Nobody had.
“OK, well I’m sure that you can imagine they can be invaluable for a lot of dangerous tasks. We use them for everything from narcotics interdiction to explosive ordnance detection . . . all the way up to search and rescue and scouting missions behind enemy lines.” Oakley laughed and shook his head again, “Seriously, we actually parachute dogs behind enemy lines. Anyway, as valuable as the canine soldiers are, they’re also extremely difficult to produce in both quality and quantity. We could throw thousands of dogs into service, but highly trained dogs are another matter. It takes a lot of time and a lot of money to end up with something that might get turned into a furry gut pile the first time it got distracted and stepped on a land mine. Our project was working on a highly advanced chemical sensor that could take the place of a canine bio-unit.”
“I’ve seen some of those bomb sniffer boxes in use by an EOD team before,” Estes said.
“Ours was a million times more sensitive. Actually, it benchmarked at 1.377 million times more sensitive, and that was just the prototype.”
A hand rose next to Thorn; it was the only civilian that had made it out with them and survived. Oakley nodded at the nondescript, thirty-something lady, “Miss Veil, correct?”
“Nora,” she replied.
“Nora, do you have a question?”
“More of a statement. Last year I was working as a civilian contractor at a medical facility in Dallas. I got to watch a demonstration where they brought in a dog . . . some kind of spaniel, I think . . . and it walked by a row of patients and picked out which ones had cancer. One of our attending physicians was watching the test as well, and at the end of the line, the dog keyed in on him. It turns out that he had an undiagnosed case of stage three pancreatic cancer.”
Oakley smiled, “The repercussions of our Robodog technology have the potential to affect a wide spectrum of applications. Imagine how it would revolutionize our medical system if a doctor could simply walk into a room full of patients and, with a few adjustments on a device small enough to fit in his hand, he could tell who had diabetes, or cancer, or heart disease, or even the flu.”
“Or whatever is turning us into red-eyed, homicidal maniacs,” Estes shot back. “Is that what this is about? Are you about to tell me that this dog sniffer gizmo is somehow related to what’s going on?”
“No, not at all . . . that’s just some background so you can understand the answer to your question.”
Estes glowered at the man and tapped his watch.
“Yes sir, I’m trying. Where was I?”
“Working in the research and development lab making artificial dog noses,” PFC Spurlock answered.
“Yes, that’s correct. When our project—our initial prototype that is—was showing promise, we had to put together a demonstration for the powers that be that controlled the finances. No matter what you hear about national security, the bottom line is that it’s always about the money. I was in charge of that demonstration. Now, you have to understand something. My background in science is highly varied. Yes, I specialized in chemical engineering, but in reality I’m kind of a ‘jack of all trades’ geek.” The lieutenant looked around the room again, stopping at the scowling captain. “Many of the people, the ‘big fish’ in the decision-making, money appropriating, ‘go or no go’ echelon are not scientists. They don’t speak the same language. Most of them are intelligent, driven, and successful people who wield vast amounts of power in our government, but the facts are that they just don’t understand all the terms and technology on the same level that the people who developed whatever project or gizmo they’re trying to get funded do. That’s where I come in. My background, combined with my apparently natural gift for gab, allowed me to explain Robodog on a level that the backers could both understand and relate to. It’s almost laughable to me when I think about it now, but someone at that meeting—I don’t know who—recognized the apparent proficiency I had in explaining technical ‘geeky-nerdy’ ideas and projects to others who may not share the same background.”
He ripped open one of the peanut butter packets and spooned some out with his finger before continuing. “A few weeks later I found myself in the military and transferred to the Pentagon. Since then, my job has been to review different projects and come up with ways to convey the technological vocabulary or concepts to those who may otherwise not understand. In other words, like I said, I’m a translator. Only now it’s not as a salesman for biotechnology firms or robotics companies. I’m on the other side now. The military has me working in the capacity to help them understand the technology that companies are trying to get them to invest in, and . . .,” he added with emphasis, “also to explain to the generals, admirals, and all the way up to the joint chiefs, any project that was deemed ‘likely to be misunderstood’ that came out of their own bunkers, so to speak.”
His words ended with another slurp at the peanut butter as he sat down. Estes’s tired brain tried to digest the information as the Lieutenant’s lips smacked together, forcing the sticky brown substance into his mouth.
“It sounds to me like you’d be a very valuable person with all that cutting edge technology floating around in your head. Not that it matters now, but why aren’t you kept under lock and key?”
“Normally I am. When I traveled it was with a contingent of guards that were assigned to protect me, or if that failed, eliminate me. It truly sucked, but for a geek like me, the tradeoff in access to advanced technology was worth it. You seriously would not believe what’s coming down the pipe in the next few years. That is,” he added quietly, “if we’re still around then.”
“Where is your security detail now?”
“They never made it to my staging area, so the decision was made to disguise me and send me on anyway.”
“As an E-4?”
“Short notice . . . best they could do under the circumstances.”
“So, all of this has something to do with why you were at the school, and what’s happening in the world?”
