They sat in the front of the Hummer and swapped stories of the invasion as a prelude to more serious talk.
Murdoch was a California boy, the kind of adolescent drifter that state had so often produced, until he drifted into the Corps and discovered a purpose in life. That purpose was the maintenance of portable weaponry and the instruction of recruits in the use of same, and it was the only thing Murdoch seemed to care much about. When Contact emptied Quantico, Murdoch was devastated. He kept driving back to the base, he said, every few days, like an ant to an empty nest.
Then he saw John Tyler’s sign and guessed there might be a future for him after all.
Tyler offered in exchange some of his own recent history. It was hard to explain the civilian work he’d done, since it crossed so many borders—Congress, the defense industry, banking. His job had been to know people, but not too well; to say things, but not too explicitly. In fact, that life was already beginning to feel vague and distant; the intricacies that had once intrigued and compelled him seemed as abstruse now as the mating dance of an extinct species…
He didn’t say exactly this to Murdoch. He did make some mention of the revolt that had been derailed, at the last minute, by Contact. Murdoch was fascinated: he’d been aware of the high-level alert that August night, the furtive troop movements. “It was exciting,” Murdoch said. “Like something out of the Civil War. Firing on Fort Sumter. I never did care for that windy old fart in the White House.”
Bolstered by this, the Colonel described his last meeting with the Commander in Chief—a somewhat polished version.
Murdoch was wide-eyed. “You actually had a pistol on him?”
“Yes,” Tyler said.
“You could have killed him.”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you?”
“It wouldn’t have helped. It might have attracted attention. Anyway, he was… too malleable. Too yielding. Do you understand, Mr. Murdoch?”
“I know what you mean. I meet people. People I used to know, even. They’re real nice. Too nice. It’s scary, but you can’t hate ’em for it. Much less shoot ’em. Be like killing a rabbit with a pipe wrench.”
Tyler nodded.
Murdoch extracted two cans of Coors from a cooler in the back of the vehicle. He offered one to Tyler, who popped the tab and listened to the hiss.
“No,” Murdoch said, “they’re not the enemy. Those things on the road, on the other hand…”
“Helpers,” Colonel Tyler said.
“Uh-huh. Now, to me, they look like the enemy.”
“I share your thought,” Tyler said.
“You thought about what to do about it?”
“Obviously. But why don’t you give me your perspective first.”
“Well… there’s all this technology lying around, but most of it you can’t manage if you’re just one person—or just two. Might be fun zooming over the treetops with an A-10 and twelve-hundred rounds of those depleted uranium-tipped slugs, say. But, shit, I’m no pilot. Sir, are you?”
“About a hundred hours in a Piper Cub.”
“We couldn’t even preflight an A-10. So we’re looking at portable ground weapons. Not a tank or a self-propelled Howitzer or anything sluggish like that. I mean, we don’t know for sure what we’re up against. So, something lean. A Dragon, an AT-4. Okay, we can get lots of those. The whole world’s an armory, right? And the doors are wide open. But for a first encounter, I’m thinking power and mobility. I’m thinking shoot and scoot.”
“The Hummer,” Tyler interpreted.
“The Hummer, and more specifically that TOW on the roof. The way I see it, we encounter a Helper on the open road, we can bust it and break away before their cavalry arrives.”
Tyler sipped his beer and pretended to be thinking it over.
“Mr. Murdoch, we don’t know what defenses those things might possess.”
“I don’t think we can find out except by shooting at ’em.”
“Might be dangerous.”
Murdoch heard something in Tyler’s voice, some unsuccessfully suppressed note of mischief. He smiled. “Sir, it might indeed. It’s a pretty day for shooting, though, isn’t it?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You have to teach me how to operate this TOW.” Tyler glanced up at a sky the color of blue chalk. “It’s a pretty day for some live-fire exercises, too.”
Murdoch wasn’t pleased with this. “I’d hoped to operate the TOW myself—you know—when it comes time.”
