Mac wingate 6, p.2
Mac Wingate 6, page 2
He kept his speed up even outside. He couldn’t be sure that the weakened wall wouldn’t fall over onto him. He kept trotting until the smoke cleared and the parking area yawned before him. A crowd of authorities and civilians were already gathered there. A soldier took the girl from his arms. A crowd of people broke off from the main throng and huddled around her as the Britisher laid her down.
Wingate didn’t hear a specific voice. He heard an accented babble. A muddled conversation of concern which mingled with the roar of the fire and the noise of the fire fighters. He looked around. One lone engine to the side was pumping a steady stream of water onto the hotel blaze. It was like spitting into Hades. The hotel was unsalvageable. Even as he watched, the first floor collapsed completely. What had been a warm, safe-looking hotel was now a blazing pile of thick kindling. Shaking his head, Wingate marveled that it was the thing he had just run into.
He felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked over and down into the face of a middle-aged Englishman in dark trousers and a frayed, buttoned sweater.
“’E said you were the one,” the man said with a coarse cockney accent, motioning with his head back at the crowd around the girl. “The one ’oo ran in to save me girl.”
Wingate looked at the crowd. The only man looking in their direction was a fire fighter. He nodded at Wingate. Wingate nodded back, then returned his attention to the short Britisher next to him.
“That’s right,” he said. The father wasn’t smiling in gratitude or frowning in worry. His mouth was open and his eyes looked bloodshot. His brow was puckered, his lashes curling up on either side of the bridge of his nose. He looked pitiful, so the American turned to watch the fire. “What was she doing in there, anyway?” he asked.
“Well, she ’ad to work, now, didn’t she?” the man answered, also looking at the fire. “I got a call. Whole new load of boarders comin’ in tomorrow. Needed a cleanin’ right away. Wanted me Sal to do it. Well, she ’ad to. Needed the money. Made her walk. No other way at night, y’know.”
The man needed to talk, but Wingate didn’t want to hear it. The girl’s expression stayed with him and he didn’t want to hear her father’s excuses. He wouldn’t be the father’s buffer against her probable death.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. Tough luck.” Wingate hunched his shoulders, stuck his hands back into his coat pockets, and walked away.
“Guv’nor,” the man said after him. Wingate waited, but he didn’t turn around. “Thank you.” Wingate nodded slightly, then continued walking. He stopped next to the fireman who had nodded at him.
“Any chance?” Mac asked.
“Not unless a doc arrives soon. Sorry.”
“It happens,” Wingate said flatly. “I’ll see what I can do.” He headed back toward 53.
“You’ve done enough,” the fireman said.
“Not enough,” Wingate called back without turning. “Not yet.”
He was tired. The mental cobwebs had all but disappeared, replaced by a murky, hollow cave where thoughts echoed and magnified louder and larger until bare ideas were warped exaggerations. Wingate walked along Route 53 for about an hour, empty fields on one side and house-dotted forests on the other. After a while, it seemed as if the raid had never happened.
He thought about the girl’s expression and why it bothered him. He decided it was the look of the home-front victim that he had never before seen. Up until then, he had seen the faces of soldiers and innocents in the middle of intrigue-laden war zones. They had looked horrified, pain-ridden, and shocked, but somehow there was always a vestige of expectation, of prior knowledge. They had all been aware of the possibility that death might happen.
That was what had been missing with the girl Wingate had pulled from the inferno. She never thought that several hundred pounds of well-packed death would fall on her. It simply was not in the vocabulary of her existence. That bothered Wingate because his business was delivering those same parcels of death to the enemy. He knew all there was to know about them. He prided himself on it.
He wasn’t sure whether running into the girl made him more angry or sad. Almost as soon as he had sorted his feelings out, he buried them. They were the thoughts of a poet or conscientious objector. Neither had any place in his mind at the moment. He capped his mental explorations with the thought that finding someone who didn’t suffer from the war would be some trick. There was no one.
