'Dead?' Goldman laughed. 'Dead? Casey dead? No, Doctor, that is the one thing he's not.' He roared with laughter that bordered on the hysterical.
They were in Landries's office, the door locked, and the bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey nearly empty on the desk. Both men had been oblivious to the passage of time.
'That's all of it, Colonel,' Goldman concluded. 'That's it. His bunk is empty, and he is gone. I don't know if perhaps I am not relieved that he is.'
Landries moved his glass between his thin, artistic fingers. Silence hung in the room. Finally Landries reached for the bottle, divided the remaining whiskey between his glass and Goldman's, and threw the empty bottle in the wastebasket. The gesture had a kind of routine finality to it… as though the whole matter was settled.
Landries took a long pull from his glass, letting the sweet burning of the Tennessee sipping whiskey settle into his stomach. 'Perhaps you're right, Goldie'-it was the first time he had ever called Goldman anything but Goldman-'Perhaps it is just as well. So
… We will just turn it over to the military police as an AWOL from the hospital report and hope that's the end to it. Somehow I don't think the MPs are going to find him. And, as for the records, both you and I know how often medical records get lost or destroyed in a war zone. I've raised enough hell about it in the past. Well, I wouldn't be surprised if the same thing happened to Casey's records. All his records, including his 201 file you sent for. No, Goldie, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised at all if that happened. Would you?'
Goldman nodded in agreement.
'Now, as for the whole thing,' the colonel continued, 'what we saw and what he told you-that is another problem.' He was silent a very long time. 'Any suggestions?'
'No.'
'Then let's just assume that it's none of our damned business and let it go at that.'
'Agreed.'
'However…' A slow, slightly malicious smile began to form at the edges of Landries's mouth. 'Next time I corner the chaplain I think I'll have some interesting questions to put to him.'
TWENTY-SEVEN
On the Sinai Peninsula an American-made halftrack roared and grumbled its way over a bank of sand dunes and settled into a wadi at the base of a small outcropping of rock. The driver wheeled the vehicle around, locking one tread so that it would spin in tight circles, the act of a hot-rodder that the young Israeli soldiers in the back thoroughly enjoyed. They yelled their approval, their tanned faces flushed with the excitement of victory and success. As the half-track spun, the Star of David was clearly visible on its side.
The only soldier not exuberant or laughing was the squad leader, but the young Israelis did not hold this against him. They considered themselves lucky to have such a leader. Perhaps he was a little too dour and sober at times, but they all agreed that he had an uncanny instinct for doing the right thing at the right time. That instinct had saved their asses more than once in this last bout with the Egyptians in their Russian-made armor. Yet, they really knew nothing about the squad leader. He was one of those who had come from nowhere to aid the Israelis in their struggle against the Arabs; Israel in turn had asked no questions.
The Israeli troopers quickly dismounted and fanned out to take a careful look at the area and the surrounding terrain features. The radioman had already set up his equipment and was prepared to send or receive. The squad's assignment was important; twenty miles to the west, on their right flank, the Egyptian forces were reeling back in confusion and panic after an initial success; the halftrack's crew was to keep the Egyptians in sight and radio back the Egyptian position. Along with other units similar to theirs they were to keep the Egyptians canalized into as narrow an area as possible. This would make it easier for the Israeli Air Force to pick the Egyptians off. The secondary mission of the half-track squads was to take care of stragglers once the main body of the Egyptians had passed. They would either kill them or herd them back into the caldron of sunburned sand and rock that was Sinai.
Evening was coming when the squad satisfied themselves that the area was secure. The driver of the half- track, a smiling, curly-haired young man of twenty, unslung his 9mm UZI submachine gun and squatted in the sand. Grabbing a handful between his fingers, he let it fall in separate streams to the earth. He looked up at his squad leader and said-in a voice that had Brooklyn all over it: 'Shit, man, ain't there nothing out here but this?' He threw the last of the sand down. 'This ain't no fun, man. I wish to hell I hadn't let my old man hype me on that 'return to Israel' jazz. I wouldn't be out here now trying to blow up a bunch of ragheads.' Pausing, he licked his dry lips. 'I wish we had more water. It might get thin if we're out here too long.'
The squad leader turned to him. The man's face was as rugged as these ancient hills. He oriented his square-set body to the north, waited a moment as though considering something the young driver could not know, then pointed. 'There used to be a spring at the base of two hills about two clicks from here,' he said. 'It never ran dry. It's probably worth checking out later.'
When he took his helmet off the scar by his hairline showed white in contrast to the deep tan of his face. The thin scar running down from his right eye to the corner of his mouth was almost invisible as it molded itself into his crooked grin.
The cocky young driver looked at him. 'Is that right? You been out here before?'
Before Casey could answer, Isaac, the rabbi's son, called the squad to evening prayer. After all, it was the Sabbath.
Casey watched the young warriors pray to their God in the evening light, the sun letting red streaks break over the Sinai. He heard again the sound of the ancient Hebrew litany coming from the throats of these young men: 'It is written in the Law: for the Lord your God, he is God of the gods, and Lord of the Lords, the great God, the mighty and the terrible… and it is written afterwards: He doth execute the judgment…'
Casey stood still, letting the terrible isolation of this land envelop him. He answered the Brooklyn Jew's question in a voice that was just a whisper that only he heard:
'Yes. I soldiered out here a long time ago. A very long time ago…'
