Root looks up into Shaftoe's eyes. He finds this interesting. 'Really?'
'Yes, sir. It was an accident all the way.'
Root breaks open a package of sterile gauze and begins to wind it around Monkberg's leg; the blood soaks through immediately, faster than he can wind new layers around it. But gradually, Root starts to get the better of it, and the gauze stays white and clean. 'Guess it's time to make a command decision,' he says. 'I say we leave the code books behind, just like Lieutenant Monkberg says.'
'But if he's a German spy-' Benjamin begins.
'Then his ass is grass when we get back on friendly soil,' Root says.
'But you said yourself the chances of that were slim.'
'I shouldn't have said that,' Enoch Root says apologetically. 'It was not a wise or a thoughtful comment. It did not reflect the true spirit of Detachment 2702. I am convinced that we will prevail in the face of our little problem here. I am convinced that we will make it to Sweden and that we will bring Lieutenant Monkberg along with us.'
'That's the spirit!' Monkberg says.
'If at any point, Lieutenant Monkberg shows signs of malingering, or volunteers to be left behind, or in any way behaves so as to increase our risk of capture by the Germans, then we can all safely assume that he is a German spy.'
Monkberg seems completely unfazed. 'Well, let's get the fuck out of here, then!' he blurts, and gets to his feet, somewhat unsteady from blood loss.
'Wait!' Sergeant Shaftoe says.
'What is it now, Shaftoe?' Monkberg shouts, back in command again.
'How are we going to know if he's increasing our risk of capture?'
'What do you mean, Sergeant Shaftoe?' Root says.
'Maybe it won't be obvious,' Shaftoe says. 'Maybe there's a German detachment waiting to capture us at a certain location in the woods. And maybe Lieutenant Monkberg is going to lead us directly to the trap.'
'Atta boy, Sarge!' Corporal Benjamin says.
'Lieutenant Monkberg,' says Enoch Root, 'as the closest thing we have to a ship's doctor, I am relieving you of your command on medical grounds.'
'What medical grounds!?' Monkberg shouts, horrified.
'You are short on blood, and what blood you do have is tainted with morphine,' says Lieutenant Enoch Root. 'So the second-in-command will have to take over for you and make all decisions as to which direction we will take.'
'But you're the only other officer!' Shaftoe says. 'Except for the skipper, and
'Sergeant Shaftoe!' Root barks, doing such an effective impersonation of a Marine that Shaftoe and Benjamin both stiffen to attention.
'Sir! Yes sir!' Shaftoe returns.
'This is the first and last order I am going to give you, so listen carefully!' Root insists.
'Sir! Yes sir!'
'Sergeant Shaftoe, take me and the rest of this unit to Sweden!'
'Sir! Yes sir!' Shaftoe hollers, and marches out of the cabin, practically knocking Monkberg aside. The others soon follow, leaving the code books behind.
After about half an hour of screwing around with lifeboats, Detachment 2702 finds itself on the ground again, in Norway. The snowline is about fifty feet above sea level; it is fortunate that Bobby Shaftoe knows what to do with a pair of skis. The SAS blokes also know this particular drill, and they even know how to rig up a sort of sled arrangement that they can use to pull Lieutenant Monkberg. Within a few hours, they are deep in the woods, headed east, not having seen a single human being, German or Norwegian, since they ran aground. Snow begins to fall, filling in their tracks. Monkberg is behaving himself-not demanding to be left behind, not sending up flares. Shaftoe begins to think that making it out to Sweden might be one of Detachment 2702's easier missions. The only hard part, as usual, is understanding what the fuck is going on.
Chapter 31 DILIGENCE
Maps of Southeast Asia are up on the walls, and even covering the windows, lending a bunkerlike ambience to Avi's hotel room. Epiphyte Corp. has assembled for its first full-on shareholder's meeting in two months. Avi Halaby, Randy Waterhouse, Tom Howard, Eberhard Fohr, John Cantrell, and Beryl Hagen crowd into the room and pillage the minibar for snacks and soft drinks. Some of them sit on the bed. Eberhard sits barefoot and crosslegged on the floor with his laptop up on a footstool. Avi remains standing. He crosses his arms and leans back, eyes closed, against the endangered-mahogany doors of his entertainment center. He is wearing a brilliantly laundered white shirt, so freshly and heavily starched that it still cracks when he moves. Until fifteen minutes ago he was wearing a t-shirt he hadn't taken off his body for forty-eight hours.
Randy thinks for a minute that Avi may have fallen asleep in the unorthodox standing position. But 'Look at that map,' Avi says suddenly, in a quiet voice. He opens his eyes and swivels them in their sockets towards same, not wasting precious energy by turning his head. 'Singapore, the southern tip of Taiwan, and the northernmost point of Australia form a triangle.'
'Avi,' says Eb solemnly, 'any three points form a triangle.' Generally they don't look to Eberhard to leaven the proceedings with humor, but a chuckle passes around the room, and Avi grins-not so much because it's funny as because it's evidence of good morale.
'What's in the middle of the triangle?'
Everyone looks again. The correct answer is a
'That's correct,' Avi says. 'Kinakuta is ideally situated to act as an electronic crossroads. The perfect place to put big routers.'
'You're talking shareholderese,' Randy warns.
Avi ignores him. 'Really it makes a lot more sense this way.'
'What way?' Eb asks sharply.
'I've become aware that there are other cable people here. There is a group from Singapore and a consortium from Australia and New Zealand. In other words: we used to be the sole carriers into the Crypt. As of later today, I suspect we will be one of three.'
Tom Howard grins triumphantly: he works in the Crypt, he probably knew before anyone. Randy and John Cantrell exchange a look.
Eb sits up stiffly. 'How long have you known about this?' he asks, Randy sees a look of annoyance flash across Beryl's face. She does not like being probed.
'Would the rest of you excuse Eb and me for a minute?' Randy says, getting to his feet.
Dr. Eberhard Fohr looks startled, then gets up and follows Randy out of the room. 'Where are we going?'
'Leave your laptop,' Randy says, escorting him out into the hallway. 'We're just going here.'
'Why?'
'It's like this,' Randy says, pulling the door closed but not letting it lock. 'People like Avi and Beryl, who have been in business a lot, have this noticeable preference for two-person conversations-like the one you and I are having right now. Not only that, they rarely write things down.'
'Explain.'
'It's kind of an information theory thing. See, if worse comes to worst, and there is some kind of legal action-'
'Legal action? What are you talking about?'
Eb came from a small city near the border with Denmark. His father was a high school mathematics teacher, his mother an English teacher. His appearance would probably make him an outcast in his home town, but
