‘I am obeying orders,’ said Garcia stiffly. His sergeant came to the window and he gave a rapid stream of instructions, then turned to McGruder. ‘I have to inform you that these men stand accused of plotting against the safety of the State. I am under instructions to arrest them.’
‘You’re nuts,’ said McGruder. ‘You take these men and you’ll be up to your neck in diplomats.’ He moved over to the door.
Garcia stood in front of him. ‘I must ask you to move away from the door, Doctor McGruder, or I will be forced to arrest you, too.’ He spoke over McGruder’s shoulder to a corporal standing outside. ‘Escort the doctor into the courtyard.’
‘Well, if you’re going to feel like that about it, there’s nothing I can do,’ said McGruder. ‘But that commanding officer of yours—what’s his name…?’
‘Colonel Coello.’
‘Colonel Coello is going to find himself in a sticky position.’ He stood aside and let Garcia precede him into the corridor.
Garcia waited for him, slapping the side of his leg impatiently. ‘Where are the men?’
McGruder led the way down the corridor at a rapid pace. Outside Forester’s room he paused and deliberately raised his voice. ‘You realize I am letting these men go under protest. The military have no jurisdiction here and I intend
to protest to the Cordilleran government through the United States Embassy. And I further protest upon medical grounds—neither of these men is fit to be moved.’
‘Where are the men?’ repeated Garcia.
‘I have just operated on one of them—he is recovering from an anaesthetic. The other is also very ill and I insist on giving him a sedative before he is moved.’
Garcia hesitated and McGruder pressed him. ‘Come, Major; military ambulances have never been noted for smooth running—you would not begrudge a man a painkiller.’ He tapped Garcia on the chest. ‘This is going to make headlines in every paper across the United States. Do you want to make matters worse by appearing anti-humanitarian?’
‘Very well,’ said Garcia unwillingly.
‘I’ll get the morphine from the surgery,’ said McGruder and went back, leaving Garcia standing in the corridor.
Forester heard the raised voices as he was polishing the plate of the best meal he had ever enjoyed in his life. He realized that something was amiss and that McGruder was making him appear sicker than he was. He was willing to play along with that, so he hastily pushed the tray under the bed and when the door opened he was lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. As McGruder touched him he groaned.
McGruder said, ‘Mr Forester, Major Garcia thinks you will be better looked after in another hospital, so you are being moved.’ As Forester opened his eyes McGruder frowned at him heavily. ‘I do not agree with this move, which is being done under
force majeure
, and I am going to consult the appropriate authorities. I am going to give you a sedative so that the journey will not harm you, although it is not far—merely to the airfield.’
He rolled up the sleeve of Forester’s pyjamas and dabbed at his arm with cotton-wool, then produced a hypodermic
syringe which he filled from an ampoule. He spoke casually. ‘The tape round your chest will support your ribs but I wouldn’t move around much—not unless you have to.’ There was a subtle emphasis on the last few words and he winked at Forester.
As he pushed home the needle in Forester’s arm he leaned over and whispered, ‘It’s a stimulant.’
‘What was that?’ said Garcia sharply.
‘What was what?’ asked McGruder, turning and skewering Garcia with an icy glare. ‘I’ll trouble you not to interfere with a doctor in his duties. Mr Forester is a very sick man, and on behalf of the United States government I am holding you and Colonel Coello responsible for what happens to him. Now, where are your stretcher-bearers?’
Garcia snapped to the sergeant at the door, ‘
Una camilla.
’ The sergeant bawled down the corridor and presently a stretcher was brought in. McGruder fussed about while Forester was transferred from the bed, and when he was settled said, ‘There, you can take him.’
He stepped back and knocked a kidney basin on the floor with a clatter. The noise was startling in that quiet room, and while everyone’s attention was diverted McGruder hastily thrust something hard under Forester’s pillow.
Then Forester was borne down the corridor and into the open courtyard and he winced as the sun struck his eyes. Once in the ambulance he had to wait a long time before anything else happened and he closed his eyes, feigning sleep, because the soldier on guard kept peering at him. Slowly he brought his hand up under the coverlet towards the pillow and eventually touched the butt of a gun.
