by Edward Lee
“Tell him to send his dry cleaning bill to the J. Edgar Hoover Building,” Garrett said back. “Look, I know this is technically my collar but I’m in transit to an urgent case—kidnapping and interstate flight. How about we make a deal? You guys take the paperwork, and you can have the collar. Is that cool? I’m really in a hurry.”
“Sure, no problem. Thanks!”
“My pleasure. Later, guys. Be careful out there.” The customers applauded again as Garrett left the store.
I guess there really is a God, he thought once the shock wore off and he realized how he could just as easily have been killed. He got out of D.C. fast, heading for the highway. It took a while to calm down.
Only then did it occur to him that he’d forgotten the one thing he’d stopped at the store for: cigarettes.
««—»»
Danny’s sneakers scuffed up dust as he wandered alone in the field behind the officers housing blocks. He kicked at rocks and old tin cans, kicked at dandelions and watched their ghostly puffs of fuzz explode and blow away.
The summer sun beamed down on him. A few hundred yards up ahead he could see the baseball field where the Boys Club leagues played, then the picnic grounds with its rows of tables and brick grills. Beyond that stretched the forest. There was no one in sight for as far as he could see.
It’s just me out here, he thought. Alone.
Danny didn’t generally like to be alone, but today being alone felt good. His mom and dad had been arguing again back at the house. About me, Danny knew. “Why can’t he be like other kids—normal kids?” his father had thundered from the family room. Danny had been down in the basement, working on some new drawings. He could easily hear them upstairs; their voices carried right down through the heat vent.
“Because you’re so goddamn repressive, he’ll never be normal!” his mother yelled back.
“Oh, that’s right! Blame it on me, pass the buck like you always do! He’s your kid too, you know! He should be out playing ball, roughing it up, getting a taste of life, but all he does instead is hide in the basement drawing all that junk because you encourage him to! Jesus Christ, if you didn’t coddle him so damn much, maybe he’d be like regular kids!”
“Yes, Tony, he’d be out there ‘roughing it up’ just like a good little soldier, huh?”
“For God’s sake! He’s got to learn about life sometime! It’s not all cookies and milk and mommy tucking him in at night! It’s no wonder he’s so weird, doing all those weirdo drawings and talking about goddamn spacemen and spaceships and all that shit! Jesus Christ, it’s no wonder we have to take him to a shrink!”
And on and on.
By now Danny had learned to block it out but sometimes it was real hard. He’d slipped out through the basement door because his head had started to hurt again and he had to get away from all the yelling. He felt bad about the whole thing, because it must be all his fault.
But if that were true…then it must be the Stickmen’s fault too. Why are they doing this to me? he wondered.
A sudden breeze gusted, knocking down the summer heat and mussing his hair. He wandered further, over the low rolling hills before the forest. A dragonfly buzzed by; several sparrows pecked at the grass just ahead of him, paying him no mind.
Yes, sometimes Danny liked to be alone. No one yelling. No one to bother him and make him feel bad. No people.
And no Stickmen.
He stopped at a patch of bare dirt. He knelt down. He picked up a thin stick and began to draw a picture in the bare spot.
Tall and thin. Only two fingers on each hand and two toes on each foot. No ears, no mouth, no nose.
Just a line where the eyes should be.
“Stick…men, stick…men, stick…men,” he whispered to himself as he wielded the branch.
It didn’t take him long.
In a very short while, he’d drawn several of the Stickmen, and also the front of their ship with that weird trapezoidal window on the side.
Danny stood back up and gazed down at the dirt sketch.
“The Stickmen…”
Another sudden cool breeze swept up, ruffling his hair.
They’ll be coming soon, he thought and turned and walked back home. They’re coming tonight…
CHAPTER NINE
Lynn still felt at odds about a lot of this, even with the battered suitcase full of evidence swinging at the end of her arm right this moment. She knew it was Harlan, of course, the walking catastrophe, the living human lightning rod for all things gone afoul.
She also knew that the world wasn’t fair quite a bit of the time, and maybe—just maybe—Harlan had spend a little more time at the bad end of the stick than was reasonable.
