Part 48 (1/2)

”Just don't fart. Whatever you do, don't fart.”

”Don't you.” Flak started to giggle. ”We'd never make it through the day.”

”We'd be outta here like corks from a bottle.” Frederick had a hard time suppressing his laughter. ”Say,” he said, suddenly serious. ”You don't have diarrhea or anything, do you?”

”No, thank G.o.d. Not anymore. How about you?”

”Yeah,” Frederick said, glum now, ”I've had some trouble.”

Flak Apple sniffed. ”Personally, I don't think it would make any difference. These clothes smell like s.h.i.+t anyhow.”

They lay still a few minutes.

”You think we're going to make it to the Emba.s.sy? What about the guards? They're probably Viet,” Frederick said.

They spoke in low voices.

”We've made it this far. d.a.m.n near twenty blocks. Only a few more to go. As for the guards, we'll create a diversion.

Throw a rock or something. Then climb over the wall into the compound.

POC.”.

”POC? What's that?”

”Piece of cake,” Flak said.

”I'll tell you, this is it for me. I'm not going back into jail.

I'm going to make it out of here one way or the other.”

Frederick's whisper was a harsh rasp.

”What do you mean?”

”I mean I get away, completely away, or I'm dead. Simple as that. I'm not going back. I can't take anymore.”

Flak had heard on the fighter pilots' grapevine that Ted Frederick was a hard man, a resister. A man of Maine toughness who gave no quarter and asked none. He had been surprised Frederick had been so compa.s.sionate and understanding with him, especially his shame and misery at signing the statement. But they had spoken through the tap code for long hours on the wall and Frederick had, Flak thought, revealed himself as a gentle man whose toughness had come through in his abiding faith in his G.o.d, his country, his fellow POWs, and himself. Frederick had given Flak guidance and tender succor as he had come to grips with the harsh facts of his shootdown, his wounds, his captivity, and-worst of all-the reality that Americans both at home and in Hanoi were siding with the enemy to condemn him and his fellow POWs as, if not war criminals, at least as dupes of a fascist government.

”Sure you can,” Flak said. ”You can take anything.

You're too tough to give in.”

”Who said anything about giving in?” Frederick snapped.

”If I'm caught, I'll fight the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and take as many with me as I can.”

Flak checked the screwhole. It was bright as a tiny bulb.

”We've got about fifteen hours of daylight to go, 0 mighty warrior. What say we log some Zzs?” Frederick agreed. Flak had to turn away to face the wall so they could squirm and double up spoon fas.h.i.+on and be moderately comfortable. A jar sc.r.a.ped the rough concrete.

”Hey,” Frederick said behind Flak's back. ”One of us should stay awake.

Sort of pull guard duty. Wouldn't do for both of us to be c.r.a.pped out at the same time. I'll take the first watch.”

”Good man,” Flak said over his shoulder. ”Wake me in a few hours with some tea, will you, old boy?” He folded his hands together under his cheek and tried to sleep. The gray eye of the screwhole above his head glowed like an electric eye.

First the hard concrete bit into his hipbone. He wriggled slightly to take the pressure off. Then the mold of the crumbling walls a.s.sailed his nostrils. It reminded him of the damp and mildew he had found as a child when he used to play under the front porch of the home where he had been raised in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. ”Allie,” he heard his mother call as he fell asleep. ”Allie, where are you? Dinner's ready.” He slept, seeing the mounds of food on the Thanksgiving table before him. Food he could see but not touch.

He awoke with a start. He guessed it was close to noon.

Frederick was nudging him. He tilted his head back.

”Somebody out there,” Frederick whispered into his ear.

”Take a look.”

Flak raised up on his elbow and pressed his head to the tiny gray hole.

Something was moving just outside the tomb entrance. Something close, too close to focus on, a black and-brown blur. Then he heard snuffling and a whine.

”Oh G.o.d,” he breathed to Frederick. ”It's a dog. I can see it now.

d.a.m.n near a puppy.” They heard the dog whine and make scratching noises with his paws as it dug at the door.

”Oh s.h.i.+t, it smells us.”

”See anybody with it?” Frederick hissed.

OEM.

”Can't tell. It's too close. Blocks the hole.” The dog made impatient yips as it pawed and clawed the door.

”We've no choice. We've got to open the door and pull it in here and hope to h.e.l.l no one is out there with it.”

”Then what?” Flak asked.

Frederick didn't answer. He rolled over on his belly and raised to his elbows. Flak did the same. In the dark they felt for the small door and slowly tilted and eased it down. Gray light flooded the small enclosure. The dog backed away and began yapping at the two men more from playful invitation than aggressiveness. It was a terrier, runty and full of mange.

Frederick lunged through the opening like a striking snake, grabbed a front leg, and pulled the startled dog into the tomb and under his body.

”Quick--close the door,” he said, his whisper grating with strain. Flak quickly pulled the door in place. He hadn't seen anyone outside in his narrow field of vision. In the sudden darkness, the dog was squirming and scrabbling under Frederick and making a series of sharp yips.

Frederick made a quick motion and the noise was choked off. There was the sound of labored breathing, then the crunching and snapping of cartilage and frantic scrambling that slowly stopped.