Free The Cover of War by Travis Stone

a
round-the-clock watch on Amai's Thong Nhut Boulevard flat, but she hadn't returned.
    She's too
smart for that, he thought.
    He recalled her
escape with equal measures of disgust, admiration, and shame. She had run and
jumped and climbed with a gymnast's strength and an animal's instinct. Nash
feared that she would go to ground. He had to find her fast: she was his only
lead on The Ghost.
    Without her,
I'm screwed.
    The jeep stopped
outside Hitchcock's Quonset and Nash got out. Hitchcock was a drinker and a
manipulator, but he was no fool; in PSY-OPS he had coined phrases like
'hearts-and-minds', and had written much of the PSY-WAR Manuel of Operations.
Through the creation of The Phoenix Program, Hitchcock's goal was to break the
enemy through clever propaganda and brutal fear mongering, and at this the
Colonel was expert. Unfortunately, much of Hitchcock's talent was directed at
his own staff. Nash thought that Hitchcock was a prick.
    He needs to
be reminded who the real enemy is, Nash thought.
    He put the
rubber toe of each crutch onto the timber steps and vaulted up. He opened the
door to see Hitchcock sitting behind his desk, reading Intelligence estimates.
    'C'mon Captain.'
Hitchcock sounded impatient. ' I haven't got all day - and neither've
you.'
    Hitchcock's mole
speckled skull was combed over with strands of damp grey hair, and horn rimmed
glasses magnified watery eyes, pulled down by heavy bags. Behind the Colonel, a
freshly opened bottle of Scotch sat on a shelf beside a framed photo of an
overtly homosexual teenage boy.
    A son maybe? Nash thought, searching for the resemblance.
    A tumbler
containing half melted ice sat on the desk, though Nash could not smell the
alcohol through the lingering scent of pipe smoke.
    Hitchcock looked
up. 'Sizing me up, son?'
    Nash felt off
balance. He stood his crutches against Hitchcock's desk and saluted.
    'Put your sticks
against the wall. Now what can I do for you?'
    Nash stopped his
eyes from rolling and moved his crutches.
    'Well son? Speak
up.'
    Nash sat on a
chair in front of Hitchcock's desk and smoothed his face. 'Sir. As you know,
two of my men were killed, and I was obviously wounded in pursuit of a Viet
Cong terrorist-'
    'Take your
elbows off the desk.'
    Nash sat up
straight.    
    Hitchcock
continued: 'Can't let discipline slip just because of a little nick in the leg
now, can we ?'
    Nash concealed
his irritation. He knew Hitchcock's little power games served only to bolster
his sense of control.
    Were you
beaten as a child like I was? Nash thought. Ignored by an alcoholic father, maybe? . . . Or perhaps it's the homosexual
son?
    Disinterested,
Hitchcock said: 'I suppose you want more of my men, money, and resources so you
can continue gallivanting around Saigon shooting at unarmed little slant-eyed girls.'
    'We didn't
actually shoot at her , Sir. They-'
    'No. But they
certainly shot you.'
    Nash clenched
his teeth.
    'Tell me
Captain-' Hitchcock extracted a nail full of mucus from his nose. 'Why I should
give you anything?'
    Nash had
rehearsed his speech on the way over. 'Amai's high-level,' he said confidently.
'She'll give us The Ghost-'
    Hitchcock was
examining his finger.
    Nash spoke
louder: 'Sir. We need to find out when and where they plan to attack-'
    'Stop it with
that goddamn nonsense.' Hitchcock picked up the heavy stack of estimates and
let it drop to the desk. 'Christ, son. The enemy clearly doesn't have
the capability to even dream of launching such an attack.'
    'They have the
desire, and the signs are there if you-'
    Hitchcock tapped
the pile. 'So you're right, and everyone else is wrong?'
    'It would seem so.'
    A muscle twitched
in Hitchcock's cheek. 'Now listen for once in your goddamn life. I've been in
this game a lot longer than you.'
    Too long, Nash thought.
    Hitchcock stood.
'When Genghis Khan conquered this shit-hole, he did it by picking one village
and slaughtering the men, the women, and the babies, in the most gruesome ways
he could imagine.