“Rank has its privileges, Mr. Murdoch. I expect we’ll both get a chance.”
“Yes, sir,” Murdoch said.
* * *
They came to know each other that first week they were together on the live-fire range at Quantico, Murdoch teaching him the TOW and some smaller tank-killers. Tyler guessed you could say they were friends, the barrier of command fractured a little by their odd situation. Tyler shared some secrets, as friends do. But there were secrets he simply couldn’t share, had never shared with anyone—such as the history of his madness.
“Madness,” too strong a word, but Tyler used it to remind himself that it was not merely unhappiness, not merely self-pity, it was a darker and more powerful presence that from time to time settled upon him.
Ever since Sissy died.
These memories came back at night.
Key events during his twelfth year: He achieved a B+ average at school, scored well above the norm on a Stanford-Binet intelligence test administered by the school board, and fainted twice, once in gym, once in homeroom. The school nurse asked him what he usually ate for breakfast and dinner, and he answered, both times, “Frosted Flakes.” He liked the picture of the tiger on the box. He did most of the shopping himself. He never bought vegetables because he wasn’t sure how: you put them in these plastic bags, you weighed them… it was confusing; he worried he might spend more than the three or four dollars Sissy let him carry to the store.
As for canned vegetables—he had tried that once. Canned peas, which came out pale green and wrinkly, not much like the picture on the label. Sissy said they tasted like rat poison. Had he ever watched a poisoned rat die? Sissy had. Sissy described the event. “You want to do that to me?”
Tyler thought he’d better stick to Frosted Flakes.
The nurse and his homeroom teacher conferred, which led to a visit from a social worker, which led, after no little trauma, to Tyler’s installation in a foster home and Sissy’s forcible remittance to a white brick building out of town, where she died six months later of “an accident while bathing.” Tyler had seen the guards who worked at this institution: They were barrel-chested, stupid, and permanently pissed off. Sissy used to spit at them. So Tyler was suspicious when they told him the “accident” part. But Sissy was dead—that was a fact.
He never found out what happened to the old row house or Sissy’s remittance money. He didn’t want to have anything to do with either one. He was glad Sissy was gone. Life was better without Sissy.
Still, when he overheard a social worker say the same thing—that he would be better off without Sissy— Tyler tried to kill the woman with the sharp end of a blue Bic pen.
He didn’t do much more than scratch her face, though he privately hoped the ink had dyed the skin beneath the wound, a permanent tattoo, a reminder that such calculations were not hers to make.
The act propelled him out of his foster home and into a grim institution (perhaps not unlike the white brick building in which Sissy had died spitting at her captors) in which Tyler was kicked, assaulted, humiliated, sometimes brutalized, at best ignored. He was rescued from this limbo when a legal inquiry into Sissy’s holdings discovered a living relative who was willing to take custody of the boy.
Tyler never actually met this man, who preferred to remain safely distant; he was a retired lawyer, Tyler understood, who paid his way into a military boarding school of some repute. The boy was bright; everyone admitted that. Sullen sometimes. Given to fantasy. A loner. But
smart as a whip.
He enlisted in the Army with good prospects, earned his lieutenant’s bars, earned a bachelor’s degree at the government’s expense, faced a bright future as a commissioned officer.
He did carry a few black marks on his record. During basic infantry training, he had come close to killing another man, a memory that still troubled him. It was an impulse. There was no other word to describe it. One moment he was practicing a takedown; the next he was strangling the man. It was nobody in particular. It happened to be a stringbean named Delgado, who was actually a friend of his, more or less. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the sudden and overwhelming need to do harm, to carve his name on a stranger’s life as painfully as strangers had carved their names on his. Plus it gave him an erection.
Three other men had dragged him off Delgado, who gagged and vomited. No permanent damage had been done, however, and in view of Tyler’s otherwise excellent record, the event was written off as an anomaly. It was a pattern he would come to recognize. The phrase in light of this soldiers otherwise commendable performance decorated a whole drawer of complaints. Not insubordination—never that. Drunkenness, fistfights, slovenly dress, once a speed run through Saigon with the military police behind him. But only at certain intervals, certain dark passages in his life, certain times when he heard Sissy’s voice too often in his head—that is, only during his madnesses.
