I’m going to take off from here at oh dark hundred, to arrive over his position at first light and drop batteries to him.”
Lunsford nodded but didn’t respond.
“The Beaver’s missing,” he said.
“They should be in Léopoldville by now. They didn’t get there?”
“Léopoldville?” Lunsford asked.
“The last I heard—Portet put out an ‘anybody listening’—they were on their way to Léopoldville. He told me Supo decided he wanted to see Mobutu before he went to Costermansville.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yeah. I asked him if he wanted the message relayed, and he said no. Supo would send word on a landline. They didn’t get there?”
“I don’t know,” Lunsford said. “Since I didn’t know they were going to Léopoldville, I didn’t call Léopoldville to ask if they got there.”
Lunsford shook his head, then marched purposefully toward the terminal building, which served as the command post for the Congolese soldiers guarding the field.
The guard outside was squatting on the ground, his rifle between his knees.
“The next time you don’t get to your feet and salute me when you see me, I’m going to stick that rifle up your ass,” Lunsford said in Swahili.
The guard quickly started to get to his feet as Lunsford walked past.
The officer in charge of the guard detachment was asleep in an office chair. Lunsford pushed it, hard, with his foot. The chair spun around as it moved across the floor.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you, Lieutenant,” Lunsford said politely.
The lieutenant got to his feet.
“I thought the colonel was gone for the day,” he said.
“Have there been any messages for me?”
“I don’t think so,” the lieutenant said.
“Why don’t we look?” Lunsford asked, and walked to a teletype machine, marked with the logotype of Sabena, the Belgian airline, but now connected to the Army network in Léopoldville. There was a large pile of teletype paper on the floor behind it.
Lunsford ripped it off the machine and started reading it.
“Here it is,” he said finally, after he’d pulled about half of the coiled teletypewriter paper through his hands. “Sent from Léopoldville at two-fifteen this afternoon.” He read from it in English: “Quote ‘Immediately inform Lieutenant Colonel Dahdi that I am in Léopoldville and will come to Stanleyville tomorrow. Please meet me there and delay departure of supply aircraft until my arrival. Supo. Colonel Commandant.’ End quote.” He looked at Craig. “I wonder what the hell that’s all about?”
Craig shrugged.
The lieutenant was now standing at rigid attention.
“I should kick his ass around the block,” Lunsford said, “but I don’t think it would do any good.”
He switched to Swahili. “Lieutenant, I don’t think that Colonel Supo will be pleased that I had to find for myself a message at night that was supposed to be delivered to me at two-fifteen this afternoon. He will be here tomorrow.”
The lieutenant winced.
“Well, for the good news,” Geoff said. “I see the 707 made it in.”
Lunsford looked at him.
“Lieutenant, have you ever heard that when you deliver a message that you feel will greatly surprise the individual to whom you are giving it, you should make him sit down first? So that he won’t fall over and break his head, or his ass, or both?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve heard that. Should I sit down?”
“I think that would be a very good idea,” Lunsford said. “Sit down, Lieutenant.”
At first, Geoff had thought Lunsford was making a joke. When he saw that he was serious, he looked around and found a small chair, and sat down on it.
When he had, Lunsford told him that his wife, son, and Mary Magdalene were in the Immoquateur, probably having their dinner.
[ FOUR ]
Gregory & Gregory Funeral Home
730 North Main Street
Laurinburg, North Carolina
1350 8 April 1965
“I’m James L. Gregory,” the somberly dressed, pale-skinned man said to Captain Stefan Zabrewski. “How may I be of service, sir?”
“There has been a death,” Zabrewski said.
“May I offer my most sincere condolences?” Mr. Gregory said.
“And we’re here to arrange for the funeral,” Zabrewski said.
“And your relationship to the deceased?”
“I’m a friend,” Zabrewski said. He nodded at Sergeant Major Tinley. “We’re both friends.”
“I see.”
“SFC Withers’s parents live here,” Zabrewski said. “On a farm. Outside of town.”
“SFC Withers?”
“The man who’s dead,” Zabrewski said.
“I see. Oh, I see. I take it you’re speaking of Mr. and Mrs. Delmar Withers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re fine people,” Gregory said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Normally, the family makes the arrangements. . . .”
“We’re trying to spare them that,” Zabrewski said.