Jack, copying what the paratrooper had done on the fourth floor, jumped, in a crouch, into the corridor. But the corridor was empty.
Jack ran to the door of the Air Simba apartment. It was battered, as if someone had tried to batter his way in, and there were bullet holes in it. He put his hand on the doorknob. The door was locked.
He banged on it with his fist.
“Hanni!” he shouted. “Hanni, c’est moi! C’est Jacques!”
There was no answer.
He raised the butt of the FN and smashed at the door in the area of the knob. The butt snapped off behind the trigger assembly.
He felt tears well up in his eyes. He pulled the trigger to see if it would still work, and there was another painful roar of sound, and a cloud of cement dust as the bullets struck the ceiling.
He raised his boot and kicked at the door beside the knob with all his might. There was a splintering sound, and the lock mechanism tore free.
Jack kicked it again, and it flew open. The Belgian paratrooper, in his now-familiar crouching stance, rushed into the apartment.
There was not the expected burst of fire.
Jack ran into the room.
Hanni was standing in front of the bedroom door, white-faced.
“Bonjour, madame,” the Belgian paratrooper said.
Hanni saw Jack.
“Oh, my God! It is you! I thought I was losing my mind!”
“Hanni!” Jack croaked.
The bedroom door opened. Jeanine appeared.
“Jacques!” she screamed.
And there was somebody with her. Black. Wearing an animal skin.
“Don’t shoot!” Hanni screamed. “He’s a friend!”
“Jacques, don’t!” Jeanine said when Jack trained what was left of the FN at him.
“Who the hell is he?”
“Captain George Washington Lunsford,” the man in the animal skin said, “United States Army, at your service, sir.”
He walked into the room with his hands above his shoulders.
“Jacques, for God’s sake,” Hanni said, “he saved our lives. Put the gun down.”
Jack saw Ursula Craig holding her baby in her arms in the bedroom. Beside her, a large knife in each hand, was an enormous, very black woman.
“Mon Dieu,” the black woman said. "C’est Jacques!”
Jack went to the bedroom. Mary Magdalene dropped the knives and enveloped him in massive black arms. As her huge body heaved with sobs and tears ran down her cheeks, she repeated over and over, “Mon petit Jacques, mon petit Jacques.”
“I hate to break that up,” Lunsford said, “but there are savages all over the building, and I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I had my rifle.”
Jack freed himself.
“You okay, Ursula?”
“I am now,” she said.
Jack turned to Lunsford.
“Captain, I heard there were Green Beanies here, but I didn’t expect to find one dressed like that.”
“He knew what the Simbas would do once they saw the paratroopers, ” Hanni said. “He came to protect us.”
“I was undercover. If I go get my rifle,” Lunsford said, nodding at the Belgian paratrooper, “does he know what’s going on, or . . .”
“Je suis à votre service, mon capitain,” the Belgian paratrooper said, coming to attention, and then added, almost as if he was embarrassed, “I speak good the English.”
Lunsford went into the bedroom and came back with his rifle.
“That radio work?” he asked.
“Oui, mon capitain,” the Belgian said.
“Then you get on it, and tell somebody important where we are, and to come fetch us,” Lunsford ordered.
“Oui, mon capitain,” the Belgian paratrooper said.
“You close the door,” Lunsford ordered Jack. “We’ll put the ladies back in the bedroom until the cavalry gets here.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said.
[ FOUR ]
Quarters #1
Fort Myer, Virginia
0605 25 November 1964
The door to Quarters #1 was opened by one of the chief’s orderlies, a pleasant-looking young man wearing a crisp white jacket.
“Good morning, General. The general is expecting you, sir. The general is in the kitchen, sir. Straight ahead to the rear of the house.”
The chief of staff of the United States Army was wearing a white apron, in the act of slicing a steak from a baked ham with all the precision of a surgeon.
He looked up when he saw Bellmon, and smiled.
“Just a couple of us for breakfast, Bob,” he said. “There’s coffee. Help yourself.”
He pointed to the coffeemaker on a countertop.
“Thank you, sir,” Bellmon said.
Bellmon, a stocky, ruddy-faced forty-six-year-old, had been surprised, and just a little worried, when his aide-de-camp, Captain Richard Hornsby, the previous afternoon had told him that the aide-de-camp of the chief of staff of the United States Army had told him that it was the desire of the chief that General Bellmon present himself