The two teenage lads were probably doing a school vacation job. I didn't know whether they were stoned or just bored shitless. Both were barefoot but wearing the company uniform: blue shorts and red polo shirt.
I nodded at them through the small swing doors; they'd obviously been told to be pleasant and said they hoped I had a nice day. I wasn't sure that I would.
I sat down on the wooden jetty and immediately felt the dampness soak into my jeans. To my right were a father and son, with dad trying to get his boy sparked up about fishing: 'We'll only catch something if you sit very still and watch the float.' The kid, in his Disney poncho, was as uninterested as the two in the boat shed--as you would be if you'd much rather be eating ice cream and playing computer games.
I was very overtly carrying the binoculars and bird book; today I was the dickhead tourist with his feet dangling over the side of the jetty, taking in the magnificent view over the water.
Half a dozen boats were moored at various points around the lake.
Through the binoculars I could see that each one held two or three very fat, middle-aged men who were dressed for trapping bears in the Yukon, their hunting vests festooned with fishing flies, their pockets bulging with all sorts of kit, and fearsome knives hanging in sheaths from their belts.
I panned with the binos along the opposite side of the spur, starting from the far right-hand side. I made out a track cutting through the trees just short of the lake on the higher ground, the one I'd stopped by to let the motor home past. It looked as if it should lead to the houses. I followed it along and, sure enough, it passed the smaller of the two. I couldn't see anything about the building that gave me any information; it was just a square, two-story, flat-roofed structure, built into the hill and with stilts holding the forward two thirds. There was a boat and a 4x4 vehicle underneath the stilted area, but no movement. Then two kids came running around from the front of the house followed by a man. They were laughing and throwing a football at each other. Happy families; I'd give that one a miss.
I put the binos down for a while, and had a look at the book. This part is all about third-party awareness, because you never know who is looking at you; they might not be saying, 'Is he doing a recce of those houses over there?' but if all I did was bino at the house and didn't move or do other things, it would look pretty strange. The trick is to give the impression that whatever reason you have for being there is so straightforward no one gives you a second glance. I just hoped a fellow anorak didn't come up to me and start on some serious bird talk.
I put the book down, much more intimately acquainted with the lesser spotted something or other, and started to look at the other target. By now enough humidity had condensed on my head for droplets to run down my face, and I was starting to feel sticky and damp all over.
The second house was very much like the first, but about a third bigger and with an extra floor. It, too, was wooden and had a flat, felted roof, but its stilted area had been enclosed with plywood sheeting. Two large doors opened onto a concrete slipway that led down to the water's edge. A boat, a four-seater fiberglass job, ideal for fishing, was parked on the land, still on its trailer, nose facing down toward the water, the outboard engine toward the house.
All the curtains seemed to be closed. I couldn't see any rubbish bags outside, or towels or anything else that might indicate that the house was occupied. However, the garage doors were only three-quarters closed and the rear of a black 4x4 was protruding, which made me think that maybe there was another one inside.
I heard a groan from the two boys in red polo shirts. A man was coming toward the fort with three kids, all highly excited about hiring a canoe and already fighting about who was going to have the paddle.
I put the binos down and had a swig of Coke, which was now warm and horrible, like the weather. I binned it and got another one, then I took a walk back to the car.
The rave at the picnic area was still going strong; the kids were dancing, and the adults, beer cans in hand around the barbecue, despite the signs forbidding alcohol, were putting the world to rights. Even from this distance I could hear the loud sizzle as steaks the size of dustbin lids were dropped onto the smoking griddles.
The old couple were still in their car, her struggling to drink a can of Dr. Pepper through her false teeth, him reading the inside pages of a newspaper. Nice day out.
I could read the headline, even through the windshield. It looked as though I'd been right: the black convoy that had held me up in D.C. must have been carrying either Netanyahu or Arafat, because both boys were being welcomed to America.