It had slowed his rise from the ranks. When you reach a certain point, Tyler discovered, your private life begins to matter. You start being seen at parties with embassy personnel, in a decorative role, offering dances to the wives of ambassadors and the daughters of diplomats; consorting with people who want you to be their little brother in uniform, an American Centurion with a cute little pixie wife and maybe a freckled three-year-old in military housing somewhere. They didn’t want you trafficking, for instance, with Asian prostitutes, unless you were very discreet, and they didn’t look kindly on the rumor that you’d been seen in a different red-light district altogether, where the traffic leaned toward young Asian boys.
It was only that his passions inclined to youth, a certain androgynous beauty he craved but couldn’t define. He came to the Asian boys, Asian girls, telling himself it was simply a need to be satisfied, and he left hating them for their grace, their wantonness, their doe-eyed acquiescence.
He learned discretion. Discretion served him well for some years. Discretion did not fail him until his posting to West Germany, where his military career came to an end. He had found a whorehouse in Stuttgart, in a pretty little building next to a pretty little beer garden in a part of the city not much frequented by Americans; and he had selected a Turkish immigrant girl who claimed to be thirteen years old and by her looks might not have been lying; and he had been upstairs with her, the girl naked and mumbling “Bitte, bitte,” through a mouth filled with the Colonel’s erect penis, while he held his service revolver to her head and stroked its trigger, gently, not even near the point of firing the weapon—when the house matron came through the door screaming at him.
Apparently it was her custom to keep an eye on her employees through a number of peepholes in the old plaster walls, and she had seen Tyler put his revolver to the girl’s head—but it was really only a kind of play; was that so hard to understand?—and believed he was about to commit a murder.
Tyler was startled by the woman, and when he turned the revolver did go off—he shot the girl through her skinny left arm. It was a mistake.
An ambulance came, the police came, he was arrested. He was held for questioning by a red-faced man who told him, “This is not the Wild West! This is not where you shoot and fuck!”
He was never charged. But he was held for three days, and the incident was reported to his superiors; there was an investigation, some local scandal-mongering. People began to look at him differently. That was the hard part. People knew. They looked at him… well, the way people used to look at Sissy.
He resigned his commission. He had made enough friends to ease the transition into civilian life, but it was a difficult time. The Stuttgart incident seemed to be always at his heels, seemed to follow him like some odorous lost dog.
It fades, Sissy said. Memory fades. Everyone forgets everything. That’s the rule.
But the nights were long. Some nights were too long, and on those nights he would drive his second car, an anonymous brown sedan, along dark city streets where the girls were usually black or Hispanic and very young, to cheap hotel rooms that stank of insecticide and perspiration, where he would sometimes, even after Stuttgart, play the Gun Game with them.
And in the aftermath, home before dawn, alone, he might toy with his service revolver, pick it up, put it down, put it to his temple, the touch of the steel a familiar sensation after all these years, the oily smell of it a comforting smell. Sissy always talked him out of pulling the trigger. The Sissy in his head. Sad ghost. Don’t kill yourself and be like me.
And in time his daylight life grew bearable. He was trustworthy, he was discreet—he had learned all about discretion—and he was smart. He moved between the military, the defense contractors, and the congressional committees with a growing familiarity. His job was to say plainly what his employers could only hint at, and to hint at what his employers would publicly deny.
And his madnesses came and ebbed in their own slow, tidal rhythm; never predictable and impossible to resist. And the years passed.
Meeting A.W. Murdoch and wearing himself out on the firing range had postponed the madness for now. But it would come again, Tyler knew. It always came. And came again.
* * *
When he had learned the basics of the TOW, he drove with Murdoch to an empty stretch of U.S. 95 and parked in the breakdown lane under a stand of shade trees.
