Assignment - Ankara by Edward S. Aarons Read Free Book Online Page B

and I’m having my own troubles. I’m Sergeant Frankie Isaks. From Brooklyn.” He grinned quickly, then stopped smiling as he turned his head and surveyed the ruins behind him. “We took one hell of a clobbering up here, as you can see.”
    “Are you the only survivor?” Durell asked.
    “Only five of us are still alive—including Colonel Packard Wickham, who got stuck here with us a couple of days ago while on an inspection tour for some Congressional committee. You know the deal, I guess, Mr. Durell. Anyway, Major Donahue is dead, and so is Gilbertie, Langston, Cohen, O’Toole, Lieutenant Marriot—and what’s left of us, only me and the colonel can get around much. And even the colonel ain’t in such hot condition, although it ain’t from being hurt.”
    “What’s the matter with him, Sergeant?”
    “I’ll take you to him. He just ain’t himself.”
    “Have you been sitting here like this for the last few days?” “Mr. Durell, I couldn’t even walk until this morning,” Isaks said. “And I spent the whole day huntin’ for survivors and collectin’ the dead, as far as I could go.”
    “You said something about getting a message out—”
    “I spelled out an S.O.S. with some sheets and stones, hoping a plane might fly over. I heard one, but it didn’t sound like one of ours.”
    Durell waited as the sergeant paused significantly. “Did it land?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Did it circle the area for long?”
    “No, sir. And if flew away across the mountains into Georgia, sir.”
    “You’re sure of this?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Durell nodded. “All right. Go on.”
    “Well, I couldn’t see this plane in the fog; but I kept expectin’ somebody might send somebody over from our side, too.” Sergeant Isaks’ tough mien suddenly crumpled in grief, and his harsh voice sagged to a horrified whisper. “Nobody had a chance here, Mr. Durell; it come so quick.
    Some of the fellows were at mess, and the building collapsed on them—it was awful, the screaming—the son-of-a-bitchin’ quake brought the tower down on a couple of other guys, cut Hughie Lashon right in two—and part of this field was just sliced away and went down the mountain with a roar like—like—”
    ‘Take it easy, Sergeant,” Durell said gently.
    The burly man pulled himself together with a visible effort. “Yes, sir. I'll take you to Colonel Wickham now, sir.”
    They had to pick their way through the debris that littered the field, working toward one shack that still stood intact, a little to the south of the huge mass of crumpled steel that had been the radar tower facing the Soviet border. The shredded clouds had thinned a little, and moonlight brightened their way. A row of bodies lay under canvas nearby, mute evidence of the sergeant’s grim tasks that day. Lieutenant Kappic muttered angrily to himself as they followed Isaks to the shack.
    A battery electric lantern lit up the interior. It had been an office of some sort, with filing cabinets ranked against one wall, a green issue desk, a swivel chair, and a field cot against another wall.
    Colonel Packard Wickham was sprawled on the cot. He was not alone. He had three empty bottles for company and consolation.
    Durell saw at once that here was a man pushed close to destruction, demoralized by fear. Wickham was flushed a dangerous red, contrasting with the thick white brush of his hair. He was stout, a desk soldier, and perhaps a fine administrator back in the Pentagon. But he did not belong here. And being here, caught by the accident of natural cataclysm, he was close to disintegration.
    The room reeked from the whisky he had drunk, and from a sour sort of illness. His eyes were dull and bloodshot, his mouth loose and disorganized as he turned his head to stare at Durell and Kappic.
    “Who’re you?” he muttered. “This’s restricted area—no visitors authorized—”
    “Get on your feet, Colonel,” Durell said. He reached across the fat man and plucked a half-empty