The soldier in the truck was right. Finding Datchet Green was easy. It was an oblong bump running alongside Route 53. As the road veered off on either side of the wide, flat lawn, Wingate took the less traveled road to the right. It took a sudden turn farther to the right at a corner. At the end of it was a railroad crossing and a circle of stone townhouses. Mac continued down this road, stopping only momentarily at the train tracks.
Looking in the direction of Slough, he tried to see some hint of the Nazi air attack. He could no longer hear the fire or even the warning sirens. And all he saw in the distance was Windsor Castle, the historic sight a town away from Datchet. The ancient, majestic structure was at odds with the evening’s experience, so Wingate walked on to the two-story house just outside the deserted train station.
He opened a wrought-iron gate that came up to his hips, walked up the stone steps to the thick, windowless door, turned the knob, and went in. Those had been his instructions.
The brightest artificial illumination he had seen in thirty-two hours assailed his eyes as he quickly closed the door behind him. He stood until his eyes adjusted somewhat. The scene he took in gave some credence to Windsor Castle’s existence in the scheme of things.
The entry way Wingate was standing in was sumptuous. It was Mac through the looking glass and into Buckingham Palace. Making the situation all the more incongruous were an extremely good-looking WAC sitting at an oak desk on one side of the hall and a male valet in a tuxedo sitting on a Louis XIV love seat across from her.
The WAC had been typing when Mac came in. Both she and the butler looked up as he stopped stock still in the middle of the foyer, the door clicking shut behind him.
“Captain Wingate?” the beautiful WAC inquired.
Mac nodded, more interested in hearing the woman speak than himself.
The WAC looked down at some papers next to her typewriter. She was a brunette according to the severely bunched hair wisps leaking out of the bottom of her perfectly positioned military cap. As she leaned forward, Wingate couldn’t help noticing how well her shirt, jacket, and tightly knotted tie fit.
“You’re a little late,” the WAC commented, her lips pouting. “I’ll see if Colonel Walters is busy.”
She rose, an accomplishment Wingate was tempted to applaud when he saw the figure it revealed, and disappeared through a door to the right of her desk. The butler also rose and approached him. His expression was one of slight revulsion.
“May I take your ... your helmet, sir?” the man slowly pronounced. He looked pointedly at Mac’s charred jacket.
Mac glanced up. He saw the rim of the battered helmet just over his eyebrows. He reached up, pulled the metal dome off, and handed it to the white-gloved servant.
“Thank you, sir,” the butler said carefully, masking all but just a hint of distaste, and walked away, holding the helmet before him.
As he disappeared to the left, the WAC reappeared to the right, smiling broadly. Her smile was the second brightest illumination Mac had seen in thirty-two hours.
“Very good,” she said pleasantly. “They are waiting for you. Colonel Walters will see you now. Follow me.”
Wingate resisted saying, “with pleasure,” but moved behind her swinging hips with the same aggression with which he blew up planes. The WAC passed through the same door she had before. Behind the door was a room whose size rivaled many baseball fields Mac remembered from Wisconsin. But in decoration, the room had it all over the Oshkosh Bar and Grill.
There was a long marble table in the middle of the rectangular, high-ceilinged space. Along one side sat two men. A third was standing on the other side, in front of several maps and charts stuck up on a bulletin board. Between the three men on the table was a silver tea set and delicate-looking china cups filled with the smoking rose-colored liquid. The only other things smoking in the room were a cigar in an ornate ashtray and Wingate’s jacket.
“This is Captain Wingate,” the WAC announced, then backed out, closing the door behind her.
The man standing looked at the one of the men seated with his back to Mac. “This is your best man?” he said incredulously.
Wingate saw the seated man wince before he rose and turned to face him. It was Colonel Erikson. The Norwegian seemed to have changed a little, even though they had been apart for only a couple of weeks. There were some new lines in his face. But he was still a smidge shorter than Wingate, much blonder, and a little thicker set. While Mac could chop wood, Erikson looked like he could rip it apart by force of personality. The clear blue eyes in that resolute face took Wingate in.
