get off their asses to do something about it. Success is just a question of degree in this case.

What things would they think about? That they had a treasonous president? Nice stuff Ben.

"No, but it might get them wondering why a President would risk his place in history to try such an approach, or that maybe their President knew things about the state of affairs and understood the awesomeness of the danger that he was willing to try extraordinary means to solve it. It might make them think, Larry.

My people have stopped thinking, and so have the Russians."

Watergate and the Nixon resignation will seem like patty cake.

So be it. I'm too old to worry about it. Besides, you know what the pundits always say: Beware a President in the final days of his second term. Well that's me Larry. Beware. It's what I believe to be the right course.

Not popular, but right.

By the way Larry, what was the history question on that last card. Don't keep me in suspense.

Secretary Stone read from the card: In the famous Yalta Conference portrait of the Big Three, what is the seating arrangement?

Are you sure you didn't stack the deck to bring up that question today? Wakefield thought for a moment. Roosevelt is in the middle, Stalin to his left and Churchill to his right. So, how'd I do?

You're bang on. Sometimes I don't believe you Ben. I just don't know how you carry all this stuff around in your head.

Chandler Larry Stone was genuinely impressed with his President. But the irony of the Yalta question had triggered a memory, and the President was again gazing out over the distant ocean.

World War Two had been such a long, long time ago.

3.

Torgau, Germany,

April 24th, 1945,

2030 hours.

L

ieutenant Benjamin Wakefield leaned under the canvas canopy of his personnel carrier, holding a wrinkled topographical map out of the drizzle; his index finger played along the surface of the map as he tried to ascertain their position.

All we've got to work with is a lot of maybe’s boys, he announced to the group of drenched, mud-caked soldiers around him. Maybe we're here, if that was the road we were on.

His finger moved along the map. Or maybe we’re here, if that wasn't the damned road. That would put our outfit over there. Who the hell knows? Maybe, if we had enough gas to turn this rig around and head back the same way we came ... maybe, if this damned rain would stop, maybe, if the damned radio wasn't soaked ... maybe, maybe, maybe ...

Lieutenant, Lieutenant! An out-of-breath, haggard looking foot soldier in a hooded slicker came jogging along the trail the driver had mistaken for the road. Lieutenant, there's a river over this way. About three hundred yards, a pretty good sized river. Maybe that'll tell us where we are, huh? The dog-face motioned backwards with the tip of his rifle.

Stone, you crazy bastard. I gave orders that nobody was to leave the patrol. You wanta get shot? These woods are probably crawling with krauts. You got me. Stay with the patrol!

Sorry Lieutenant, but I had to do some snooping around. The old sixth sense. I could smell water somewhere around here. The river's just back there; we should be able to figure out our position, but that ain't all Lieutenant?

What ain't all Stone? Let's hear it.

Christ Lieutenant, I'm workin' my way down to the river where there's good cover, brush on both sides and what do I see when I get there, but some damn dog-face just like us havin' himself a piss in the river on the other side. I damned near fell over!

One of us or one of them?

Can't say Lieutenant. He didn't look like a kraut though, they have those funny damned helmets and it wasn't one of those!

Did he see you?

Don't know that for sure either, but I don't think so. And he wasn't alone. I could hear some action over on the other side, in the bush - voices, lots of voices like they didn't give a shit if they were quiet or not. Engine noise too! Sounded sort of like light troop carriers.

A few of the soldiers got up and gathered around the back of the truck to hear Stone's excited announcement. A soggy candy bar was being passed hand to hand, rapidly diminishing as each man bit off a chew.

Christ, said Wakefield, turning again to the map. "I think we've penetrated too far! That's probably the Elbe River.

Here. He ran his finger along a line on the map. How wide is it, Stone?"

About thirty yards at the place where I was, sir. Not wide at all.

Any villages or houses on the other side?

Couldn't see any.

The voices. What language? How well could you hear them?

Not good, sir. Just voices. But they sure weren't tryin' to shut up. Laughing and the whole works. They didn't seem to give a damn who heard them.

Or maybe they weren't expecting anybody to be around to hear them.

Maybe, sir.

