“Hears drums all the time, Mac. Lost his flying sense. Puts ships in the
sky for no reason. Gone wild on staking the country out. He’d got her
mapped into fractional zones that—”
We pulled up. I saluted. Before us stood Marcosson. He’d come out along
a narrow trail through the growth, one that converged with another we
had just turned into, off the field. I stared at him.
It was his eyes that had changed. They shone brightly—too brightly. His
face was thinner; he was unshaved. I spoke cheerfully.
“Hello, Captain! Good to see you.”
His expression stopped me. The narrowing of his dark eyes, the pressing
together of his rather thin lips. His body was tense. He spoke suddenly,
in a hoarse tone.
“You, too, eh? All of you coming down. Vultures winging in for the
finish, eh? Staff vultures dropping down for the final show. What will
it be, gentlemen? A parade in formation? Or shall I break out the
personnel on the field?”
He laughed suddenly, harshly. My eyes went to Sock’s. He spoke in a low
tone.
“The captain is sick, Lieutenant,” he stated. “I have suggested that he
allow me to fly him to Manila. It didn’t meet with his approval.”
Sock’s fingers went to his bruised lips. There was a grim edge in his
tone. Marcosson’s eyes were on mine. He bowed. With his right hand he
gestured through the dense growth to our right.
“Welcome to hell, Lieutenant!” He was smiling with his lips. “It is a
pleasure to—”
He stopped. His body stiffened. Fear flashed in his eyes. His right hand
went toward the holster he wore over his left thigh. Sock spoke.
“Ground crew swinging Lieutenant MacNamara’s P. T. around, Captain.
Sounds a bit like drums, at that.”
Marcosson’s fingers came away from the holster of his Service Colt. His
eyes blazed into the blue ones of Sock Casey. Perspiration streamed down
his drawn face. Without a word he faced about—moved down the trail. His
body was slightly stooped.