Yesterday Murdoch had roamed up and down this pike in a commandeered sports car making notes on the position of the Helpers. A stream of the devices had been flowing through Baltimore on 95 for some weeks now, always travelling at a steady forty miles per hour and at regular intervals. Some turned west on 70 or installed themselves in road towns like Columbia or Wheaton ; most continued south on 95. One had taken up a position on the White House lawn.
Tyler himself hadn’t seen one with his own eyes, only the TV pictures. It was worse close up, Murdoch told him. “They aren’t just black, like painted black or anodized black. They don’t shine in the sunlight at all. They’re blacker than their own shadows. And when they move, Colonel, they don’t tremble or bounce. They glide. You ever play a computer game, sir? You know how things move on a video screen? Like math. Like oiled perfection. That’s how these things move.” The idea of trying to stop one, Murdoch confessed, as much as it appealed to him, it also… well, it scared him a little.
“You can deal with it, though?”
“Oh, hell, yes. Sir, I’m anxious to deal with it.”
So here they were, parked on a sunny stretch of road at the edge of a cow pasture where a few Holsteins grazed, or perhaps they were Guernseys, Tyler got those confused; a dairy breed, in any case. Crickets sang in the high grass and faint clouds dappled the horizon. The air was cool. November was only a day away.
“Any old minute now, sir,” said Murdoch, who had calculated this somehow.
Tyler focused his attention on the highway where it crossed a low ridge a couple of thousand yards north. The Helper would be coming over that ridge. Well within range. But nothing moved there now, not even traffic. The roads were sparsely travelled these days.
Murdoch popped a can of Dr. Pepper, which made Tyler jump. “Christ’s sake.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Tyler’s mouth was dry. He envied Murdoch that can of pop fresh from the cooler. But he had to be ready to man the TOW. He guessed this was Murdoch’s revenge for not being allowed first shot at a Helper. Tough luck, Tyler thought. I guess I can wait for a cold drink.
“Sir? I think you have a target, sir.”
Tyler stood up on the shooting platfo
rm and manned the weapon.
The TOW was manufactured by Hughes, a company Tyler had done some business with. He had a lot of respect for the TOW. It was a wire-guided weapon, almost mind-numbingly complex, but reliable in service. It was designed to penetrate heavy armor plate and render even the best-protected tank functionally unserviceable, i.e., blow it the hell up.
He got his first good look at a Helper through the cross hairs of the 13x optical sight.
The Helper looked like a death-black ball and cone—the aliens seemed to love these Euclidian shapes—and it was travelling well below the speed limit along the slow curve of the road. The image rippled slightly in the heat rising from the asphalt.
The cattle shuffled and raised their heads as if they sensed this presence.
Tyler was suddenly nervous—suddenly this seemed like real combat—but he didn’t let the anxiety affect his timing. He kept the Helper in his sights until it cleared the high spot in the road. He wanted this target clean.
“Sir,” Murdoch said nervously. “We’re a little exposed here.”
“Keep your shirt on, Mr. Murdoch.”
A long pause, then: “Sir?”
Tyler triggered the weapon.
The TOW performed a number of complex tasks between one eyeblink and the next. Tyler’s finger on the firing button ignited a rocket motor, which popped the missile from its launch container. All the rocket fuel was used up before the missile left the tube, which was what protected Tyler, Murdoch, and the vehicle they were sitting in from the backwash. The sound of the launch was blisteringly loud. It was a sound Murdoch had compared to the hiss of Satan’s own steam press.
When the missile was well clear, a sustainer motor ignited; the missile unfolded four wings and accelerated to 900 feet per second.
Tyler’s eyes were on the Helper.
The TOW missile trailed two fine wires attached to the launcher. Tyler actually used the sight and a joystick to drive the missile, which never failed to astonish him, this video-game aspect of it. He steered the missile down a trajectory that seemed eternally long, but was not. He kept the cross hairs centered on the moving Helper. Picture-book launch.
The Harvest Page 17
