officer can control his temper.” He switched back to English: “You’ve got something against abolitionists, Jeremiah?”
Captain Smythe, obviously, had never previously heard Swahili spoken.
“Sir,” Captain Smythe said icily. “I went to Norwich in anticipation of a military career.”
“You ever run into a guy named Gordon Sullivan up there?”
“He was ’59, sir. I’m ’60.”
“Is there anything to the story that he and another Norwich lunatic named Bob Johnson took a mule into the commandant’s office and left it there overnight? Causing, the story goes, certain equine excreta damage to the commandant’s carpet?”
“I’ve heard that story, sir.”
“How about John Oliver? You ever run into that Norwich maniac? ”
“No shit?” Jack asked in Swahili.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Father replied in Swahili.
“Sir, Captain Oliver and I are classmates,” Captain Smythe said.
“And you admit it?”
“Sir,” Captain Smythe said, on the edge of losing his temper, “Captain Oliver is a fine, highly decorated officer I am proud to claim as a friend.”
“Is that so?” Father asked. “Well, they say appearances are deceiving, don’t they?” He turned to Jack. “Get Doubting Thomas on the phone, please, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said, and went to a credenza against the wall and got on the telephone.
“Tell me, Jeremiah,” Father said, “what kind of an L-19 pilot are you?”
“Sir, I’m rated in the L-19, of course, but I’m also rated as an IP in the Mohawk.”
“You’re too good to fly L-19s, is that what you’re suggesting, Jeremiah?”
“Sir, an L-19 is really a rather basic aircraft. The Mohawk is really at the other end of the scale, in terms of sophistication and required pilot skill.”
“And as a Mohawk pilot you feel you have risen above the L-19, is that what you’re saying, Jeremiah?”
“Sir, I didn’t say that at all,” Smythe protested.
“Then what did you say?” Father asked.
“Sir, you asked me what kind of an L-19 pilot I am—”
“And I never got an answer, did I? Let me rephrase. Are you a competent L-19 pilot? Confine your response to “Yes, sir” or “No, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That wasn’t really that hard, was it, Jeremiah?”
On the telephone, in Swahili, Jack said, “Jack Portet, Doubting. Hold one.”
In Swahili, Father said, “Get the village drunk on the phone, Jack.”
In Swahili, Jack said, “Put Captain Oliver on the phone, please.”
Captain Smythe picked up on the “Captain Oliver,” and his eyes widened.
“Jack?” Johnny Oliver said a moment later. “I owe you a big one.”
“Forget it,” Jack said, then changed his mind. “Yeah, come to think of it, Captain, you do. Hold one.”
He held up the phone to Father Lunsford, who held up his hand, indicating he didn’t want it right then.
“Jeremiah, if I were to ask Captain Oliver what kind of an officer you are, what kind of an L-19 pilot you are, what do you think he would say?”
“Sir, I have no idea,” Captain Smythe said.
“I do. I already asked him,” Lunsford said.
He took the phone from Jack.
“Say hello to Jeremiah, Johnny. Welcome him to the team.”
He signaled for Smythe to go to the telephone.
The conversation took no more than twenty seconds. Father signaled that he wanted the telephone.
“Just for the record, Johnny, you’re on my shitlist, and you really owe Jack,” Father said. “We’ll be back tomorrow or the day after, depending on how we do recruiting mechanics and radio people. Spend the time thinking about how you can square yourself with us.”
He hung up and turned to Smythe.
“Might one inquire into the nature of your conversation with Captain Oliver, Jeremiah?”
“Sir, Captain Oliver said, ‘Welcome to the team, and the first rule is don’t ask questions.’ ”
“I thought it might be something like that,” Father said.
“Sir, I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Did that sound like a question to you, Jack?” Father said.
“That was more of a statement than a question,” Jack said.
“In that case, I think I should try to satisfy Jeremiah’s natural curiosity, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From here on, this is Top Secret/Earnest,” Lunsford said.
“Sir, I have a Top Secret clearance, but . . . what did you say?”
“As of this moment, Captain Smythe,” Lunsford said, “you are authorized access to material classified as Top Secret/Earnest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the very near future, Smythe,” Lunsford said, “you will find yourself flying over the lands of our ancestors in an L-19, and a little later, in a Beaver and an H-13—Johnny said you went to chopper school together—assisting our merry little band of covert warriors in fucking up Che Guevara’s intentions of taking over the Congo, with the important caveat that we are absolutely forbidden to waste the sonofabitch.