11
The remainder of the flight proved uneventful. Sledge tried to put his mind in neutral, but he could not help remembering that he still had to deliver two unpredictable women to Steve Spinner in New Orleans.
The helicopter deposited its passengers at the hacienda where the rescue had begun. A waiting doctor hustled Mario off to a hospital, escorted by two armed guards. Three attendants relieved Sledge’s group of its weapons and equipment.
A beaming Elena Ramirez greeted the two women. “Welcome, señoritas. Upstairs you will find the hot bath you have been longing for. You will also find your baggage. When you were kidnapped, the American embassy took charge of it. Señor Spinner’s name was good enough to shake it loose.”
“Señores,” Ramirez said to Sledge and Vickers, “this hacienda is secure. You must rest here tonight, and tomorrow we can decide what to do next.”
With the word “rest,” Sledge felt his muscles deflate on cue. He’d put in three days of intense exertion with only two short catnaps. Now that the requirement for action was past, exhaustion engulfed him like an ocean wave. In his upstairs room a king-sized bed awaited. With an effort, he held himself awake long enough to strip off his boots and dirty fatigues. Leaving them scattered on the floor, he collapsed onto the bed.
Once again he’d completed a dangerous work in a good cause. Yet, as always, it wasn’t enough. Even as sleep embraced him in soft velvet arms, the familiar emptiness of things closed in again.
****
Kristin, alone in her room after a luxurious hot bath, silently chided herself for weakness. Freed from captivity, seated at a beautifully feminine vanity, clad in her own robe and cleaning her face with her own cosmetics, she should feel elated. Instead, all she felt was self-loathing for the irrational fear she’d showed to Sledge. She should have shown gratitude for all the risks he’d taken—for her. Heaven knew she was grateful. But when the old fear leaped up and surprised her, she’d exhibited something she hadn’t intended. Something she’d kept locked inside her for years.
Even now the humiliating memory came back as if it were happening today. The night of her senior prom back in Minnesota, her coveted date with a lineman from the football team, a huge boy who went on to stardom at a state university. A lineman who had a good line of patter, too. Good enough to get a date with that pretty but standoffish girl who didn’t go out because she’d set her mind on winning a scholarship to a prestigious university. She’d promised herself she would not end up like her parents, overworked and underappreciated in a dingy little public school.
The lineman’s patter had prevailed, and she’d agreed to go with him, even felt proud at the envious looks more popular girls had thrown her way. Until he danced her out of the ballroom into the hallway and pulled her into an unlighted room. She’d resisted, but she couldn’t compete with his strength. She remembered the wall at her back and the huge weight of his body crushing her against it.
Somehow she’d found enough breath to scream, and people came running. Soon enough, fortunately. Lights went on and the pressure against her body released. When it did, she burst into tears and ran from the room. One of the chaperones drove her home.
Nothing was ever said about the incident, and nothing was ever done. Through the remaining month of school she greeted the inquiring glances with an icy stare. She took the stare with her, first to Radhurst and then into the world of journalism. In both worlds it kept her safe from prying questions. It also stopped unwanted male advances before they got started. Most of the time, she actually felt safe.
But whenever a large male stood close to her, however innocently, the old fear came flooding back and she again felt the lineman’s crushing weight against her.
It had happened on the helicopter when Sledge leaned over her to speak. Earlier, he’d immobilized her physically while he put the camouflage on her face. That was all it took to trigger the old fear later when he stood close.
As always, she hated herself for that reaction. But she must not think of that now. First she must rest. Then she had to find her way back to Chozadolor and recover her photographs. No one—not even a dumb hulk like Sledge—was going to keep her from getting that career-building story.
****
Sledge woke with the late afternoon sun in his eyes. For a few moments his dream remained as real as life itself. He and Alita sat alone in a courtyard amid a profusion of red and yellow flowers. Their heady perfumes, carried on a gentle breeze, at times overpowered the delicate aroma of Alita’s Shalimar.
She wore a modest white dress for morning Mass. Reluctantly, he had agreed to go with her. He’d put such things behind him when he left the church that ostracized his father. Who needed a church to know the difference between right and wrong?
He and Alita sat close but not touching. He felt the familiar longing to put his arms around her, but the time was not right. For now her dark eyes held him with a solemn gaze, and she spoke earnestly.
About what?
