Hendry saw MacCready’s head come up. “There you are,” he thought, aloud. “Oh, and before I forget, Thorne says to bring him a dozen packages of cigarette papers. So, I figure not only is he dead, he’s growin’ his own tobacco. Now if I was a hotshot scientist like you—that’d be my theory.”
MacCready shook his head, then smiled broadly. It was Bob Thorne. “Jesus, Pat . . . I spoke at his memorial service.”
“Well, now you can tell him all about it. And I betcha folks’ll be streaming out of the bush for miles around, just to be on hand for that historic reunion.”
“Bob Thorne,” he said to himself, drifting.
“Captain MacCready, are you quite finished?” Hendry said, not bothering to mask his growing annoyance.
“Yes, sir.”
“When you get to Chapada, pick up any new information you can from your dead friend. He’s chummy with the natives—big-time. And if anyone is going to notice signs of an incursion by Axis assholes, it’ll be the locals. Get that information, then hike into Hell’s Gate and figure this out. You’ll be going wheels-up as soon as you pull your gear together. Corporal Juliano will assist you.”
MacCready said nothing, but the major knew that wouldn’t last.
“You got something to add?” Hendry asked.
“Yeah. Well, besides the fact that this whole thing sucks, that would be a hypothesis you have about Thorne and the tobacco. Not a theory. Everybody gets those two terms mixed—”
“Fuck your hypothesis!” the major barked, then paused and added calmly, “That’s an exclamation, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s good, Mac. Because I’m always gettin’ that one mixed up, too.”
Now it was MacCready who looked annoyed. “Is there anything else, Major?”
“Yeah.” Hendry stared into MacCready’s eyes. “It’s good to have you back.”
The zoologist transitioned from annoyed to embarrassed.
The sentiment hung awkwardly in the silence that followed. Hendry straightened his back and cleared his throat. “Just be sure to leave the mission brief on the plane when you jump, and don’t get killed down there. That’s an order.”
MacCready snapped off a perfect salute. “Yes, sir.”
Sure thing, the zoologist told himself.
Japs.
Xavante.
And Bob Thorne.
What could possibly go wrong?
Activity had slowed down as the heat of midday descended upon Waller Field, but the steady pounding of a sledgehammer shaping metal continued apace. A shirtless black teen stopped hammering and looked up as MacCready and Juliano passed by. Slick with sweat, the kid had been banging indentations onto the bottom of an empty fifty-five-gallon fuel drum. Now he had stopped in mid-swing. MacCready was puzzled, but as he passed, they exchanged nods.
“What’s that all about, Corporal?” he asked Juliano.
“Right up your alley, Captain MacCready. Guy’s name is Sparrow.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s a bird, sir.”
“Thanks, Corporal. I’ve seen them. But why’s he banging on that can?”
“Sir, Sparrow’s a kind of musician—calls himself a calypso man.”
MacCready had a flash of recognition.
“’Bout a year ago, some of these local guys started scroungin’ oil drums. Only when they got done with ’em, they weren’t oil drums no more.”
“Pan drums, right?”
“You got it, sir. Pan drums. Steel drums.”
As they moved off, there was one more sharp bang—followed by a beautiful, repeated tone. MacCready stopped and turned. Juliano continued walking. The pan tuner was striking the heat-tempered steel with a wooden mallet and the ringing, clanging rhythm was like nothing he’d ever heard before.
Without looking up, the kid seemed to sense the presence of an audience and began to sing.
This war with England and Germany
Going to mean more starvation and misery
But I going plant provision and fix me affairs
And the white people could fight for a thousand years
As he finished, Sparrow turned toward MacCready and smiled broadly. MacCready nodded and gave the teen the “A-okay” signal. He was about to stop and exchange pleasantries but before he could the corporal began gesturing frantically toward the supply shack.
“We got to get you going, sir.”
MacCready gave Sparrow a last wave before catching up with Juliano. “Nice job if you can get it, Corporal.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Turning the Army’s junk into music.”
“It ain’t bad, sir,” Juliano replied as they entered the shack. “It ain’t bad.”
Twenty minutes later, the zoologist had finished drawing his field equipment. As he pulled hard on the canvas straps of his jump pack, he thought about a line in Sparrow’s song.
“Fighting for a thousand years. Let’s hope not,” he said, turning as Juliano entered from a back room. The corporal was carrying something and his smile was as broad as the musician’s had been.
As MacCready watched, Juliano unwrapped a leather pouch that smelled of gun oil, from which he withdrew a strange-looking weapon.
“Sir, you are gonna love this. It’s a PPSh-41,” he explained. “Two pounds lighter than a Thompson.”