Wakefield turned to his men. Boys this map doesn't have enough detail to tell us anything for certain. The river could be the Elbe or some other dam creek for all I know. There's standing orders that no units are to cross the Elbe so we aren't taking a chance. We've got to assume it's the Elbe and those are krauts on the other side. Wakefield folded the map and slid it into his breast pocket with the reverence due to a rare medieval parchment. "It’s getting too dark to do anything more. Everybody grab something to eat and try to get some sleep in the truck.

This rain doesn't seem about to let up. No fires. I want two men on watch. Work it out among yourselves. We should be okay until morning. Nobody's going to try anything in this weather."

Wakefield pulled off his helmet and set it inside the truck where five of the men were already stretched out in the cramped space; a couple of the soldiers were chewing without enthusiasm on hard rations, others were trying to light damp cigarettes. All were exhausted from a day and a half of slogging through the tail end of the German winter for the sole purpose of determining the precise whereabouts of the hard-pressed pockets of enemy resistance.

Private Stone, still grinning through a three day growth of beard over his recent discovery, came around the corner of the vehicle.

I'm taking the first watch Lieutenant. Why don't you grab some shut-eye. Maybe by morning we'll know what's up.

Thanks Stone. I wish it was that easy. Sorry I jumped on you like that, but we need every man we've got and I don't want you catching a Krupp slug from some sniper, understand?

"Gotcha Lieutenant. You think we've got big problems huh?

Especially with that bunch across the river?"

I'd just like to get us out of here, that's all. Just one big problem after another.

Well hell sir, if that's the case, why don't we just wake up the men and backtrack to hell outta here the same way we came? Simple as that.

"It's a thought. But not at night. If we were on a road it'd be different. But we'd be running this rig all over the place without knowing where we're going, and we're short on fuel. Maybe in the morning. If we leave the truck we'll be movin' slow as hell. And I'd like to get back with a few answers for HQ at least.

"We were sent to do a job and we haven't done it yet.

No, Stone, I think we'll wait it out a little."

What answers are we lookin' for Lieutenant. War's war if you ask me. Who can make any damned sense of it? All I know is that they tell us we're winning right now, and look at the mess we're in. I'd hate like hell to see what the losers are lookin' like, if we're the winners! Right now I'd settle for any sort of hot chow and a dry cot to lay down on and to hell with the rest of it!

Wakefield sensed that Stone was not ready to end the chatter.

He pulled the map case from his jacket and unfolded the map again, more to satisfy himself than to answer any question that Stone had raised. Let me put you in the picture. Explaining things to somebody else helps me understand it.

The teacher learns from teaching, Huh?

You might say so.

Wakefield spread the map out on what space was left on the floor of the truck and took out a pencil stub. He carefully drew two crooked, vertical lines from top to bottom just to the right of Berlin.

"This is the situation as of seven days ago, as the Captain explained it to me nine days ago now. See these two lines. The one on the right is the Russians, the Russian front as it was nine days ago...Think of it as the offensive line in a football game. It follows the Oder River, roughly. Over center is Zhukov, their quarterback and their team is the First Byelorussian Army.

In the north and to the right we have the Second Byelorussian Army quarterbacked by Rokossovsky. At the south end of the offensive line, here to the left, the Ukrainian Army quarterbacked by Konev. One offensive line with three teams and three quarterbacks, the largest fighting machine ever put together in the east ..."

Thank Christ they're on our side, I guess, huh, Stone interjected.

"That might be the damned problem. Here, the kraut defense lines, such as they are, quarterbacked by Generals Busse, Wenck and Henrei. Intelligence tells us that Hitler has issued what he calls his Order to Defend the Capital to the Wermacht. To put it plainly, it's a fight to the finish. Every building, every shell hole, every tree is to be defended to the last man and the last round of ammo.

The difference in this football game is that the prize is Berlin, and it is not on the line of scrimmage, but behind it. It’s defended by what's left of the kraut army. So we're at one helluva disadvantage.

Stone let out a low whistle.

Remember, that was the situation seven or eight days ago.

Wakefield drew another serpentine line down the map, this time to the west of Berlin. This is the situation as of two or three days ago. The Russians have moved about a hundred kilometers and are now believed to be coming up on the Elbe River, here, in the south sector.

That fast?

Yeah, that fast.

What about Berlin?

