The Last Bridge (1966) by Brian Garfield

Author:Brian Garfield [Garfield, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781453237878
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-three

1030 Hours

GEORGE McKuen sat sleepy-eyed in the pilot’s seat. His cap was tipped back on his head, and the synthetic fur collar of his leather jacket was upturned against his throat. He glanced at his watch and took a sandwich out of a paper bag. The bread had gone stale. He ate slowly.

Mister Shannon said, “What happened then?”

“It was embarrassing, me boy, most embarrassing. I’m ashamed to be admittin’ it. They cut me bloody head off.”

“What?”

“Aye. I had to carry it around under me arm.” McKuen shook his head with an expression of gloom. “It was the first time that happened to me.”

“The first time?”

“Let it be a warning to you, never lose your head.”

“Lieutenant, you’re the absolute limit.”

When McKuen wadded up the empty paper bag it rattled like flames. Mister Shannon uncorked the Thermos flask. “Have some coffee. You can’t win a war without coffee.”

“Who’s winning the war?” McKuen said sourly. He drank and sank back into his seat with a sigh.

Shannon said, “I was thinking about my girl back home. You know, I—Look, I wouldn’t want to create an undue panic, Lieutenant, but we don’t seem to be alone.”

McKuen swiveled around. “Where?”

“Ten o’clock. Over there—see him?”

McKuen bobbed his head back and forth, trying to see between sliding raindrops on the glass. Someone moved vaguely on the fringe of the forest. McKuen muttered, “You think he’s one of the good guys, or one of the bad guys?”

“He’s wearing a white hat.”

“Okay.” McKuen sat a moment, grinding knuckles into his eye sockets. He trembled slightly with chill. The figure in the light-colored straw hat stirred slightly on the edge of the airstrip. “Jesus. It’s cold as a bloody St. Bernard’s nose. Come on, Mister.”

He went back through the fuselage. On the way he collected a pair of folding-stock carbines and handed one to Shannon. McKuen fitted a banana clip into his weapon and jacked a round into the chamber. He touched the door handle. “Brace yourself, Mister. This could be what they call it.”

“Check,” Shannon said, blank-faced.

McKuen swung the heavy door open. He stood aside, one eyebrow cocked. After a moment he said, “Well,” and dropped to one knee in the opening. A hundred feet away the bantam white-hatted figure did not move. McKuen crouched in the door, staring across the distance between them. A long time went by, and finally McKuen said, “Well, what is it we’re supposed to do now, do you think?”

“Beats the shit out of me.”

“Curses,” said McKuen. “Foiled again.”

“What?”

“For the first time in me bloody life I get myself all bloated up to go out in a blaze of glory. And what happens? Nothing. He just stands there and eyeballs at us. And what do you think of that, Mister?”

McKuen cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted at the silent figure, “I give you good day, sir!”

The man’s hat tipped up; he lifted a weapon in one hand, as if in signal, and wheeled back into the forest.

“That tears it,” McKuen said. He flung his carbine down and jumped after it, and stood with his arms akimbo.

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