couldn’t be. Not even the dead were totally abandoned, unless the company was under such intense attack that it was impossible to take them out. But there was no sign of any battle here at all. No shell casings, no burning huts, no smell of cordite or HE in the air. His people had simply flown away and left him down in the tunnels.
But they had left a radio.
He found it not far from the first tunnel hatch, and a little red light and some static seemed to say that it was operational. He keyed the SEND button and spoke, surprised to find that his panic was now almost totally replaced by anger.
“This is Private Charles Victor, Golf Company. You guys left me, over.”
When the handset had nothing to say in reply, he tried again, this time forcing himself to remember to release the sending button after he talked. He got an immediate response.
“What’s your radio code, soldier?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m not a radioman; I’m the guy you left behind, okay? Over!”
“That’s a negative on swearing over the air, private. Try again, with the code for the day, and this time, tell us where you are. Over.”
“I’m wherever Golf got choppered today, where do you think I am?”
“That would be a classified location, over.” The voice continued to be infuriatingly calm.
“Well of course it is, you dumb fuck! I didn’t ask you to broadcast it, I just want you to come back and get me. The sun goes down here, this place is going to be nothing but void vicious.”
“You were told not to use profanity on the airwaves, private. And if you have no radio code and no location, there’s no way we can…”
“What kind of dumbfuck tripwire vet am I talking to? GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”
“You are talking to Lieutenant Rappolt, soldier, and you’re either an imposter or somebody way out of line. Either way, without a code, you’re SOL. Over. And. Out.”
Charlie shouted every obscenity and swear word he knew into the radio. Then he threw it on the ground and kicked it several times. Then he shot it. Finally he hunkered down on the ground and wept.
And when he had wept long enough, he picked up his gear and walked into the jungle.
Chapter 9
Faux Box
My shadows had managed to become invisible now, but I was sure they would still be with me. Maybe I should write Charlie an obit , I thought, and I smiled at the reaction that would have gotten from him. And then I did a mental double take and thought maybe that was exactly what I should do. In a way, anyway. First, though, I wanted to set up a little street theatre.
I headed up the Fourth Street hill and back toward my office, but I went on past it and then across the street and down the block to Nickel Pete Carchetti’s pawnshop. Its name is Pawn USA, but I always call it the Emporium of Broken Dreams.
An old-fashioned jingle bell clanked as I went in the door and saw Pete brooding at his usual perch behind the teller’s cage. With a jeweler’s loupe stuck on his troll-like forehead, he looked like one of the seven dwarfs, just back from the mines. Grumpy, to be exact. His bottle of Pepto-Bismol was on the counter in front of him, half full, and I guessed his Panzer-class heartburn was staging another major offensive.
“Herman, old friend.” He raised his chin by way of greeting and gave me his idea of a smile. Then he took a swig of his pink elixir. “All by yourself, for a change, instead of bringing me one of your sleazy clients with some piece of junk to hock. I feel honored. No doubt you came to take me out to lunch.”
“After you called my customers sleazy?”
“Well what do you call them, pillars of society?”
“Pillagers, more often. But you’re not exactly in the carriage trade, either, you know.”
“Hmm. No, I guess not. I had a great-grandfather who was, sort of, but they called it something different back then.” He sighed, spread his hands on the counter, and stared up at some invisible object to his left.
“Like
But they had left a radio.
He found it not far from the first tunnel hatch, and a little red light and some static seemed to say that it was operational. He keyed the SEND button and spoke, surprised to find that his panic was now almost totally replaced by anger.
“This is Private Charles Victor, Golf Company. You guys left me, over.”
When the handset had nothing to say in reply, he tried again, this time forcing himself to remember to release the sending button after he talked. He got an immediate response.
“What’s your radio code, soldier?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m not a radioman; I’m the guy you left behind, okay? Over!”
“That’s a negative on swearing over the air, private. Try again, with the code for the day, and this time, tell us where you are. Over.”
“I’m wherever Golf got choppered today, where do you think I am?”
“That would be a classified location, over.” The voice continued to be infuriatingly calm.
“Well of course it is, you dumb fuck! I didn’t ask you to broadcast it, I just want you to come back and get me. The sun goes down here, this place is going to be nothing but void vicious.”
“You were told not to use profanity on the airwaves, private. And if you have no radio code and no location, there’s no way we can…”
“What kind of dumbfuck tripwire vet am I talking to? GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”
“You are talking to Lieutenant Rappolt, soldier, and you’re either an imposter or somebody way out of line. Either way, without a code, you’re SOL. Over. And. Out.”
Charlie shouted every obscenity and swear word he knew into the radio. Then he threw it on the ground and kicked it several times. Then he shot it. Finally he hunkered down on the ground and wept.
And when he had wept long enough, he picked up his gear and walked into the jungle.
Chapter 9
Faux Box
My shadows had managed to become invisible now, but I was sure they would still be with me. Maybe I should write Charlie an obit , I thought, and I smiled at the reaction that would have gotten from him. And then I did a mental double take and thought maybe that was exactly what I should do. In a way, anyway. First, though, I wanted to set up a little street theatre.
I headed up the Fourth Street hill and back toward my office, but I went on past it and then across the street and down the block to Nickel Pete Carchetti’s pawnshop. Its name is Pawn USA, but I always call it the Emporium of Broken Dreams.
An old-fashioned jingle bell clanked as I went in the door and saw Pete brooding at his usual perch behind the teller’s cage. With a jeweler’s loupe stuck on his troll-like forehead, he looked like one of the seven dwarfs, just back from the mines. Grumpy, to be exact. His bottle of Pepto-Bismol was on the counter in front of him, half full, and I guessed his Panzer-class heartburn was staging another major offensive.
“Herman, old friend.” He raised his chin by way of greeting and gave me his idea of a smile. Then he took a swig of his pink elixir. “All by yourself, for a change, instead of bringing me one of your sleazy clients with some piece of junk to hock. I feel honored. No doubt you came to take me out to lunch.”
“After you called my customers sleazy?”
“Well what do you call them, pillars of society?”
“Pillagers, more often. But you’re not exactly in the carriage trade, either, you know.”
“Hmm. No, I guess not. I had a great-grandfather who was, sort of, but they called it something different back then.” He sighed, spread his hands on the counter, and stared up at some invisible object to his left.
“Like
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