He could not tell. He reached for her words but they remained, tantalizingly, just beyond his ken. Then the dream faded, leaving only the poignant knowledge that he once had lived the dream. He and Alita had gone from that meeting directly into the ambush that took her life. This was their last conversation, so vitally important to her. And he could not remember it. Somewhere in those weeks of pain and anesthesia, the memory had slipped away. Maybe someday…
But today he had no time for chasing memories. He still had to deliver the two women to New Orleans. The headstrong brat wouldn’t make that easy. Thank heavens the journalist hadn’t made any trouble. And what was the secret joke they shared whenever he called one of them by name?
His hosts had not been idle while he slept. Slacks and a sport shirt from his baggage had been laid out for him, with socks and sneakers beside them. His guerrilla uniform lay on a bureau, washed and neatly folded. He hoped he’d have no further need of it.
A bath and a shave left him feeling alive again. The windows had grown dark when he finished.
Ramón stood waiting at the foot of the stairs. “I have made a report to Señor Spinner’s office, as you requested.”
“Thanks. What did he say?”
Ramón snorted. “He said nothing. I told his assistant, a man named Crowder, that the women were in good condition and resting. He said nothing except that he understood the message.”
That was about what Sledge expected. No expression of thanks or of pleasure that the women were unharmed. Just a checkmark on the weekly to-do list for an expensive project successfully completed.
“Thanks for taking care of that,” he said. “I’m sorry you didn’t get a better reception.” His hands made a gesture that took in his fresh clothing. “I see you were busy while I was sleeping.”
Ramón nodded. “We make hay while the iron is hot.”
Sledge managed not to flinch. “Do you have news of Mario?”
“They say he will recover fully in two months.”
“He did more than the mission required. When Spinner pays me, I’m going to send Mario an extra ten thousand. Can you get it to him?”
Ramón agreed, and Sledge broached a question that had been nagging at his mind. “When you picked us up, you said the guerrillas heard a nightingale...?”
The Colombian’s face lit up. “The U.S. Special Forces did not teach you about that? You are too young, of course. In Southeast Asia they deceived the enemy with a device called a nightingale. It is a big cloth loaded with things that go boom, with a time fuse to start them booming. They sound like the worst firefight you ever heard.”
“I thought the whole Colombian army was attacking.”
“So did your guerrillas. One man and I rappelled into the forest and placed the nightingales to imitate attacks from two directions.”
“I heard something that sounded like a Claymore mine.”
Ramón’s eyes flashed. “That, señor, I must take with a fifth of amendments. But come. The others are waiting, and soon we will have a dinner to celebrate your successful mission. Tomorrow we will put you on the plane for home.”
They found the others in a restful sitting room decorated with good taste. Raúl wore a fresh bandage on his forehead but otherwise looked none the worse for his crash. Javier appeared smaller in slacks than he had in fatigues. Despite wearing borrowed clothes, Vickers radiated his usual calm.
The rescued women were absolutely stunning. Both wore pastel skirts and sweaters that revealed trim figures without flaunting them. Beneath blonde hair, their blue eyes gleamed out from radiant complexions. Elena Ramirez provided a vivacious brunette contrast.
Sledge put on a thoughtful expression. “I have to admit you ladies look better without camouflage.”
They showed pained expressions and said “Thanks,” in unison. Then they exchanged amused glances, sharing that secret joke again. Sledge was sure Steve Spinner had withheld information, and now the women were holding something back, as well. Would the thing he didn’t know blow up in his face? He could not tell. He could only grit his teeth and push ahead.
His brooding didn’t spoil the delicious dinner, though. He ate with the appetite of a man who’d lived three days on supercharged candy bars. Ramón spared him the effort of conversation by launching into a monologue about the hacienda. It belonged to the Roca family, wealthy Colombian industrialists for whom Ramón had once worked. The family now had only one member, a widow. She had moved to Costa Rica and remarried, but she allowed her Colombian properties to be used in good causes.
Sledge listened half-attentively and watched other members of the group. Vickers and Javier bantered with Elena Ramirez, who punctuated their conversation with an occasional laugh.
Raúl, seated between the two blondes, was obviously enjoying himself. The journalist flirted openly with him. No telling what tricks that woman had up her sweater sleeve. It was a nicely filled sleeve, but tricks were still tricks.
After dinner, the group re-aligned for coffee in the sitting room. Sledge made a point of speaking with the rescued women but, sensing their reticence, he kept the exchanges brief. They seemed relieved when he moved on.
