Carter said, “Ted.”
Fenn said, “Fucker.”
Ted walked straight in. He didn’t knock.
“Captains,” he said.
“Commander,” said Fenn.
“Ted,” said Carter.
“Good to see you both conscious.”
They both nodded. Neither saluted or came to attention or even sat up, for that matter. Ted stood straight as a rail, was showered, clean, and shaven so close and so recently his chin and cheekbones looked blue. It was, in Carter’s opinion, obscene.
Ted stood a moment, surveying. The two pilots and one cat-snake, the empty bottles, cigarette butts crushed into the dirt, the wreckage and general slobbishness of their bachelor officer quarters. There was no doubt that everything in his sight offended Ted—from Fenn’s socks drying on the potbellied pig-iron stove they heated the place with to the tattered, vicious girlie spreads and war porn hung everywhere by way of decoration. But when he spoke, he did so slowly, as if trying to initiate a friendly conversation but not exactly sure how to go about it.
“So… Morris, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Carter.
“Morris,” said Fenn.
“It’s a shame about him. He was a…” Ted sniffed, but apparently thought better of breathing too deeply, so grunted instead. His hands were clasped behind his back, but Carter could see the twitch of the muscles in his shoulders and arms, as though he were wringing his hands behind him or digging his nails into his palms hard. “He was a good man. No sense of direction and not the best flier, but a good… a good guy.”
“Not very lucky at cards,” added Fenn.
“Social skills of a walnut,” said Carter. “But a good guy.”
“Yup,” said Fenn.
“Yeah,” said Ted, then, “Right,” and, “A good man.” He looked from Fenn to Carter to Fenn again, squinted his eyes, then, to the pilots, seemed to shake off whatever momentary bit of human compassion had seized him. “Right. So anyway. Enough fucking eulogizing. We’ve got a fight coming, so I want you two, all the squadron leaders, and Billy in the comms tent with me in fifteen minutes, got it? Senior staff. Go dig ’em up from whatever holes they crawled into last night and carry them if you have to. Fast Eddie wants a word or two about… something…”
Ted’s voice trailed off. His eyes drifted around the tent again, head revolving on his neck like a turret traversing and his tongue clicking against his fake teeth. Fenn and Carter shot quick glances at each other but kept quiet. Ted wobbled a little on his feet but, again, seemed to recover himself—to jink free of whatever kept grabbing at him.
“Well, anyway, the man wants a word,” Ted finished. “Get it done.”
“Right,” said Fenn.
“Aye aye,” said Carter.
“Good,” said Ted, then turned and was out the door without hesitation.
“Such a pleasant man,” Carter said to Fenn after he was sure Ted was out of earshot. Cat got up, stretched, then slunk off to its bed by the door.
“Yes. We should really have him over more often. Lends a bit of class to the place, don’t you think?”
They both reclined quietly on their cots, Carter smoking, Fenn gnawing the ragged end of one thumbnail, neither in any rush to jump to Ted’s orders, and still not so sure about speaking. Carter couldn’t recall what they were mad at each other about. Could’ve been any one of a million things, he thought. Didn’t much matter.
“I think he was sizing us up,” Fenn finally said, spitting a sliver of thumbnail off the tip of his tongue and into the dirt. “Don’t you think so? Coming in here, talking about Morris and all that?”
Carter considered that a moment, having to cast Commander Prinzi into a whole new man just to get his head around the thought of him doing anything calculating or emotional. “What did he think we were going to do? Weep?”
“Quit, maybe? Give up our commissions?”
“And forgo all this splendor?” Carter put out his cigarette, popping the ember off with a finger and stashing the dog-end in his pocket.
“It is a war, after all, isn’t it? People get hurt.”
“People get killed. It’s to be expected.”
“But not the good people.”
“—Good people.”
“The good guys.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Not us.”
“We’re the good people?” Carter hucked out a short laugh. “Christ help the wicked.”
“I just mean that none of us expected this,” Fenn said, swinging his feet over the side of his cot and planting them firmly in the dirt in probable expectation of eventually getting up and doing as Ted had asked. “At least not like the way it went. And not Morris, certainly.”