And thinking about it now, she had to consider that perhaps their marriage hadn’t worked because of that. Harlan Garrett was arrogant, opinionated, and…arrogant. He firmly believed in some of the most ludicrous things, and did not respond well to disagreement.
But he was also a pretty decent guy when one got down to it.
And not a bad lover, she admitted.
But no man could have confidence in a marriage and in love if he didn’t have confidence in himself. Bad luck had batted Harlan out of the park too many times—mostly through his own doing, yes—but in truth, he was always doing what he believed was right.
Perhaps that’s why the marriage had soured all too quickly. Deep down Harlan couldn’t be the man he really was because ill fortune wouldn’t allow it. Hence he never felt good enough about himself to be the kind of man Lynn needed to spend the rest of her life with.
Poor Harlan.
And now…this.
She took the elevator to the hospital’s basement, then found herself staring at a badly placed directory.
PHLEBOTOMY, HISTOLOGY, ONCOLOGY, ENDOSCOPY, KARIOLOGY, the incomprehensible signs read. CYTOPLASMOLOGIC STEREOTERIC-AURISCOPY.
Jesus! she thought.
Then, finally, she found it: PATHOLOGY.
The long corridor extended, seeming much longer than it could have been. Her high heels echoed to the point that it began to get on her nerves. At last she found the door that Harlan directed her to: OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA MEDICAL EXAMINER. Lynn opened the door
In the anteroom, she felt hemmed in by file cabinets, bookshelves, and computers. On a cork bulletin board, ragged notes were pinned: SEND BENSON-CASE BRAIN SLICES TO HOPKINS ASAP. FED-EX FLECTHERSON SKIN TO McCRONE LABS. LUNCH AT PETE’S PASTA PALACE FOR CONROY’S RETIREMENT ON WEDNESDAY.
Upon noticing no staff in the anteroom, Lynn proceeded further, through another door, and soon found herself standing in something that more resembled a high school biology lab: long black-topped counters, sinks, Bunsen burners, shelving full of bottled chemicals and preparations. A periodic chart hung on the wall; mounted on the wall opposite was a light-case for pinning up and reading x-rays. Noise from a commercial burbled from a small television set on a shelf of reference books, and then Lynn noticed a thirtyish woman with red hair and a white lab coat jotting down notes at a cluttered desk.
Lynn opened up her ID wallet. “Excuse me. I’m Agent Darnell of the Defense Intelligence Agency. I’m looking for the deputy M.E., a Dr. Truini.”
The attractive red-head swiveled around on her chair and looked up. “I’m Dr. Truini.” She eyed Lynn’s identification, confounded. “The Defense Intelligence Agency? This is the D.C. morgue. What on earth could the Defense Intelligence Agency want with me?”
“Um, a man named Harlan Garrett sent me, he said that you were a friend of his and that you might—”
“Harlan!” The doctor groaned, her face crimping up at the mere name. “That crackpot no-account chain-smoking government-conspiracy hippie-looking eight ball? He sent you here?”
Lynn paused, to stifle the impulse to laugh. She’s definitely got him down right, she thought. “He doesn’t look like a hippie anymore; he cut his hair, and yes, doctor, he’s the person who gave me your name and told me to get in touch with yo
u.”
Suddenly the woman was peering, her lips parted in thought. “Wait a minute. What did you say your name was?”
“Agent Darnell?”
“And your first name is…Lynn?”
“That’s right.”
The doctor, at once, slapped her knees hard. “Oh my God this is too funny! You’re Harlan’s wife!”
“Ex-wife,” Lynn hastily corrected.
“I’m Jessica!” the woman exclaimed, still practically having a fit over the coincidence.
That’s when Lynn got it. “You’re—oh! And you’re his girlfriend, right?”
“Ex-girlfriend,” Jessica hastily corrected. “I dumped the poor son of a bitch a few days ago. Just couldn’t put up with the you-know-what.”
“I definitely know where you’re coming from, believe me.”
