Cassada by James Salter Read Free Book Online Page A

instead of “Just try.” “There’s not going to be any change.”
    â€œCaptain, I . . .”
    Isbell made a gesture of what more do you want?
    â€œMaybe I didn’t explain it right.”
    â€œNo, that’s all. I have work to do.”
    A few minutes after Cassada had gone, Isbell picked up his cap and walked out of the office himself. There, inspecting the time chart with a grave air stood Wickenden, finishing a cigarette. “A lot of hours this month,” he commented when Isbell was standing beside him.
    â€œYeah.”
    Some ashes had fallen to the floor near Wickenden’s foot, Isbell saw. He’d been there for a while. It was hard to know for how long. “We’ll be the top squadron this month,” Isbell said, watching for a hint in Wickenden’s face.
    â€œPine is probably holding back fifty hours till the last day.”
    â€œI know. He usually does. We figured that in.”
    â€œRidiculous.”
    â€œSure. It’s a game.”
    â€œNext month we’ll fall on our face.”
    â€œNext month is Tripoli.”
    â€œOh, that’s right.”
    â€œComing to the club?”
    Wickenden seemed still engrossed in the figures, the names of the pilots, how many hours each had flown, the total for each flight easily calculated. Isbell stared at the firm profile.
    â€œI suppose I’m expected to,” Wickenden said.
    In the car he sat looking straight ahead, pointedly disaffected. How much he might have heard was hard to guess. Perhaps it was only his suspicions. He was slow to reveal himself, sometimes it took months. Sometimes he brought up things long past as if theyhad happened the day before. He began whistling through his teeth as they drove, difficult, touchy as an old dog. My ranking flight commander, Isbell thought wearily. The most experienced.

Some colonel up from Landstuhl had his 300 SL parked below. They were admiring it from Harlan’s room. They could see down into the rear window, the seats, tan leather and soft.
    â€œThey hand rub the lacquer between coats,” Godchaux said.
    It was after lunch. Harlan was picking his teeth.
    â€œI like that color,” Godchaux said.
    â€œMaroon fades,” Harlan said. Cars held no mystery for him. He had changed transmissions lying on his back in the hard dirt.
    â€œThere isn’t a car that can touch it,” Godchaux said.
    â€œWhat does a car like that cost?”
    â€œA lot.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œSix thousand dollars in Stuttgart. They guarantee you can do a hundred and fifty when you leave the factory.”
    â€œWhere did you hear that?”
    â€œIt’s a fact. Look at it. Look at the way it’s humped over even standing still. They put the engine in there on an angle. It’s canted.It’s not straight up and down. That’s so they can keep the hood low.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with that Mercury you have?”
    â€œIt practically shakes to pieces at ninety.”
    â€œThat’s the roads over here,” Harlan said.
    â€œEven on the autobahn.”
    â€œWell, if I had six thousand dollars I wouldn’t be buying that. I don’t see the point of driving around in a year’s pay.”
    â€œWhat a feeling, eh?”
    â€œIt looks fine, but what can you do in it that you can’t do in yours?”
    â€œA hundred and fifty,” Godchaux said.
    The sun had come out and was shining off the snow. The room bloomed with light.
    â€œLooks like it’s melting,” Godchaux remarked. “Did you hear what Cassada said at lunch?”
    â€œNo, what?”
    â€œHe said he wanted to pack some up and send it home to his mother in a box.”
    Cassada had never seen snow.
    â€œOh, yeah? Where’s he from? Alabama?”
    â€œNo, he’s from Puerto Rico.”
    â€œPuerto Rico? You’d never know that from looking at him. Was he born there?”
    â€œI think so. His father