Hell's Gate(5)

“Sounds like he’s comin’ in with a bum coffee grinder.” The drawl belonged to Private Redding, who had been stationed at Waller Field for a year but was still known as N.G.—New Guy.

Dykes ignored the man and kept his eyes on the plane, which seemed to have straightened itself out. “N.G., who’s the flyboy?”

Redding fumbled with a clipboard before pointing to a spot at the bottom of a sweat-stained sheet of paper. “MacCready, sir.”

Dykes glanced at the flight manifest and relaxed a bit. “They’ll be fine.”

A flash of movement caused him to look up. It was accompanied by the sound of another engine in distress. And this one was bearing down on them at unnatural speed.

“What the—?” Dykes cried, and the two men dove off the runway and into the brush, barely avoiding being run down by a speeding jeep that blew past them.

Rising to his knees, Dykes could see that he’d been right about the landing; the pilot had managed to ease his bird down. He touched the ground lightly, despite the engine trouble, and despite the vehicle that had lurched onto the blacktop and threatened to clip the pilot’s wings if he needed more runway.

“Who’s the *?” Dykes asked, rolling his eyes again as the terminally puzzled Redding scanned his clipboard of papers for an answer. Yes, this was going to be a long war.


The driver of the jeep was Corporal Frank Juliano, whose short stature and hangdog expression gave him an uncanny resemblance to comedian Lou Costello. Having scattered Dykes’s ground crew, Juliano brought the jeep to a skidding, gear-grinding halt, before running to intercept the plane’s passenger, who had flung open the cabin door and was racing away from the Bobcat as though it were on fire.

Corporal Juliano held a large envelope in one hand and saluted with the other. He backpedaled quickly, speaking in a high-pitched voice: “Good morning, Captain MacCready. Welcome to Trinidad, sir. Major Hendry has been expecting—”

The officer jerked a thumb over his shoulder and toward the plane. “You got the wrong guy, buddy,” he said, brushing past the puzzled corporal without breaking his stride.

Juliano hurried to the plane, clutching the envelope. Struggling up onto the wing, he peered into the five-seat cabin. It was empty, so he backed up, slid to the ground, and turned toward the pilot. The man was examining one of the engines and whistling Bing Crosby’s new hit, “Junk Ain’t Junk No More.”

“Captain MacCready?

“That’s me,” the pilot replied into the seven-cylinder Jacobs engine. “Hey, have a look at this.”

Juliano hesitated, glanced past the open cabin door a final time, and took a few tentative steps toward the man, “Sir?”

“Shit, that’s hot,” the pilot said, his face streaked with grease and something else Juliano could not identify. MacCready shielded his eyes against the sun and scanned the buildings nearest to the runway. “Hey, you haven’t seen the ground crew anywhere, have you?”

Juliano glanced around, but the landing strip was deserted, except for two men, plastered with dirt and briars. They were walking away at a brisk pace, pausing only long enough to flip Juliano their middle fingers.

MacCready smiled. “Friends of yours?”

“No, sir,” the corporal replied.

Returning his attention to the engine, the pilot reached into the air intake with a gloved hand and began wrestling with something. Grunting and cursing, he yanked out a glistening red mass and held it out to Juliano.

“Corporal, meet Eudocimus ruber!”

Juliano took a step back and grimaced. “Eudo-see-what, sir?”

“It’s a scarlet ibis. My vote for national bird, once Trinidad shakes loose from the Brits.”

The scent of engine-seared flesh and feathers was overpowering in the thick, humid air; the corporal could feel his breakfast shifting uneasily. “Gets my vote, too, sir. It’s . . . a beaut . . . a real beaut.”

Juliano had been about to hand over a large envelope; but instead he hesitated, swallowing the gorge that was rising in his throat like a sour tide.

“Yeah, but this one has definitely seen better days. Those papers for me?” MacCready asked, reaching for the manila envelope. But the corporal was either unwilling or unable to let go of the envelope, even as he held it out, arm extended.

“Thanks a lot, Corporal.” MacCready tugged again, harder this time. Juliano finally relinquished his grip. With one eye on the corporal, MacCready tore the envelope open with his teeth and withdrew several sheets of paper. In one oil-and blood-smeared glove he still held the prop-shredded remains of the bird.

He took a deep breath. “Good morning, Captain MacCready. Welcome to Trinidad, sir. Major Hendry has been expecting you. I’m supposed to drive you to the meeting room on the double.”

MacCready looked up from the papers and acknowledged him with a nod, strolling to the far side of the jeep.

“Say, you’re the explorer guy, aren’t you, sir?” Juliano said, before easing himself behind the wheel.

The pilot tucked the papers into his field vest and climbed into the back of the jeep. “I’ve done some bushwhacking. But I’m really just a tropical zoologist, although was a tropical zoologist might be a better description.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Not much call for that kind of gig since they decided to throw another war.”