Good old McGruder, he thought; the Marines to the rescue. He hooked his finger in the trigger guard and gradually brought the gun down to his side, where he thrust it into the waistband of his pyjamas at the small of his back where it could not be seen when he was transferred to another
bed. He smiled to himself; at other times lying on a hard piece of metal might be thought extremely uncomfortable, but he found the touch of the gun very comforting.
And what McGruder had said was comforting, too. The tape would hold him together and the stimulant would give him strength to move. Not that he thought he needed it; his strength had returned rapidly once he had eaten, but no doubt the doctor knew best.
Rohde was pushed into the ambulance and Forester looked across at the stretcher. He was unconscious and there was a hump under the coverlet where his legs were. His face was pale and covered with small beads of sweat and he breathed stertorously.
Two soldiers climbed into the ambulance and the doors were slammed, and after a few minutes it moved off. Forester kept his eyes closed at first—he wanted the soldiers to believe that the hypothetical sedative was taking effect. But after a while he decided that these rank and file would probably not know anything about a sedative being given to him, so he risked opening his eyes and turned his head to look out of the window.
He could not see much because of the restricted angle of view, but presently the ambulance stopped and he saw a wrought-iron gate and through the bars a large board. It depicted an eagle flying over a snow-capped mountain, and round this emblem in a scroll and written in ornate letters were the words: ESQUADRON OCTAVO.
He closed his eyes in pain. They had drawn the wrong straw; this was the communist squadron.
McGruder watched the ambulance leave the courtyard followed by the staff car. Then he went into his office, stripped
off his white coat and put on his jacket. He took his car keys from a drawer and went round to the hospital garage, where he got a shock. Lounging outside the big doors was a soldier in a sloppy uniform—but there was nothing sloppy about the rifle he was holding, nor about the gleaming bayonet.
He walked over and barked authoritatively, ‘Let me pass.’
The soldier looked at him through half-closed eyes and shook his head, then spat on the ground. McGruder got mad and tried to push his way past but found the tip of the bayonet pricking his throat. The soldier said, ‘You see the sergeant—if he says you can take a car, then you take a car.’
McGruder backed away, rubbing his throat. He turned on his heel and went to look for the sergeant, but got nowhere with him. The sergeant was a sympathetic man when away from his officers and his broad Indian face was sorrowful. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I just obey orders—and my orders are that no one leaves the mission until I get contrary orders.’
‘And when will that be?’ demanded McGruder.
The sergeant shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ he said with the fatalism of one to whom officers were a race apart and their doings incomprehensible.
McGruder snorted and withdrew to his office, where he picked up the telephone. Apparently it was still dead, but when he snapped, ‘Get me Colonel Coello at the military airfield,’ it suddenly came to life and he was put through—not to Coello, but to some underling.
It took him over fifteen minutes before he got through to Coello and by then he was breathing hard with ill-suppressed rage. He said aggressively, ‘McGruder here. What’s all this about closing down San Antonio Mission?’
Coello was suave. ‘But the mission is not closed, Doctor; anyone can enter.’
‘But I can’t leave,’ said McGruder. ‘I have work to do.’
‘Then do it,’ said Coello. ‘Your work is in the mission, Doctor; stick to your job—like the cobbler. Do not interfere in things which do not concern you.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you mean,’ snarled McGruder with a profanity he had not used since his Marine days. ‘I have to pick up a consignment of drugs at the railroad depot in Altemiros. I need them and the Cordilleran Air Force is stopping me getting them—that’s how I see it. You’re not going to look very good when this comes out, Colonel.’
‘But you should have said this earlier,’ said Coello soothingly. ‘I will send one of the airfield vehicles to pick them up for you. As you know, the Cordilleran Air Force is always ready to help your mission. I hear you run a very good hospital, Doctor McGruder. We are short of good hospitals in this country.’
McGruder heard the cynical amusement in the voice. He said irascibly, ‘All right,’ and banged the phone down. Mopping his brow he thought that it was indeed fortunate there
was
a consignment of drugs waiting in Altemiros. He paused, wondering what to do next, then he drew a sheet of blank paper from a drawer and began writing.
