Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien Page B

it’s time we were moving on. Miles to go and all that.”
    “You can’t stay longer?”
    The lieutenant shook his head. “Afraid not. Honest, I wish we had a week to—you know—to compare notes. But it’s time we hit the dusty trail.”
    “Nicely said.”
    Corson nodded. “So maybe you’ll show us the door? Point the way and we’ll be off.”
    Li Van Hgoc still smiled, but he seemed troubled. “Difficult,” he said. “It is not an easy thing.”
    “No?”
    “I fear not. You see, there is a certain problem.”
    “I’m listening,” the lieutenant said.
    Li Van Hgoc removed his pith hat, rubbed his scalp a moment, then placed the hat back on his head.
    “A very sticky problem,” he repeated, groping for the right words. He gazed at the ceiling fan as if searching for something just out of sight. “You see … you see, according to the rules, I fear you gentlemen are now my prisoners. You see the problem? Prisoners of war.”
    Quiet fell in the room. Sarkin Aung Wan, her gunmetal legs tucked up on the sofa, stopped clipping her fingernails. Stink Harris rose partly out of his chair then sank back again. Paul Berlin felt himself reaching for his weapon.
    “I see,” the lieutenant said thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I see.”
    He tapped his teeth with his index finger. The quiet returned. Bashfully, Li Van Hgoc studied his own hands.
    “Yes,” the lieutenant finally sighed. “Now I’m beginning to see the stopper. I think I see it. POWs, you say?”
    Li Van Hgoc bowed.
    “And … and I suppose the rules can’t be stretched?”
    “Not easily.”
    “Of course.”
    The little man smiled. “Elastic rules are a poor man’s tools.”
    Paul Berlin had the odd feeling of breathing at the very top of his lungs, short little breaths that left him dizzy. One moment happily on the road to Paris, then buried back where it started, a prisoner of war. He was conscious of a clock ticking. A sense of compression and heat.
    “POWs? Is that basically it? You’re saying we’re POWs?”
    “I fear so.”
    Absently, as if playing with beads, the lieutenant fingered the safety catch on his weapon. He flicked it back and forth in rhythm with the ticking clock.
    “Of course,” Corson said gently, “we do have you outmanned.”
    “Of course,” nodded Li Van Hgoc.
    “Outmanned, not to mention outgunned.”
    “Again, sir, that is a clear piece in the overall puzzle.”
    “Outmanned, outgunned, and outtechnologized.” Lieutenant Corson tapped his forefinger against the weapon’s plastic stock.
    “Well spoken,” the enemy said. “A neat summary of the issues.
Very
well spoken.”
    The lieutenant tried hard to smile. “No summary,” he said. “Just the facts.” Getting up, he yawned and snuffed out the cigar. He motioned for Stink and Oscar to saddle up.
    “Ah! Then you have found an answer?” Li Van Hgoc beamed. He looked genuinely relieved. “Our difficulty has been solved?”
    “A piece of cake.”
    “Marvelous! Honestly, I cannot tell you how happy it makes me. Please, what is the solution to our puzzle?”
    “This,” the lieutenant said softly.
    Li Van Hgoc frowned. “I must be mistaken. That appears to be a rifle.”
    “No kidding?” The lieutenant looked down at the leveled weapon. “By God, you’re
right
. That’s exactly what it seems to be.” He waved at Stink Harris. “Tie the little bastard up.”
    “What?”
    “Tie him.”
    “With what?”
    “His shoelaces, for Christ sake. Who cares what? Just tie him.”
    “He’s got sandals. I can’t—”
    “Tie him!”
    So while Li Van Hgoc shook his head in a sad smile, Stink used strips of curtain to secure the little man’s feet and hands and arms.
    Moving quickly, they spread out through the underground chambers. The routine was familiar. They broke up into teams. Eddie and Oscar set charges in the supply arsenal. Doc Peret and Paul Berlin destroyed the generating and electrical systems. And the lieutenant, showing new energy