I got back to the car and slowly rolled out along the gravel road to the main drag, turning left, back toward the Falls ofNeuse and the belt line I didn't follow the signs back to Raleigh, though. This time, I wanted the road to Fayetteville.
Fayette Nam, as some people in the States call it, due to its high casualty rate, is the home of the 82nd Airborne and U.S. Special Forces.
They were stationed at Fort Bragg, the only place I knew in North Carolina. About an hour south of Raleigh-- or so they told me at the gas station--I'd first gone there in the mid-1980s for a joint exercise training with Delta Force, the Regiment's American counterpart.
'Deltex' was designed to further an atmosphere of cooperation between the two units, but all it did for me was induce huge amounts of envy. I could still remember being bowled over by the sheer size of the place; you could have fitted the entire town of Hereford twice over into what they called a 'fort.' The quantity and quality of equipment on show was beyond belief. Delta had indoor 7.62 and 5.56 shooting ranges; at Stirling Lines we had only the 9mm equivalent. We also had only one gym, while they had dozens of them, including Jacuzzis, saunas and a massive climbing wall for their Mountain Troop. No wonder we renamed the place Fort Brass. They had more helicopters in one unit than we had in the whole of the British army; come to that, there were more personnel in just that one base than in all of the British armed services put together.
Fayetteville is effectively a garrison city, with every business geared up for the military. The troops are the ones with the money and the desire to burn it. Like them, in all the times I'd been there I'd never felt the need to venture out of the city limits.
The 401 was a wide single carriage way I drove through a few small towns that would have made great locations for 1950s films or, better still,
could have done with a couple of thousand-pounders to put them out of their misery, before the area started to open up into cornfields and grassland.
Houses and small industrial units dotted the route, alongside open barns filled with tractors and other agricultural gear, and every few miles, in case people needed reminding that they were in the boonies, I came across a road kill, a mess of blood and fur as flat as a pancake in the middle of the blacktop.
I knew I was getting near when I hit the Cape Fear river. The water was about 300 meters across at this point, getting wider as it got closer to the sea, and sure enough I passed the 'City of Fayetteville' sign before long and kept my eyes peeled for anything directing me to Fort Bragg.
Bragg Boulevard was a wide dual carriage way with a grass central reservation, but as I passed rows of car showrooms with new 4x4s and sports cars under miles of red, white and blue bunting, it changed back to two lanes. The buildings on either side were mainly one-story cinder block warehouses behind a shop front. Korean pawnshops and tailors jostled with Vietnamese restaurants and takeaways, representing a weird chronicle of all the conflicts the U.S.A. had ever been involved in. They just needed an Iraqi kebab stall to complete the set.
I was beginning to see the kind of outlet I'd come here to find. Neon signs and posters announced boot- shining specialists, tattoo artists and gun shops--'Test fire before you buy--we have our own range.' On every sidewalk, young men and women strode around in smartly pressed BDUs (combat uniform) and very short haircuts--the men usually had a 'whitewall' with a little lump on top. It felt very strange to see uniformed soldiers on the streets without a weapon and not on patrol; the terrorist situation in Europe meant that off-duty soldiers were forbidden to walk around in uniform; they'd just be ready-made targets.
I drove on base and got my bearings. American military installations aren't like European ones, which resemble World War Two prisoner-of war camps, again because of the terrorist threat. This place was open and sprawling, with vehicle pools and groups of men and women on route marches, singing cadence, their unit flag carried proudly at the head of the column.
I couldn't remember the name of the road I wanted, but I followed my nose, driving along roads with buildings on each side that looked more like smart apartments than barrack rooms. I found it--Yadkin, a long road that came out of the base and moved into the city area. There had been quite a bit of building since my last visit in the late Eighties. Roads coming off the main drag had names like Desert Storm Boulevard, or Just Cause Road. I wondered if the Firm would ever get around to naming thoroughfares after its operations--if so, they'd have to be
