some fellow officers in the same general direction, so Burke caught a lift and arrived at MID headquarters with a minute to spare.
Heâd spent a fitful night, tossing and turning as his mind wouldnât let go of the disturbing information Graves had presented in the laboratory earlier that evening, and he had awakened in a grumpy mood. The question of whether the shredders were living or dead was a profound one, with considerable implications for the war effort in the months ahead. Since the attack it had been the generally accepted theory that the gas had first killed, then resurrected its victims into the ghoulish zombielike creatures commonly known as shredders.
But what if they were wrong? Burke wondered. What if the victims of the gas never died at all? What if they were still in there somewhere, their personalities subsumed by the transformation?
Burke shook his head, trying to clear it of all the extraneous thoughts. He wasnât smart enough to figure out the answers to such questions; he knew his own limitations. It would be up to guys like Graves to figure out the deeper questions, and hopefully they would come up with some answers.
For now, he had a briefing to attend.
Burke nodded at the guards out front and then entered the old farmhouse that the MID had claimed as its own. The first floor had been converted into the signals center, the communications officers stationed there working diligently to decode half a dozen enemy intercepts at any given time. Familiar with it all, Burke ignored them, slipping past the group to reach the stairwell leading to the upper floor.
Once at the top he moved briskly down the hall to the last room on the right. There he found U.S. and British officers and their aides milling about in a frenzied hive of activity. Burke spotted the new U.S. division commander, Lieutenant Colonel Ellington, talking with his opposite number on the British side, Brigadier Montgomery Calhoun, as well as several of the senior brigade commanders in charge of various sections of the front line. He nodded hello to several men he knew but avoided getting pulled into a conversation with anyone. After a moment or two, he saw his commanding officer, Colonel Nichols, waving to him from across the room. Burke cut through the crowd and headed in that direction.
As he approached, he saw that the sergeant heâd rescued the night before was there as well, dressed in a clean uniform but looking as uncomfortable as Burke felt among all the upper brass. Burke was surprised to see him up and on his feet, but apparently Bankowskiâs assessment had been correct. Exhaustion and dehydrationâÂnothing a good nightâs rest and some fluids couldnât fix. The dark tartan of the manâs kilt identified him as a member of a Scottish unit, though his unit recognition badge, a lion rampant over the field of white and blue worn proudly on one shoulder, was unfamiliar to Burke. The sergeant gave him a short nod when he stepped up, one professional to another.
The colonel turned at his approach. âThank you for coming, Major,â Nichols said with a smile. It didnât matter that Burkeâs presence was the result of an order, and therefore mandatory. Nichols treated him with courtesy; it was one of the many things Burke liked about the man.
Nichols turned to the British sergeant standing next to him and introduced the two men to each other.
âMike, this is Sergeant Drummond of the Black Watch, Royal Highland Regiment. Sergeant Drummond, Major Michael Burke, formerly of the 316th Infantry Regiment and now part of my staff here in the Military Intelligence Division.â
Drummond extended a hand. âI donât think Iâve ever been more pleased to see a Yank than when I saw your face yesterday,â he said. âYou have my thanks, sir.â
Burke grasped the manâs hand in his own, noting the otherâs considerable strength in the process, and then
Heâd spent a fitful night, tossing and turning as his mind wouldnât let go of the disturbing information Graves had presented in the laboratory earlier that evening, and he had awakened in a grumpy mood. The question of whether the shredders were living or dead was a profound one, with considerable implications for the war effort in the months ahead. Since the attack it had been the generally accepted theory that the gas had first killed, then resurrected its victims into the ghoulish zombielike creatures commonly known as shredders.
But what if they were wrong? Burke wondered. What if the victims of the gas never died at all? What if they were still in there somewhere, their personalities subsumed by the transformation?
Burke shook his head, trying to clear it of all the extraneous thoughts. He wasnât smart enough to figure out the answers to such questions; he knew his own limitations. It would be up to guys like Graves to figure out the deeper questions, and hopefully they would come up with some answers.
For now, he had a briefing to attend.
Burke nodded at the guards out front and then entered the old farmhouse that the MID had claimed as its own. The first floor had been converted into the signals center, the communications officers stationed there working diligently to decode half a dozen enemy intercepts at any given time. Familiar with it all, Burke ignored them, slipping past the group to reach the stairwell leading to the upper floor.
Once at the top he moved briskly down the hall to the last room on the right. There he found U.S. and British officers and their aides milling about in a frenzied hive of activity. Burke spotted the new U.S. division commander, Lieutenant Colonel Ellington, talking with his opposite number on the British side, Brigadier Montgomery Calhoun, as well as several of the senior brigade commanders in charge of various sections of the front line. He nodded hello to several men he knew but avoided getting pulled into a conversation with anyone. After a moment or two, he saw his commanding officer, Colonel Nichols, waving to him from across the room. Burke cut through the crowd and headed in that direction.
As he approached, he saw that the sergeant heâd rescued the night before was there as well, dressed in a clean uniform but looking as uncomfortable as Burke felt among all the upper brass. Burke was surprised to see him up and on his feet, but apparently Bankowskiâs assessment had been correct. Exhaustion and dehydrationâÂnothing a good nightâs rest and some fluids couldnât fix. The dark tartan of the manâs kilt identified him as a member of a Scottish unit, though his unit recognition badge, a lion rampant over the field of white and blue worn proudly on one shoulder, was unfamiliar to Burke. The sergeant gave him a short nod when he stepped up, one professional to another.
The colonel turned at his approach. âThank you for coming, Major,â Nichols said with a smile. It didnât matter that Burkeâs presence was the result of an order, and therefore mandatory. Nichols treated him with courtesy; it was one of the many things Burke liked about the man.
Nichols turned to the British sergeant standing next to him and introduced the two men to each other.
âMike, this is Sergeant Drummond of the Black Watch, Royal Highland Regiment. Sergeant Drummond, Major Michael Burke, formerly of the 316th Infantry Regiment and now part of my staff here in the Military Intelligence Division.â
Drummond extended a hand. âI donât think Iâve ever been more pleased to see a Yank than when I saw your face yesterday,â he said. âYou have my thanks, sir.â
Burke grasped the manâs hand in his own, noting the otherâs considerable strength in the process, and then
Similar Books