The krauts have set up a defensive perimeter around the city and are holding on even though the Russians are kicking the shit out of them. Wakefield scrawled a circle around Berlin. There are also small pockets of kraut resistance within this area. That's what we're supposed to be looking for. Maybe that's what you saw across the river.

Or the Russians. Private Stone seemed suddenly enlightened.

Or Russians. Sure would be nice to know, wouldn't it?

Wakefield was enjoying this analysis and felt the urge to continue. He cupped his had to light a cigarette. What started out as a clear cut situation isn't so black and white now. At first it was us — Americans, Brits, and Russians — against the krauts, but now that the big prize is within reach, things are starting to get a little screwed up and nasty.

Everybody wants Berlin, now, huh Lieutenant?

You said it. It's even worse than that though. The damned race is on for the city; Zhukov has already met up with some of Konev's units from the south and he's got Berlin surrounded. He hasn't tried going in yet though. So a real fight is shaping up between them and us for control of Berlin.

You mean us slug it out with the Russkies? No kidding?

Patton's army is here, pushing east as hard as he can in this weather. Hell, old Blood and Guts wants to take Berlin then drive right on into Russia itself and kick some ass. The Command had to put the brakes on him. And in the middle of all this we've got all kinds of kraut units moving west to escape the Russians and surrender to us.

Maybe that's one of them on the other side of the river, huh, Lieutenant?

Maybe.

Then what the hell are we doing here with twenty men, Lieutenant? Something here doesn't add up.

You're getting brighter all the time, Stone.

I don't get it.

Officially, we're out looking for those pockets of kraut resistance. That's the only story you know. Between me and you though, we're looking for Russians.

Christ, sir. You're losin' me fast. Why Russians?

There were some side deals made at the big Yalta Conference by Allied Command. The Russian bear can get good and hungry after a long, hard winter and most of the territory west of the Elbe would make easy pickings for them. Why in hell they'd want it, I don't know; it's all blown to rat-shit now anyway. The Russians are not supposed to advance west of the Elbe — that's part of the side deal at least until things are sorted out after this war is over. The other part of the deal is that all three powers take over Berlin together.

Guess Ike just don't trust the Russians anymore, huh?

"Nobody trusts them right now, us or the Brits. There are patrols like us all along the line to check out the situation.

Captain figures if any of the Russians outfits do start crossing the river it'll be in one of the remote areas to the south, here, where we are, away from the main action."

Sort of an end run, Huh?

That's about it. That's what we're here to check out.

And if they do cross, what then Lieutenant. Cripes, we can't hold back a whole Russian army!

My orders are to observe and report. That's it. Just collect the evidence. Place, time, number of men. Just report and clear out. Captain says any information will go back up the line to Command and it could wash out the deal on control of Berlin.

Shit, then maybe they'd let Patton loose. Wouldn’t that be somethin'? It'd sure be everybody for themselves, right?

Right. Now I'm going to try to get some sleep.

Lieutenant Wakefield loosened his boots and stretched himself across the driver's seat of the truck, purposely left vacant for him by the men as a concession to rank. The drizzle drummed steadily on the roof, but somewhat lighter now, he thought, and he wondered of at least one thing might turn for the better.

Still, he was too tired to eat and his whole body ached miserably. There was some consolation in the fact that it would soon all be over. It had to be.

Lieutenant? The voice was private Stone's.

Yeah, what is it? Wakefield asked wearily."

You're damned smart, you know that?

Are you kidding, Stone? What the hell makes you say that?

No, lieutenant, it's true. You're damned smart, understandin' all that shit, and even more because you could explain it to me so's I could understand it. Just wanted to say thanks.

Okay. Now go take your watch.

Okay, sir.

Stone?

Yeah Lieutenant?

You know, since you could understand it, that means you aren't so dumb yourself. You should think about going back to school when this is all over.

Yeah. I just might for cripesakes. What an idea!

I know. I'm going to.

No kiddin'?

You want to know something else, Stone? Do you want to know what Lenin, the head honcho of the Russians at one time, had to say?

What?

Lenin said that whoever controls Berlin, will rule Germany, and whoever controls Germany will rule all of Europe. Think about that tonight.

Cripes. That's powerful stuff.

