Hell's Gate(6)
Corporal Juliano punched the stick shift forward, jerking the vehicle loudly into gear. The jeep shuddered, then started to pick up speed.
“You’ll wanna try out that clutch one of these days, Corporal. Some folks say it makes shifting easier.”
Juliano shot MacCready a look in the rearview mirror, but any reply he might have made was lost in the metallic death throes of second gear.
As the jeep lurched through the camp, MacCready noted that Waller Field was even larger than it appeared from the air. More like a small city than an airfield, he thought as they passed row after row of prefabricated buildings. Each had been elevated off the ground by a series of eight-foot wooden beams. There was a baseball field as well, and MacCready could have sworn he saw two officers carrying golf clubs. Strangest of all, though, was the fact that Waller Field appeared to have been built upon (and primarily of) asphalt. Runways, roads, even rooftops were tarred. Men, buildings, and mountains of crated supplies were shimmering in waves of late morning “mirage air.” MacCready guessed that the ambient temperature had to be fifteen degrees higher than the already tropical surroundings, and because of this, most of the soldiers were stripped to the waist.
MacCready shouted over the sound of the jeep. “Jeez, they built this place outta tar, huh? I’d have never thought of that.”
“Got it all for free, sir,” the corporal shouted back. “Pitch Lake—three hundred feet deep.”
MacCready shook his head. “Now there ya go, Corporal, military intelligence at work. Lucky it wasn’t Dog Shit Lake.”
The driver made no reply and so MacCready turned his attention back to the handful of burnt bird. He carefully separated several of the brilliant, though slightly singed, primary feathers from the bloody connective tissue—flicking the grizzle out the side of the jeep. Looking up, he noticed that the corporal was watching him out the corner of one eye but the driver quickly shifted his attention to the road and gripped the steering wheel ever more tightly.
“Nice furcula,” MacCready said to himself, holding the wishbone between his thumb and index finger as if it were a miniature divining rod.
Juliano took another peek backward, feeling increasingly uneasy as he wondered whether MacCready was complimenting his furcula?
“And what the hell is a furcula, anyway?” he muttered.
CHAPTER 2
Missing Cargo
Hell’s Gate, I think, is the most damnable place I have ever visited, and I’d willingly have paid ten pounds not to have seen it.
—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
The land upon which Waller Field had risen was still British-owned, but as part of the Lend-Lease Program, the United States was allowed to construct a strategically located base in the Caribbean. In exchange, Churchill’s shell-shocked and grateful government had received fifty outdated American destroyers. In its largest, hottest building, R. J. MacCready found Major Patrick Hendry standing in a haze of cigar smoke beside a floor-to-ceiling map of Brazil. The room was sparsely furnished and uncomfortable. The dense smoke made it feel like hell warmed up.
MacCready saluted. “Pat.”
Hendry waved off the salute and extended his hand, which MacCready took. “How long’s it been, Mac?”
“Eight months.”
“New Guinea, right?”
“Solomon Islands, actually. The canoe search for that rich Massachusetts kid.”
“Found him, though, that’s all that matters.”
MacCready winced. His right leg still ached from the spearhead the medics had dug out of his calf. “Yeah, kid’s got a brass pair. Reckless f*cker, though.”
Hendry laughed, “Reckless? That’s a hoot comin’ from you. But I’m glad you could squeeze in some R-and-R back home after that one.” The major hesitated. “I was really sorry to hear about your sister and your mom.”
“Thanks,” he said, quietly.
“If I’d have known—”
MacCready held up his hand, “Save it,” he said firmly, feeling suddenly claustrophobic.
“Any word about your cousins?” Hendry asked, gently. “I suppose that even behind the lines, they might have heard about—”
“No!” MacCready responded, more forcefully then he’d intended. He shot Hendry a quick glance, then dialed it down. “But then again the Wehrmacht were never any good at sending Christmas cards.”
MacCready moved toward an open window and, without thinking, removed the ibis wishbone from his pocket. After flexing the Y-shaped bone between his fingers like a spring, he held it up, inspecting it in the sunlight. “Not many people know this, but birds need a lot more oxygen than we do.”
“All that wing flapping, huh?”
“Very expensive—flying. Energy-wise, that is. The furcula works like a fireplace bellows. Helps to pump more air in and out. Incredible adaptation.”
“I’ll remember that . . . next time my kid wants to use one to make a wish.”
Major Hendry turned toward the map, letting his index finger follow the curve of the Amazon River from its source. “You know, Mac, I keep thinking about something you said last year when we were in London.”
“About Marlene Dietrich and those GIs?” MacCready tucked the bone back into his pocket. “You think I made that one up?”