Just one more day and he’d be rid of them. “What will you do now?” he asked Vickers over a second coffee.
The missionary shrugged. “My work in Colombia is ended. I can’t move freely while I’m on the guerrillas’ hit list. Right now I can’t move anywhere because they took my passport. When the embassy straightens out my documents, I’ll go back to my home church and try to be useful.”
“Where is home?”
“Houston, same as you, but I’m nearer the central city. What will you do?”
Sledge looked away. “I’m not sure. Maybe train myself for something on the quiet side.”
“You’ll never be happy with it.”
“I guess not. How did you know?” Usually on his guard with church people, Sledge somehow felt free to confide in Vickers.
The missionary’s eyes twinkled. “You’ve worn a glum face ever since we landed.”
“I hoped it wasn’t that obvious.”
“I think I understand. Everyone needs a sense of...well...rightness. Different people try to find it in different ways. Your way is action doing good things. And usually risking your neck to do them.”
“I guess that’s a fair comment.” It was more than that. It was a dead-center bull’s-eye.
The missionary looked off into space. “What you’re discovering is that you can’t ever be good enough. It’s beyond the human capability to earn that sense of rightness.”
“So what must we do?”
Instead of answering, Vickers took a new tack. “The ancient Greek heroes—Achilles, Ulysses, the whole crowd of them—tried it your way. When you boil it down, they were trying to justify themselves. It didn’t work for them, either.”
“OK. We’ve read the same books. So what does it prove?” Sledge was finding an unsuspected depth in Vickers, but he felt his impatience rising.
“The Romans did a little bit better,” the missionary continued. “Cicero and Virgil had their heroes work for a cause outside themselves—the good of Rome.” He fixed his gaze on Sledge. “That’s where you are now: self-sacrifice and good deeds in a good cause. But it didn’t work for the Romans, either.”
“Then what’s the answer?”
“The Hebrews already had the answer. Surrender.”
“Surrender to what?”
Vickers again avoided answering. “You’ve built a career on making Good win out over Evil, but it’s never been enough. You have to look to the source of good. To God Himself.”
Sledge frowned. “I should have known you’d end up with church talk.”
The missionary refused to be distracted. “Moses tried the Greek and Roman way. He took it upon himself to kill the Egyptian he found persecuting a Jew, and it got him forty years in the wilderness. At the burning bush he surrendered to God, and that let him lead his people out of bondage. It’s the same with all the Biblical heroes: they either assert themselves into defeat or surrender themselves into God’s victory.”
Irritated, Sledge made no reply. On the other side of the room, the brat huddled with Elena Ramirez. Their gestures showed that they were talking of something that made them angry, and their glances in his direction suggested it might be him. The other blonde—the journalist—listened in silence.
“I tried the Greek way to find justification.” Vickers spoke more to himself than to Sledge. “In Vietnam, I kept volunteering for jobs I thought would satisfy, but nothing ever did. So I kept taking more and more risks. Oh, I did good work, and the things I did needed doing. But the risks finally paid off against me. I got shot up.”
“I’m sorry,” Sledge said.
“Don’t be. It woke me up. In the hospital, I figured out there had to be another way. It took me several years to find it, but I finally surrendered, and here I am. For you, it may not be the ministry or the mission field. It may even be doing the same thing you’ve been doing, but with that added final dimension of meaning.” He sighed. “That’s the key. Without God, there can’t be a complete sense of rightness.”
Sledge stood to take his leave. “I’ll give it some thought.” But not anytime soon. He’d gotten more than he bargained for. Things that worked for Vickers wouldn’t necessarily work for him.
He confirmed tomorrow’s schedule with Ramón. They would catch an early afternoon flight to Miami with a connecting flight to New Orleans, where he would deliver the women to Steve Spinner. Though the hacienda was considered secure, Ramón would still provide an armed guard in the hallway outside the two women’s rooms.
With that, Sledge headed upstairs. Later, lying in bed, he organized his thoughts for tomorrow. Escorting the women through two flights and one taxi ride shouldn’t be difficult. Yet something in the back of his mind warned that it wouldn’t be easy. He didn’t like the women’s secret joke or the brat’s heated conversation with Elena. But he saw no substantive reason for his misgivings.
Well, then, he’d tackle the problems as they arose. His talk with Vickers crossed his mind. It had given him plenty to think about. But not now. Angrily, he thrust the unwelcome thoughts from his mind, pushed back the familiar emptiness, and fell asleep.