"Yes, it is powerful stuff. And that's what we're doing here.

Maybe that's what this piddling-assed little patrol is all about, control of Europe ..."

Wakefield was asleep before he could complete the sentence, engulfed with visions of riding bare-back on the old mule at his uncle's farm near Bakersfield, California.

Private Stone sat on the truck's massive steel bumper, smoking and contemplating the wonderful way the lieutenant had taken him into his confidence, treating him as an equal, explaining the complexities of war. It sounded complex to him and for the first time in his life he felt the exhilaration of understanding something complex. Wakefield was a good man. Stone smiled to himself.

There must be many things which provided joy in the simple process of working your way along to understanding something difficult. All it took was someone like the lieutenant here to explain it. When the war was over it would be good to chase down some of these things. Something to think about anyway.

He'd ask the lieutenant about it someday. They might even turn out to be good friends after the war ... Yes, these were good things to think about.

A steady, rhythmic thumping of heavy artillery, low and distant, began abruptly. It was many miles away and almost melodic. It was strange, thought private Stone, in the dark you can't really tell which direction sound is coming from ...

The cigarette dropped from his fingers and Stone slumped to the wet ground.

Within seconds, he was snoring in chorus with the others.

4.

E

van Trent lay back, indolent, relaxed and shirtless, bathed in the brilliant, mid-morning Caribbean sunshine in the open stern cockpit of the Buccaneer, a rather shabby, thirty foot sloop of unconventional design, built and abandoned long ago by some amateur designer. The wheel was lashed to hold course and the craft was running before a moderate, but steady breeze, slightly heeled, making a respectable six knots, Trent guessed.

The sea was not at all rough but the rhythmic undulations of the boat tossed up a refreshing spray from the bow, wetting the deck from prow to stern, adequate to cool the skipper as he semi-dozed in the cockpit.

Trent was savoring the morning, the sun, the friendly breeze, the sea and the solitude particularly the solitude and the delicious intimacy with nature that aloneness nourishes. It was the intimacy of man with an immediate task, experienced, as now, between skipper and vessel and shared in a bond of tacit brotherhood with but a few others: the flyer and his craft, alone in the sky, the climber and the rock as he moves each agonizing inch caressing the rock-face, and, yes, the intimacy and affection between matador and bull as they play out the ritual drama, alone in the arena ...

But Trent was tired as well. Tired of thinking too much, tired of having to be too careful too much of the time, tired of a job in which the success or failure of his efforts were seldom revealed to him, like an artist forever condemned to adding a few pieces to a mosaic without ever enjoying the complete picture.

Finally, Trent was beat, tired from being awake most of the night, riding out five hours of stubborn, rolling swells, the trailing edge of a tropical storm that the weather radio had never mentioned.

There was, nevertheless, a perverse contentment in all of this which Trent knew to be temporary. It was the contentment of complete, enforced solitude which he would enjoy for so long as the sun warmed him, the spray refreshed him, and the dipping of the boat massaged his spirit.

Evan Trent was, at the moment, blissfully his own man.

Then the sighting preceded the sound. He saw the Aerostar even before he could hear it, cruising at high altitude above him. His reverie broken, Trent began to follow the plane's flight path, trying to identify it, hoping it was merely some charter flight carrying holiday-makers from point to point. It's erratic trajectory told him otherwise.

He sensed that the aircraft was looking for him.

At the controls of the airplane, a cheerful looking, curly-haired young man of mixed Carib-Spanish ancestry throttled the engines back to slow speed cruise and was intent on scanning the surface of the sea below him with a pair of powerful Zeiss field glasses. The plane was on auto pilot and the ADF was tuned to a Miami rock n’ roll station that poured Down On the Corner into the pilot's headphones as he sang along with Credence Clearwater Revival. He didn't need the ADF anyway.

The Caribbean was his home and he could navigate without conscious effort like a postman making his rounds. Great Exuma Island lay dead ahead, a long, verdant slash in the sea; beyond that, to the north, Eleuthera was visible; to the northeast, the large, hulking Andros Island, and behind him if he had he found it necessary to look, a concatenation of islands ending at Mayaguana, a tiny mirage on the horizon. The pilot could see a hundred miles in any direction.