The difference in their appearances was striking. Erikson did not look out of place in the opulent room. As usual, his uniform was impeccable. Wingate looked like a chimney sweep who stumbled into the wrong house.
“Captain,” Erikson said simply.
“Colonel,” Wingate replied, saluting.
“What happened to you?” his superior inquired in total seriousness.
“A Nazi plane from the Reich conspired against me,” Wingate answered, with the same seriousness. Exhaustion and irritation were tricky emotions when dealing with superior officers. Mac walked the tightrope between wit and insubordination.
Erikson nodded as if Wingate’s explanation was more than enough and made perfect sense. He turned to the other men in the room. “Colonel Walters,” he said toward the standing man; “Colonel Tyler,” he continued, head moving vaguely in the direction of the seated officer; “Captain Wingate,” he almost finished, looking back to Mac, “one of our best men in the field.”
Mac realized why Erikson had cringed when Walters had initially spoken. He hadn’t wanted Mac to know that he had called him his best man. So the “one of our best” part of the introduction was for his benefit and the “in the field” part was for Walters.
Catching his official faux pas, Colonel Walters boomed out a friendly greeting, sweeping his hand toward a chair. “Wingate, eh?” he asked in cultured British tones. “Not related to Major General Orde C. Wingate, by any chance?”
Mac moved over to the delicate-looking chair the English colonel pointed out. “No, I don’t think so, sir.”
“Too bad,” Walters snorted. “Quite a shame. Smashing fellow. Doing a bloody good job in Burma. Have a seat, Wingate.”
Mac looked at his own scruffy pants and the soft brocade-work of the obviously expensive seat. Thinking better of it, he said, “I’ll think I’ll stand, sir. If you don’t mind.”
“Suit yourself, suit yourself,” Walters huffed. “Cup of tea?”
Something in Walters’s tone and manner set Wingate on edge. It was more than the fact that he seemed to have stolen his entire personality from Ralph Richardson. He seemed irritated that Wingate didn’t sit down. He seemed to have geared his entire presentation on getting Wingate in a chair with a cup of tea. He wanted Wingate comfortable. Mac found that when superior officers wanted him comfortable, it was usually because they didn’t want him to suspect that he was about to be cut off at the knees.
Wingate didn’t like the whole setup. He was fatigued, but more than that, he was a professional. He didn’t want and really didn’t have time for mollycoddling. His job was helping the Allies and killing the Axis. He wasn’t interested in jockeying for position about it. But like it or not, Walters had rank on him and Walters seemed intent on setting the stage. The sooner the better, as far as Wingate was concerned.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Excellent!” Walters said. Wingate was satisfied he didn’t say, “Smashing.” What the colonel did say afterward was, “Dickie, old boy, would you pour Captain Wingate a cup?”
Mac shrugged mentally. He couldn’t avoid the “old boy” cliché. Well, one out of two wasn’t bad. The seated colonel, however, did not seem happy about the situation. He bristled when Walters called him, and with only the greatest reluctance leaned forward toward the tea service.
“Smashing,” Walters commented as the tea was poured. So much for wishful thinking, Mac thought. “Sure you won’t have a seat?” Walters asked as the cup was handed to him by the sullen Colonel Tyler.
Wingate looked at the antique again. Anything to get on with it, he thought. “On second thought, I think I will,” he said pleasantly. “Thank you, sir.” He sat easily, glancing at Erikson as he did so. He wasn’t sure, but he detected some slight commiseration in those blue eyes. Oh well, he tried to answer silently, it’s your chair.
The effect of his sitting was rewarding. Walters straightened up and seemed to cheer considerably. He had Wingate where he wanted him, so he plunged right in.
“Captain Wingate,” he intoned, “Colonel Erikson tells us that you are an expert in demolitions.”
