Chan said, “Lieutenant?”
It took Bolton a minute, then he straightened and tugged down his tunic. “Quite.” He turned briskly and strode off toward the MI hut.
We stood where we were for a long time—Chan, Elliot, Polaski and I on the edge of the clearing, the crew under the stubby wing of their obese helicopter, and the MP out in the middle. It began to rain.
Drops spattered against the canvas behind us, and sizzled off the helicopter’s engine housings, putting up a fine mist. The air smelled of wet dust.
Finally we heard feet slapping through the puddles and Bolton reappeared, escorting a sleepy-looking Paulson to the open cargo bay. He handed in her kit bag, then walked back to the MP and saluted.
The MP’s eyes narrowed. Rain dripped from his brow as he stared at each one of us in turn. Finally he turned back to Bolton and saluted, spun on his heel, and walked to the helicopter. The crew began their engine-start, and the pilot reached for her microphone.
We’re free, I thought. For now, at least, we’re free.
FOUR
The Eye of Mount Nebo
S
un hissed off the salt pan of Searles Lake, and China Lake to the west, shimmering between the Mojave Desert and the Sierra Nevada. The temperature climbed above 130 degrees.
Inside the lab, ventilators hummed and dripped water down the walls. Computer screens waited for my instructions, if only I could think what more to ask. In the concrete pits under the grating, processors iced in frost sent up wisps of helium into the room.
The China Lake Naval Weapons Center seemed isolated and adrift. There was an air of resignation, with the staff just waiting for the war to end.
Chan had gotten me in, a week after the bouncer crash, with the rank of captain and a classification high enough that I was isolated even from the staff. The escorts who brought my meals were polite but reserved. The systems I was using were set to purge when I was done.
She’d gotten me in, but she hadn’t been happy about it.
“Why are you doing this, anyway?” she said. “And why with Polaski? I don’t think he knows when to stop, Eddie.”
T
he day after Chan had gotten our unit classified and the MP had gone, a T-98 light aircraft had landed on the island, flown by a quiet-spoken colonel from the Judge Advocate General’s office, with the name HOLKOM on his fatigues. He was a slight, mustached man with greying hair, and was accompanied by a petite woman in civilian clothes named Delaney, who blushed frequently and carried a mobile data terminal.
They were there to conduct interviews, he said.
“If I might ask a question, Colonel,” said Bolton, meeting them by the airplane while Elliot disposed of classified documents we’d been reading inthe bungalow. “How long has it been since you got your orders? This island has been sealed off, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure it has, son, I’m sure it has. Haven’t talked to a soul in two days, is the thing—hell of a trip out from Washington. But I sure would hate to go all the way back without even a postcard for the kids, wouldn’t I? And I don’t much take orders from anyone, Lieutenant. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going, I say, or what you’re up to—just poke around and you never know what you might find. Over this way, shall we?” With a hand on Bolton’s shoulder he steered us off toward the bungalow. “Sarah here”—he moved his hand over to her shoulder—“well, her mom thinks she’s in Philadelphia, as I recall. Fine woman, her mom.”
Chan had gone back to her quarters briefly and had then stolen a look into the plane, but now she gave me a tight-lipped shake of her head: There was nothing she could do.
The bungalow was clean, although Polaski’s mattress bulged in the middle more than it should have.
“Well, why don’t you just get set up there at the table, Sarah,” said Holkom, “and we can all get acquainted.”
The young woman, Sarah Delaney, glanced at Polaski and then
It took Bolton a minute, then he straightened and tugged down his tunic. “Quite.” He turned briskly and strode off toward the MI hut.
We stood where we were for a long time—Chan, Elliot, Polaski and I on the edge of the clearing, the crew under the stubby wing of their obese helicopter, and the MP out in the middle. It began to rain.
Drops spattered against the canvas behind us, and sizzled off the helicopter’s engine housings, putting up a fine mist. The air smelled of wet dust.
Finally we heard feet slapping through the puddles and Bolton reappeared, escorting a sleepy-looking Paulson to the open cargo bay. He handed in her kit bag, then walked back to the MP and saluted.
The MP’s eyes narrowed. Rain dripped from his brow as he stared at each one of us in turn. Finally he turned back to Bolton and saluted, spun on his heel, and walked to the helicopter. The crew began their engine-start, and the pilot reached for her microphone.
We’re free, I thought. For now, at least, we’re free.
FOUR
The Eye of Mount Nebo
S
un hissed off the salt pan of Searles Lake, and China Lake to the west, shimmering between the Mojave Desert and the Sierra Nevada. The temperature climbed above 130 degrees.
Inside the lab, ventilators hummed and dripped water down the walls. Computer screens waited for my instructions, if only I could think what more to ask. In the concrete pits under the grating, processors iced in frost sent up wisps of helium into the room.
The China Lake Naval Weapons Center seemed isolated and adrift. There was an air of resignation, with the staff just waiting for the war to end.
Chan had gotten me in, a week after the bouncer crash, with the rank of captain and a classification high enough that I was isolated even from the staff. The escorts who brought my meals were polite but reserved. The systems I was using were set to purge when I was done.
She’d gotten me in, but she hadn’t been happy about it.
“Why are you doing this, anyway?” she said. “And why with Polaski? I don’t think he knows when to stop, Eddie.”
T
he day after Chan had gotten our unit classified and the MP had gone, a T-98 light aircraft had landed on the island, flown by a quiet-spoken colonel from the Judge Advocate General’s office, with the name HOLKOM on his fatigues. He was a slight, mustached man with greying hair, and was accompanied by a petite woman in civilian clothes named Delaney, who blushed frequently and carried a mobile data terminal.
They were there to conduct interviews, he said.
“If I might ask a question, Colonel,” said Bolton, meeting them by the airplane while Elliot disposed of classified documents we’d been reading inthe bungalow. “How long has it been since you got your orders? This island has been sealed off, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure it has, son, I’m sure it has. Haven’t talked to a soul in two days, is the thing—hell of a trip out from Washington. But I sure would hate to go all the way back without even a postcard for the kids, wouldn’t I? And I don’t much take orders from anyone, Lieutenant. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going, I say, or what you’re up to—just poke around and you never know what you might find. Over this way, shall we?” With a hand on Bolton’s shoulder he steered us off toward the bungalow. “Sarah here”—he moved his hand over to her shoulder—“well, her mom thinks she’s in Philadelphia, as I recall. Fine woman, her mom.”
Chan had gone back to her quarters briefly and had then stolen a look into the plane, but now she gave me a tight-lipped shake of her head: There was nothing she could do.
The bungalow was clean, although Polaski’s mattress bulged in the middle more than it should have.
“Well, why don’t you just get set up there at the table, Sarah,” said Holkom, “and we can all get acquainted.”
The young woman, Sarah Delaney, glanced at Polaski and then
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