His singing stopped abruptly and he muttered aloud to the empty airplane. Sorry to break up your party Buccaneer, but here I come.

He then disengaged the autopilot, set ten degrees of flaps, and banked the aircraft into a long, graceful, spiraling descent toward the sloop with the tell-tale pennant. Three hundred feet over the water he leveled the aircraft, made one, low sweep past the front of the sailboat, pulled up, then turned again to circle it. The pilot could see Trent, his eyes hidden by sun glasses, stretched out at the rear of the boat. He gunned his engines and saw Trent stand up. There was no wave of acknowledgement.

The plane made another low pass off to one side of the boat, dropping his starboard wing to reveal the words ‘Island Pork Products, Inc.’ lettered along the side of the fuselage. It was not necessary. Trent had recognized the plane and cursed before bending himself into the cabin to turn on the VHF radio.

Buccaneer. Come in Buccaneer. The pilot's disembodied voice crackled through the speaker.

I don't like what I hear, Rico, and I sure as hell don't like what I see. Scram! Beat it!

Just came to sell you some pig tummies, Buccaneer.

I'm not buying. Clear out!

They want you back in Miami, my man. You don't want me to tell them ‘no’ for you, do you? Considerin' the shit you're already in. They're already upset because you ain't been monitorin' your HF when they call, so they had to send me out lookin’.

I'm officially off the line Rico. Or don't you read the damned notice board. Persona non grata. Without pay. Now beat it!

No way, my man. Rankin says to get your ass into Miami fast, so here I am. You don't want to get me in shit do you?

That's your business, not mine. Tell Rankin to go screw himself.

I wouldn't mind doin' that a bit, but flyin' jobs are hard to find.

Maybe I'm being a little too vague for you Rico; just get lost. Tell them you couldn't find me. Tell them I'm lost at sea."

Look man, the company's buzzin' with somethin'. Don't ask me why. They just want you in. Now! They don't tell me anythin'

Maybe the committee has reached a decision.

I doubt it. It's Rankin that wants you back in, to the post office. The committee's decision wouldn't come through him.

Eighteen year's worth of responding to orders got the better of Trent. Okay. What next, Rico?"

You look to be about five hours out of Exuma. I'll meet you there, at the airport.

When?

Just as soon as you get there my man. I'm only about sixteen minutes out myself. See you in Kermit's Bar. Out.

So much for the contentment of solitude, thought Trent as he clicked off the radio without responding. Rankin could go screw himself, along with the committee. For that matter, the whole company could do the same thing. You can't treat a man this way, not after eighteen years on the job!

Or maybe you could?

Trent busied himself with the sails which needed some minor trimming to put the Buccaneer on the most direct course for Great Exuma Island.

An ancient, hand-painted Vauxhall taxi deposited Trent in front of the Bahamian blue wooden cottage that served as Exuma's air terminal. Through here plane loads of pale, sun seeking tourist are funneled, the last obstacle before the pleasures of the island's beaches, Tiki bars and resorts, are gained.

A haphazard series of white letters over the doorway announce the place is George Town, Exuma, Airport, perhaps in the unlikely event that some misguided pilot might land here and be in doubt as to where he has was. To the vacation yearning tourist fleeing the North Dakota winter however, it is quaint.

Trent saw the Aerostar sitting on the ramp, its doors open to evacuate the heat.

He went into the terminal, worked his way past a series of long baggage inspection tables laden with candy wrappers and soft drink cans; he eventually located the customs officer to announce his arrival on the island. The customs man's reading was not to be disturbed: he jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder, took a swat at a fly and, without looking up, said Your man out back at Kermit's. Bin waitin' a couple hours.

Thanks chum, said Trent. We'll be gone before you know it.

Kermit's was a forlorn wooden house behind the terminal, a cafe and bar servicing the passing aircrews with refreshment and respite from the sun. Green, louvered shutters were closed against the midday sun and induced an atmosphere of darkness and gloom incongruous with the brilliance of the day outside. A sign permanently thumb-tacked to the wall behind the bar announced that every day's special was conch fritters, plantain and rice.

A lone barman tended the place.

Rico was sitting in a shadowed area at the end of the bar sipping a tall coke very expensive. Trent ordered an equally large rum punch very cheap. He proceeded to down half