Eagle Squad. James C. Glass
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is right. I can think of better positions.”
“Just a healthy, American boy,” he quipped, but his breathing was deep and he held her hand where it had pressed him.
“I do love you, Jack,” she murmured.
“You’re my woman,” he growled theatrically.
“No, tell me you love me, macho man.”
“I love you,” he whispered.
“That’s more like it. You’ll say it easier with practice.”
At that instant, there was a footstep on the dark path behind them, a tiny stone grinding under a shoe.
“Shit,” said Jack.
They held each other closely, waiting in silence for someone to appear, feeling uneasy until there was a scuffling sound further down the trail.
“Someone watching us?” asked Karen.
“Sounds like whoever it was is headed down now.”
“Kinky.”
“People come up here all the time. If I saw us, I’d know we wanted to be alone.”
“I didn’t hear anyone coming up the trail, Jack. Please, let’s take the dirt trail back. It’s spooky here.”
He wouldn’t tell her about how uneasy he felt. For just an instant he had felt danger, either real or imagined, and his body was ready for a fight.
“Sure, it’s light enough, and we’ll get back quicker,” he said. “The dance started at nine, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a quarter-past. Let’s go boogie.”
They picked their way down the steep narrow trail, dropping on a line through thick woods and sharp underbrush. The trail came out of the woods by the brightly lit house of the president, and they crossed the grassy quadrangle towards the student union. Near them, two figures dressed in khaki, black jump boots and red berets suddenly appeared, walking briskly towards the military science armory. As they approached the building, both men turned to look at Jack and Karen for what seemed like a long time, then disappeared inside. Karen, eager to dance, walked jauntily ahead, noticing nothing, but when Jack saw the two men watching him, uneasiness returned.
Red berets were the badges of Eagle Squad.
CHAPTER FOUR
Black boots pounded the floor beneath the high beamed ceiling of the big room. A single platoon was drilling in civilian dress on the polished wooden floor as five foot-nine inch Master Sergeant Jesus Rodríguez barked commands through the high-gain amplifier of a megaphone. He stood rigidly on a high platform at the side of the armory gymnasium, steadily increasing the frequency of his commands: “Column left, march! By the right flank, march! To the rear, march, rear, march, left flank, march.…” The platoon was soon hopelessly confused, a few stalwarts still in step, the rest wandering aimlessly.
“Platoon, halt!” screamed Rodríguez.
There were sounds of shuffling feet, and murmuring echoed back and forth in the room.
“Fall in!”
Silence. Rodríguez glared down at his young troops, preparing to pronounce sentence.
“You young people are pathetic,” he said softly. “You think you’re a drill team. You have deluded yourselves into thinking you are ready to represent this battalion and this university with some kind of honor. At this moment, you will bring us only disgrace. Three days, people. Three days. One last review, and if you cannot represent military precision I promise there will be new faces where you are now standing.”
Silence again, a pause for effect. Rodríguez turned to gaze at the young man standing three steps in front of the platoon. “Next Friday, Wilson, at fifteen hundred, I will see a flawless performance here. I hold you personally responsible for that.”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
Rodríguez turned around sharply, stepped back onto the balcony that circled the room. As he walked away, a young voice boomed in the stillness.
“You people have embarrassed me today. More importantly, you have embarrassed yourselves. Do you enjoy that? I thought you were handpicked. Do any of you have physical or mental problems I should know about? No? Then let’s do it right this time. Platoon—attention!”
Rodríguez smiled. Wilson was showing the first signs of leadership. He was learning to pull their strings, their macho strings. Rodríguez knew all about macho. He had been raised with it.
The Man was waiting for him at the end of the room, leaning over the balcony on folded arms and watching the action on the floor below. He remained in that position when Rodríguez approached and stood casually next to him, hands on hips.
“What do you think, Sergeant?”
“Another week. It’s not automatic yet, but when they do it right it’s as good as I’ve ever seen it. Wilson has come along, too. He’s finally asserting himself out there.”
“Another red beret?”
“No, sir. When it comes to dangerous situations, he’ll always be a dedicated wimp. Too much mother in him.”
“Too bad,” sighed The Man. “Good eye for drill. Let’s keep him where he is.”
They went to a small lounge facing out on the balcony. Rodríguez filled two cups with coffee from a metal urn, and dropped some coins in a dish. The room was furnished with a hardwood conference table and chairs, and a cork board covered with announcements filled one wall. The coffee urn was next to a small, metal sink, and at the back of the room someone had placed an old couch and a plain coffee table that was covered with magazines. The two men sat on opposite sides of the table and sipped their strong hot coffee black.
“You’re coming up for rotation, aren’t you?” asked Holleque.
“Yes, sir. In another year.”
“What’re you going to do with it?”
“Overseas, I hope. I’ve applied for Wiesbaden.”
“Then what?” Holleque studied the table top.
“Wish I knew, sir. That’ll be my twenty years, and I’m not going any further if I stay in, but in civvy life I won’t find many jobs for a small arms instructor.”
“Demolitions, too,” said Holleque thoughtfully.
“Yeah, demolitions. Maybe I could work for mining, or forestry, or—”
“Urban renewal,” said the colonel, and both men laughed.
“What about you, sir? Gonna go for General before you get out?”
Holleque smiled the enigmatic smile reserved for times when people asked him personal questions. “It would take a good war for that to happen, Sergeant. No, I think full bird is going to be it for me, and that’s okay. I’ve had a good career, and ending it here in two years sounds fine to me. Not retirement, you understand, but something different, something a little more lively that teaching kids to recognize their left feet, you know what I mean?”
Rodríguez nodded, and sipped coffee.
“I like working with you, Sergeant. You understand the male ego, and how to make it do things it thinks it can’t do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all. You know how to motivate young people better’n most Sergeants I’ve known. I’ve been kicking around a couple of ideas you might have some interest in. When we have some free time, let’s talk about it.”
“Anytime, sir,” said Rodríguez, suddenly realizing how beautifully his own ego had been stroked. “I’m open to anything.”
“Later,”