“He’s not a bad guy really, but he’s just so—well, I don’t need to tell you. You were married to him for five years.”
“Five years too many,” Lynn said.
“This is unreal, isn’t it?” But then Jessica’s eyes reverted back to their original puzzlement. “What’s this about? I don’t understand.”
“Well, let me put it this way,” Lynn answered. “Something rather peculiar has come up.”
“Something that has to do with Harlan?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, God,” Jessica bloomed. “I’ll bet this is going to be a doozy. Let me guess. He got himself into trouble with you guys, and you need me to testify against him.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Oh…so then he’s not in jail again.”
“Uh, no.” Lynn stalled. “Let’s just say that I have some…urgent business of a…classified nature that someone of your technical expertise could probably help us with. But it’s completely off-the-record, you understand. It’s more along the lines of a favor.”
“Well, I dumped the dopy bastard pretty hard; I guess it won’t kill me to do him a favor.”
“It’s not just for Harlan,” Lynn added. “You’ll also be doing your government a favor.”
Jessica pinched her chin. “Wow. Peculiar is right. Okay, I’ll do whatever I can. What have you got?”
“First, this.” Lynn placed a piece of paper on the desk. “Before I show it to you, uh, I need you to sign this form.”
What is it?”
“It’s no big deal, really. It’s a Federal Secrecy Oath. It means that you’re swearing under the provisions of the National Security Classified Secrets Act that you won’t tell anyone about what I’m going to show you or tell you, under penalty of law, provided by the United States Code. Violation of the oath constitutes a serious federal crime that carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment and a $1,000,000 fine.”
Jessica’s mouth fell open. “Oh, is that all?”
««—»»
God, what a long-ass drive through the boonies, Harlan thought when he finally discovered the Post entrance. And the sign made no bones about the kind of post this was.
WELCOME TO THE EDGEWOOD ARSENAL
HOME OF THE U.S. ARMY MUNITIONS COMMAND
WARNING: THIS IS A RESTRICTED MILITARY RESERVATION
TRESPASSERS WILL BE FIRED UPON VIA U.C.M.J. USE-OF-DEADLY-FORCE GUIDELINES
Oh yeah, that’s what I call some welcome. Garrett pulled the Malibu up the ‘40s-style gatehouse. The giant STOP sign made it quite clear what he should do.
A buzz-cut young MP in khakis came out of the gatehouse, his hand on his holstered sidearm.
“Hi, Sarge,” Garrett said.
“Identify yourself and state your business.”
Friendly chap. Garrett passed him his badge and ID, which the MP scrutinized. “I’ve got an appointment to see a Major Shaw,” he explained. Along with the ID, Myers had used his own “official” channels to make the appointment and had a cover crew standing by in case any verification calls were made.
“Wait here,” the MP ordered. He went back to the gatehouse where another solider manned a set of video screens. Garrett could see the first MP on the phone; after a few moments he came back out.
“Step out of the car,” he ordered.
Garrett’s gut sunk. Stay cool! “Look, sergeant, if there’s some problem…”
The MP opened Garrett’s door. “Un-cleared vehicles aren’t allowed on the base,” he informed as stonily as possible.
This made sense to Garrett: even an authorized visitor could have had explosives planted in his car without his knowledge. But—
Garrett got out, frowning. “What, I have to walk? It’s ninety degrees and ninety-percent humidity!” But just as he’d voiced the complaint, another MP pulled up in a brand-new dresden-blue Buick Skylark. “Here’s a vehicle at your disposal.”
All right! It’s my lucky day! Garrett celebrated. A car with air-conditioning!
“Your appointment with Major Shaw is confirmed. “54th Battalion HQ, Building 4128.” Only now did the MP show any trace of human emotion at all. He glanced at Garrett’s ancient rust-flecked Malibu sitting next to the shiny new Buick.
“I guess the FBI doesn’t pay much,” the MP observed.
“No, they don’t,” Garrett said, sliding happily into the Buick. “Have a good day…Smiley.”
Then Garrett was driving through the check-point, onto the biggest ammo dump in the U.S. military.
