Donahue came onto the bus with a giant 7-Eleven coffee and two trash cans he had stolen from the motel. Moyle sipped a ginger ale and looked up at him. “You ever have this in the marines? Any suggestions?”

“Don’t eat at the Circle cafeteria.” The joke was met with several groans. Donahue was the only one currently not in danger of shitting himself. “We now have two emergency toilets. Bucket number one is for upchuck and bucket number two for letting the dog out. Get everyone on the bus, I don’t care how sick. All of them have to drink a ration of Imodium. No Pepto, it doesn’t do anything once it’s past the stomach.”

Donahue started passing out eight-ounce bottles of Imodium. Dan reached up and grabbed one. “This stuff is plaster for your gut. It will stop the need for bombing the Oval Office. All right, let’s try to get through this together.”

An angry wet fart marked the end of Donahue’s evacuation plan. The rest of the Ranger team limped onto the bus. Dan closed his eyes and sucked down the loperamide. Tastes like peppermint lead paint. Eventually he felt Sticky shove his feet away to collapse down next to him. He heard the bus door close and the engine belch to life. The air on the bus was a nauseating cloud of carburetor, motion lotion, Donahue’s cigarettes, and the mint varnish of Imodium. Dan’s stomach was a tight knot that felt every dip and acclivity of the interstate, and he dared not crawl out of the fetal position, praying: Lord Almighty, merciful Christ, please don’t make me have to go again.

As Donahue drove the bus back north, they all lay still, trying not to resort to bucket one or two, desperate just to hold it, and hold it, and hold it some more.

March 21

[ MARCH 21 ]

Pat Malone stood at the edge of the tarmac staring at a dark bronze statue of Captain Eddie Rickenbacker. He had landed in Miami twenty minutes ago and had taken a courtesy Jeep—essentially a luggage cart—across the airport to the buildings and hangars that comprised the headquarters for Eastern Airlines. The Florida sun was shockingly bright and bleached out everything. He squinted in the whitewash glare of building 16, the corporate offices. There was Captain Rickenbacker, the flying ace and founder, a hand in the air like he was saluting the Red Baron or perhaps hailing a cab. Behind the statue were the marble columns, pediments, and sea nymphs of the Rickenbacker Fountain. The fountain and its whirlpools, however, were dry and rusted at the spouts, the water drained and the power cut off years earlier in a cost-saving move.