Walters paused. Wingate had already understood that the Englishman was expecting an answer, but he was just tired enough, just dirty enough, and just plain pissed enough to make the meeting harder. He took a sip of his tea, then seemed suddenly to notice the silence.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Colonel Tyler certainly seemed to find the silence awkward, for as soon as Wingate had finished speaking, he asked a question of his own.
“And you’ve taken the SBS underwater demolitions course?” His voice had a slight mid-American drawl.
Before Wingate could reply, Walters cut in. “Of course he did. Our reports show that.”
“And that’s all they showed,” Tyler shot back. “We don’t know whether he passed or what he excelled in or anything of that nature.”
“I assume he passed,” Walters replied with elaborate patience. “Why else would they include the information on our reports?”
“To make him look good,” Tyler answered with some disgust. “That sort of thing is rampant all over the department.”
“I beg your pardon?” Walters boomed indignantly.
“In answer to your question!” Wingate shouted. His voice bounced off the walls in the cavernous room. The two colonels stopped their argument and looked at him in surprise. “Sirs,” Wingate continued, now that he had gotten their attention. “I passed the Special Boat Section’s course. Is there anything specific you would like to know about it?”
The look on Walters’s face turned from surprise to a touch of shame for getting into an argument in front of a lower-ranking man, then to anger that the lower-ranking man had pointed it out to him. Wingate recognized all the expressions and really didn’t care. He was there because they needed him, and if he left the room a corporal, it made little difference in the long run.
Colonel Erikson seemed to agree with him, for as soon as Wingate had finished his question, the Norwegian took over the meeting.
“That isn’t important, Captain,” he said pointedly. His underlying meaning to Mac was, “Forget the question was ever asked.” Wingate centered his undivided attention on his immediate superior, who was moving around the table toward the bulletin board. “We need to know some things,” Erikson continued, his voice casual. Mac knew that game as well. Erikson was going to edge around a subject, extracting as much valuable information as possible without revealing the direct purpose of the interrogation. The brass called it a “contingency weaponry discussion,” utilized for security reasons. Mac called it a cat-and-mouse game played for the joy of the sport. It was time to pin the tail on the mission.
He heard Erikson speaking with his back to him, supposedly examining the charts on the board. “What do you feel is the best waterproofing for standard heavy demolition explosives?”
Mac leaned back in the dainty chair. He felt Walters and Tyler eyeing him like a pair of starving wolves. With an effort, he searched the encyclopedia part of his brain for the most concise answer possible.
“Well, sir, gas-treated canvas is good enough for outside weather, but certainly insufficient for submerging.”
“What do you mean?” Tyler wanted to know.
Wingate wanted to say, “What do you mean, ‘What do you mean?’” because he felt the answer was obvious enough, but instead he managed to elaborate effectively. “Underwater you need one hundred percent efficiency. The slightest leak may ruin the material.”
“Of course, of course,” Walters blustered. “What about C-2 plastic, Captain?”
“What about it?” Wingate replied dryly, unable to eliminate all sarcasm. “C-2 hasn’t been waterproofed yet to my knowledge and just because it’s plastic doesn’t mean it’ll hold out underwater. Direct contact with water, petrol, or any other corrosive will shortly render it useless. Its advantages are its power and flexibility, not its insolubility.”
Mac’s speech had the effect he had hoped for. His extensive knowledge of a singular material thrown at him impressed the collected colonels. For a moment, Walters was rendered speechless. Wingate saw Erikson smile behind the Britisher’s back for a split second before resuming.
“Captain, given a supply of C-2 plastic explosives, could you pack it in a light, waterproof casing?”
Mac was not quick to answer. All too often, gung-ho officers would promise the brass anything to get ahead, only to get their asses wiped when it came time to deliver. In Wingate’s business, a hasty answer could be the final line on a death certificate.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I could.”
Tyler was again primed by his initial silence. “Could you set it off with primacord?” he asked quickly.
