officers from doing stupid things. He also didn't understand why the planes were standing by, still less the armed guards. In all, he didn't like the look of any of it.
Still, certain of his own rectitude, and acutely conscious that few NCOs and virtually no officers met his standards, he stood calmly enough, listening attentively to the usual officers' bullshit.
'I'm a little disappointed,' Reilly said, with a seemingly friendly nod, 'at your lack of faith. But it's only a little, because I wasn't sure myself how we were going to take them out until quite recently. I'm a lot more disappointed that those of you with, shall we say, troubled hearts didn't come to me.
'That was the time I would have explained things. Now? Too late.' Reilly jerked his thumb at the waiting Porters. 'You want out? Git! I'd rather go in with a dozen men that were willing than ten times that who aren't.'
The ranks shuddered, but no one moved. Whatever Adkinson was thinking-Reilly glanced at him again-his thoughts never reached his face. Hypocrite. The faces that belonged to the other two names given by George, Slade and Montgomerie, looked worried. You should have thought of that before joining in with the malcontent, Reilly thought.
The Israeli-and Lana had taken the effort to look particularly good for the event-and the two gay South Africans walked forward and said, loudly enough for all to hear, 'We'll go with you, sir. We'd make a better noddy car crew than any you have, anyway.'
Reilly nodded, thoughtfully, just as if he were deeply touched and just as if they hadn't rehearsed that part.
Sergeant Epolito, standing being his platoon, gave the order, 'Third Platoon . . . take . . . seats.' He then looked at Reilly and announced, 'Sir, the Third Herd isn't going anywhere.' He then sat himself and folded his arms across his chest.
That part they hadn't rehearsed. But some things you can just count on, Reilly thought. I knew Epolito would never desert me or let anyone else do so.
Peters, with the mortars, followed. Then Schetrompf, a very Marty Feldmanesque little guy, gave the order, 'Seats.' Headquarters came right after that, with the 'armor' platoon seating themselves at Abdan's command.
Reilly nodded again, this time thoughtfully. 'So you want to see it through?' he asked.
'Yessir . . . Yes, sir . . . sir . . . '
'Okay . . . we can go ahead. But there are a few of you I wouldn't trust with the lives of the rest of you.' Reilly looked very pointedly at Adkinson again and said, 'You all signed contracts giving us right and privilege of arrest, of summary punishment, and dismissal. Corporal Schiebel!'
'Sir,' answered one of the armed men standing around the company.
'Please place Adkinson, Slade, and Montgomerie under arrest. They are stripped of their rank within the organization. Their pay is forfeit and will be placed in the unit fund. Bind them, and toss their asses on the first of the Porters. Take two guards to escort them to where they're going.'
'Sir!'
'Sergeant Babcock-Moore?'
'Sir!'
'Your officer informs me you have some business in Guyana. Accompany the prisoners, oversee Corporal Schiebel until they're safely deposited, and return in no less than three days.'
'But . . . '
'No buts.'
'Sir!'
Reilly turned away to hide a slight smile. So I'm making a little downpayment on loyalty? So what? Cheap at the price.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Justice renders to everyone his due.
-Cicero
There is no such thing as justice-in or out of court.
-Clarence Darrow
D-72, Camp Stephenson, Cheddi Jagan International Airport, Guyana
The hangar, while quite large, was crowded. Along one wall lay nine containers, side by side and ends toward the wall. Dark-skinned men, none of them in uniform, removed various sections from eight of the containers, assembling them into small airplanes on the hangar's concrete floor. The metal sliding doors were just open, and no more than required to ventilate the oven. Beyond that could be seen a single Pilatus Porter, its engine apparently still running. From the Porter four men took turns carrying in three squirming, struggling, blanket-wrapped bundles.
Gordo ignored the cursing and grunting as Schiebel and his crew dropped the last of the three tightly wrapped blankets-with-legs-sticking-out to the concrete. One of the bundles didn't squirm much, and the legs twitched only feebly. Sergeant Babcock was sporting a sore shin where one of the prisoners had managed to kick him during the flight. He hadn't kicked the prisoner-Montgomerie, it was-back. Instead, the black Brit had taken it in stride while Schiebel knelt beside the man, gripped his head through the blanket, and hammered it to the Porter's uncarpeted deck until Montgomerie had gone unconscious.
'Be easier,' Schiebel said, wiping sweat from his brow, 'to have just dumped them over the ocean from way fucking high up. The boss always was too soft hearted.'
Harry Gordon ignored that, except to think, If Reilly or Stauer had thought it necessary, that's just what they'd have had you do, Corporal.
Both Drake and Perreira, the Guyanese pilot, were there, as well. Perreira had no real further personal business with the group assembled in Brazil, nor with Gordo specifically, since he'd already moved the turrets to Camp Alpha. Still, he had useful contacts and Gordo, while still thinking the man a weasel, had decided that he was probably a mostly honest weasel. Drake did have business still, notably arranging through his police contacts for the three Americans wrapped in blankets to be held incommunicado for some months in a jail far, far to the west. It had cost a little extra to find and employ a small country jail house where not one of the jailers except the sergeant in charge spoke a word of even Guyanese Creole, let alone English. Unless Adkinson, Slade, and Montgomerie could