Half an hour later he had the gist of Forester’s story on paper. He folded the sheets, sealed them in an envelope and put the envelope into his pocket. All the while he was conscious of the soldier posted just outside the window who was keeping direct surveillance of him. He went out into the corridor to find another soldier lounging outside the office door whom he ignored, carrying on down towards the wards and the operating theatre. The soldier stared after him with incurious eyes and drifted down the corridor after him.
McGruder looked for Sánchez, his second-in-command, and found him in one of the wards. Sánchez looked at his face and raised his eyebrows. ‘What is happening, Doctor?’
‘The local military have gone berserk,’ said McGruder unhappily. ‘And I seem to be mixed up in it—they won’t let me leave the mission.’
‘They won’t let
anyone
leave the mission,’ said Sánchez. ‘I tried.’
‘I must get to Altemiros,’ said McGruder. ‘Will you help me? I know I’m usually non-political, but this is different. There’s murder going on across the mountains.’
‘Eight Squadron came to the airfield two days ago—I have heard strange stories about Eight Squadron,’ said Sánchez reflectively. ‘You may be non-political, Doctor McGruder, but I am not. Of course I will help you.’
McGruder turned and saw the soldier gazing blankly at him from the entrance of the ward. ‘Let’s go into your office,’ he said.
They went to the office and McGruder switched on an X-ray viewer and pointed out the salient features of an X-ray plate to Sánchez. He left the door open and the soldier leaned on the opposite wall of the corridor, solemnly picking his teeth. ‘This is what I want you to do,’ said McGruder in a low voice.
Fifteen minutes later he went to find the sergeant and spoke to him forthrightly. ‘What are your orders concerning the mission?’ he demanded.
The sergeant said, ‘Not to let anyone leave—and to watch you, Doctor McGruder.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I seem to have noticed that I’ve been watched,’ said McGruder with heavy irony. ‘Now, I’m going to do an operation. Old Pedro must have his kidneys seen to or he will die. I can’t have any of your men in the operating theatre, spitting all over the floor; we have enough trouble attaining asepsis as it is.’
‘We all know you
norteamericanos
are very clean,’ acknowledged the sergeant. He frowned. ‘This room—how many doors?’
‘One door—no windows,’ said McGruder. ‘You can come and look at it if you like; but don’t spit on the floor.’
He took the sergeant into the operating theatre and satisfied him that there was only one entrance. ‘Very well,’ said the sergeant. ‘I will put two men outside the door—that will be all right.’
McGruder went into the sluice room and prepared for the operation, putting on his gown and cap and fastening the mask loosely about his neck. Old Pedro was brought up on a stretcher and McGruder stood outside the door while he was pushed into the theatre. The sergeant said, ‘How long will this take?’
McGruder considered. ‘About two hours—maybe longer. It is a serious operation, Sergeant.’
He went into the theatre and closed the door. Five minutes later the empty stretcher was pushed out and the sergeant looked through the open door and saw the doctor masked and bending over the operating table, a scalpel in his hand. The door closed, the sergeant nodded to the sentries and wandered towards the courtyard to find a sunny spot. He quite ignored the empty stretcher being pushed by two chattering nurses down the corridor.
In the safety of the bottom ward McGruder dropped from under the stretcher where he had been clinging and flexed the muscles of his arms. Getting too old for these acrobatics, he thought, and nodded to the nurses who had pushed in the stretcher. They giggled and went out, and he changed his clothes quickly.
He knew of a place where the tide of prickly pear which covered the hillside overflowed into the mission grounds. For weeks he had intended to cut down the growth and tidy it up, but now he was glad that he had let it be. No sentry in his right mind would deliberately patrol in the middle of a grove of sharp-spined cactus, no matter what his orders, and McGruder thought he had a chance of getting through.
He was right. Twenty minutes later he was on the other side of a low rise, the mission out of sight behind him and the houses of Altemiros spread in front. His clothes were torn and so was his flesh—the cactus had not been kind.
He began to run.
Forester was still on his stretcher. He had expected to be taken into a hospital ward and transferred to a bed, but instead the stretcher was taken into an office and laid across two chairs. Then he was left alone, but he could hear the shuffling feet of a sentry outside the door and knew he was well guarded.