nated over eight thousand miles away。 The four…engine jet transport touched down rather hard。 The crew was tired despite their rest stops along the way； and their passengers required no particular care。 On flights such as this； there was rarely any live cargo。 Troops returning from the theater of operations rode ‘Freedom Birds；‘ almost invariably chartered mercial airliners whose stewardesses passed out smiles and free booze for the duration of the lengthy return trip to the real world。 No such amenities were required on the flights into Pope。 The flight crew ate USAF…standard box lunches； and for the most part flew without the usual banter of young airmen。
The roll…out slowed the aircraft； which turned at the end of the runway onto a taxiway； while the crew stretched at their seats。 The pilot； a captain； knew the routine by heart； but there was a brightly painted jeep in case he forgot； and he followed it to the receiving center。 He and his crew had long since stopped dwelling on the nature of their mission。 It was a job； a necessary one； and that was that； they all thought as they left the aircraft for their mandated crew…rest period； which meant； after a short debrief and notification of whatever shortings the aircraft had exhibited in the past thirty hours； heading off to the O…Club for drinks； followed by showers and sleep in the Q。 None of them looked back at the aircraft。 They‘d see it again soon enough。
The routine nature of the mission was a contradiction。 In most previous wars； Americans had lain close to where they fell； as testified to by American cemeteries in France and elsewhere。 Not so for Vietnam。 It was as though people understood that no American wanted to remain there； living or dead； and every recovered body came home； and having passed through one processing facility outside Saigon； each body would now be processed again prior to transshipment to whatever hometown had sent the mainly young men off to die in a distant place。 The families would have had time by now to decide where burial would take place； and instructions for those arrangements waited for each body identified by name on the aircraft‘s manifest。
Awaiting the bodies in the receiving center were civilian morticians。 That was one occupational specialty that the military did not carry in its multiplicity of training regimens。 A uniformed officer was always present to verify identification； for that was a responsibility of the service； to make sure that the right body went off to the right family； even though the caskets that left this place were in almost all cases sealed。 The physical insult of bat death； plus the ravages of often late recovery in a tropical climate； were not things families wanted or needed to see on the bodies of their loved ones。 As a result； positive identification of remains wasn‘t really something that anyone could check； and for that very reason； it was something the military took as seriously as it could。
It was a large room where many bodies could be processed at once； though the room was not as busy as it had been in the past。 The men who worked here were not above grim jokes； and some even watched weather reports from that part of the world to predict what the next week‘s work load would be like。 The smell alone was enough to keep the casual observer away； and one rarely saw a senior officer here； much less a civilian Defense Department official； for whose equilibrium the sights here might be a little too much to bear。 But one bees accustomed to smells； and that of the preserving agents was much preferred over the other odors associated with death。 One such body； that of Specialist Fourth Class Duane Kendall； bore numerous wounds to the torso。 He‘d made it as far as a field hospital； the mortician saw。 Some of the scarring was clearly the desperate work of a bat surgeon … incisions that would have earned the wrath of a chief of service in a civilian hospital were far less graphic than the marks made by fragments from an explosive booby…trap device。 The surgeon had spent maybe twenty minutes trying to save this one； the mortician thought； wondering why he had failed … probably the liver； he decided from the location and size of the incisions。 You can‘t live without one of those； no matter how good the doctor was。 Of more interest to the man was a white tag located between the right arm and the chest which confirmed an apparently random mark on the card on the outside of the container in which the body had arrived。
‘Good ID；‘ the mortician said to the Captain who was making his rounds with a clipboard and a sergeant。 The officer checked the required data against his own records and moved on with a nod； leaving the mortician to his work。
There was the usual number of tasks to be performed； and the mortician went about them with neither haste nor indolence； lifting his head to make sure the Captain was at the other end of the room。 Then he pulled a thread from the stitches made by another mortician at the other end of the pipeline。 The stitches came pletely undone almost instantly； allowing him to reach into the body cavity and remove four clear…plastic envelopes of white powder； which he quickly put into his bag before reclosing the gaping hole in Duane Kendall‘s body。 It was his third and last such recovery of the day。 After spending half an hour on one more body； it was the end of his working day。 The mortician walked off to his car； a Mercury Cougar； and drove off post。 He stopped off at a Winn…Dixie supermarket to pick up a loaf of bread； and on the way out dropped some coins into a public phone。
‘Yeah？‘ Henry Tucker said； picking it up on the first ring。
‘Eight。‘ The phone clicked off。
‘Good；‘ Tucker said； really to himself； putting the receiver down。 Eight kilos from this one。 Seven from his other man； neither man knew that the other was there； and the pickups from each were done on different days of the week。 Things could pick up rapidly now that he was getting his distribution problems in hand。
The arithmetic was simple enough。 Each kilo was one thousand grams。 Each kilo would be diluted with non…toxic agents like milk sugar； which his friends obtained from a grocery…supply warehouse。 After careful mixing to ensure uniformity throughout the entire batch； others would divide the bulk powder into smaller ‘bits‘ of the drugs that could be sold in smaller batches。 The quality and burgeoning reputation of his product guaranteed a slightly higher than normal price which was anticipated by the wholesale cost he received from his white friends。
The problem would soon bee one of scale。 He‘d started his operation small； since Tucker was a careful man； and size made for greed。 That would soon bee impossible。 His supply of pure refined heroin was far more extensive than his partners knew。 They were； for now； happy that its quality was so high； and he would gradually reveal to them the magnitude of his supply； while never giving them a hint of his method of shipment； for which he regularly congratulated himself。 The sheer elegance of it was striking； even to him。 The best government estimates … he kept track of such things … of heroin imports from Europe； the ‘French‘ or ‘Sicilian‘ connection；