««—»»
In the Security Liaison Office, Garrett found Major Shaw to be quite a bit more congenial that the pit-bull MP at the gate. Shaw was lean and wiry, with short brown hair and a mustache, but not the dead-serious hardcore Army face Garrett expected. He wore a black armband with bold white letters—ASA CID—which Garrett instantly translated to Army Security Agency, Criminal Investigations Division. Shaw, in other words, was the post’s chief law-enforcement officer for any crimes involving classified material or information, and here, in his plainly painted office, he was briefing Garrett on the very controlled device that had been stolen just a few days ago from this very controlled facility.
“ADM,” the major recited. “Atomic demolition munition. They were developed in the ‘50s; production ceased in the late-’60s due to technological advancements. There are three yield-types of this portable weapon system: Small, Medium, and Heavy. What was stolen here was a Small. We call them SADMs. It had a selectable yield of 0.5 to 1.5 kilotons.”
“The so-called ‘back-pack nuke,’” Garrett acknowledged.
“Yes, sir, but that’s just typical liberal misinformation. Even a Small ADM weighs 300 lbs. Try carrying that in a backpack. The liberal press called them backpack nukes because the timer-fuses and firing devices could fit in a field pack. They want people to think that these things can be toted around like someone’s box lunch, but that’s the liberal press for you, huh? They want to print garbage in order to scare the public into voting for candidates who want to cut the defense budget.”
Gee, Garrett thought. I wonder if this guy’s a Republican. “How do they work?”
“An ADM is nothing more than a simple target-driver device. There’s really not that much to them with regards to moving parts or sophistication. All the weight is in the lead shielding, to protect the ignition and transport techs from the radiation output. The
way it works is a conventional PETN charge explodes and rams a small wedge of uranium into a larger uranium pit, resulting in a crude nuclear detonation. Just think of smacking two pieces of a fissionable material together real hard. Small, cheap, efficient, easy to operate.”
Sounds like he’s talking about a Veg-A-Matic, Garrett thought.
Shaw went on, “ADMs were the cheapest way to take out big bridges, tank parks, and commo centers in NATO, back when the Soviet threat was still raging.” “In other words, a ‘scorched-earth’ device,” Garrett observed.
“Yes, sir. That’s exactly right. Say there was a war in Europe, and the Russians overran us. ADMs would be the quickest and most efficient means to destroy our own material to keep
it out of enemy hands. We moved them all here when the Warsaw Pact dissolved. And if you ask me, we ought to move them right back there because it’s only a matter of time before Boris Yeltsin’s liver pops and he goes down for the dirt nap, and then we’ve got the Cold War all over again. The same threat only worse.”
Here’s one guy Al Gore can’t count on for a vote. “And somebody stole one of these things,” Garrett said.
“Yes, sir. One pit housing and one firing assembly.”
The works, Garrett thought. “But this is a low-yield device. It’s not the kind of thing that could wipe out a city, is it?”
“No, just a city block. The safe distance perimeter is a little over a thousand yards. It may not pack much of a punch as far as modern nuclear weaponry goes, but if you popped this off during rush hour in New York City, thousands would die. Pop it off next to the Sears Tower, the Tower comes down. It’s actually a perfect weapon for—”
“A terrorist group,” Garrett finished. “They’d love to get their hands on something like this. Or one of those right-wing militia groups. It would make a hell of a statement, and they wouldn’t need two tons of fertilizer and diesel fuel to do it.”
“And they don’t need a conspicuous vehicle, either,” Shaw added. “An S-A-D-M will fit in the smallest car trunk, a garbage can, a newspaper vending machine. And detonation is simple. There aren’t any special codes or permissive-action links required to set it off. Takes about two minutes to arm, then you just set the timer and walk away. ASA’s got me full-time on the theft. Their forensic team from Fort Gillem has been striking out right and left.”
“Striking out?” Garrett questioned. Fort Gillem, he knew, was the headquarters for the Army’s CDIC, their version of the FBI’s forensic unit, and damn near just as skilled. “You mean with their evidence findings?”