“Yes, it’s all related, although I’m mostly in the dark as to the specifics.”
“I thought you said that your job was to review all the tech stuff before you had to translate it into something that General So and So could understand?”
“Yes sir, but like I also said, I haven’t yet been able to access the information to review. Major Larrabee was flying in—not to take over command of the school—but to pick me up. All I know is that we were heading to Canada for some emergency biomedical conference. I was supposed to be on the same chopper with him when he flew out of Bismarck, but in all the confusion, I got shifted onto a flight that landed at the school. Colonel Jordan didn’t like the fact that I wouldn’t answer his questions, and when the orders came directly from central command for Major Larrabee to make a priority one stop to pick up a lowly E-4, the Colonel must have decided that he could score a few brownie points with somebody by finding out what I knew. The only problem was I hadn’t reviewed anything yet. I was supposed to do it on the flight in to the conference.”
Estes sighed and copied the Lieutenant’s eyebrow rubbing display. “So you actually know nothing, and are about as useless as a duck’s umbrella.”
“I know that one of the focus points of the conference was the human immune response to pathogens.” When nobody reacted, Lieutenant Oakley cleared his throat and said, “There’s something else. I don’t know what it means, but a few hours before I got the mixed up flight orders, I heard Major Larrabee talking to someone on his SAT-COM unit. He said that we had a ‘Green teardrop event.’”
“What’s that?” Lieutenant Pope asked.
Oakley shrugged and shook his head, “I have no idea.”
“Captain, do you want the good news or the bad news?” The radio crackled to life with the question.
“Oh, I suppose I’ll take the good news.”
“Yes, sir. We might have a way to fix the tire on the A3. There’s a whole logjam of vehicles up at the inte
rsection—a lot more than I originally thought. My count, confirmed by Bones, is over seventy assorted civilian vehicles.”
“And that’s good news how?”
“One of the vehicles is a tow truck, and I ain’t never seen a tow truck that didn’t have a big ol’ box of tools with it.”
“And the bad news?”
“A couple of things. First off, we’re going to have to push, pull, or drag a lot of those vehicles to make a way past them. The intersection is really just a road that cuts off to the left from the main highway, but it looks like a lot of people buried their cars up to the axles in the soft mud trying to find a way around other cars that were wrecked. Anyhow, we’re going to have to move some vehicles if we want to go any further south. The second thing is that when we move those vehicles, we might piss off the goblins that are wandering around them.”
“How many are there?”
“We spotted at least fifteen moving the same time, but from our standoff position, we can’t tell for sure. There could be ten times that many in that mess.”
“Understood, head on back and we’ll take a look at our options.”
“Copy that, Keene out.”
He dropped the microphone to his side, and then froze for a moment in thought. A look of curiosity passed over his face for a split second, and then he scooped up the handset and transmitted. “Keene, hold up a second.”
“Yes sir?”
“Can you see any road signs that mark that little highway to the left?”
“Hold one, sir.” The sergeant’s voice disappeared for a moment, and then cut back in. “Captain, Mr. ‘Eagle Eyes’ Bones Henry says the road is marked as Highway 704 east.”
Estes reached into his breast pocket and pulled out small section of notebook paper. In fine, printed script was an address given to him by the steel-eyed mystery man. He stared at the writing for a second, and then keyed the microphone. “Come on back Sergeant, we’ve got some planning to do.”
Chapter 35
*click*
Sunrise is still about an hour away, but for some reason I just can’t stay asleep. Probably a multitude of reasons. I mean, it’s not like the last few days haven’t been something of a tossup between dreams and nightmares. Where to begin? That always seems to be the way that I start these recordings, but I guess that very statement tells me where to begin—these recordings. Obviously I have my recorder again. I’m having a hard time remembering the last time that I actually recorded something, though. It had to be, or at least it seems like, a lifetime and a half ago. I think it was the night before Emily and I made it to the logging road. No, that’s not correct. I made another recording after that . . . on Walter’s porch late in the night after we brought my uncle, Emily, and Samantha back from the cabin. I guess it doesn’t really matter right now. In all honesty, right now, nothing matters to me except the “right now.” Wow, I think that was three “right now’s” in a row. Four if you count that last one. So, to who’s ever listening to this, I imagine you’ll want to know where here is, and how I got here from . . . there? Then? Whatever. Let me throw a couple more pieces of wood on the fire before I start playing catch up on my diary. It’s a little chilly, and although I know you can’t see it, I’m outside. Be right back.
*click*
OK, it was yesterday that we raided the campground. Somehow or other we walked away from that basically unscathed. Truth be told, though, I hurt. My body aches just about everywhere. I think it was mostly from the ride in the trailer, although I’m sure that crashing through the tin roof of the office porch and smashing into a huge oak tree contributed a bit to my bumps, thumps, and bruises. Believe it or not, I think the frigid lake water at the end of the trailer ride did some good. Kind of like bathing yourself in a huge ice pack after getting the tar and feathers kicked out of you by a street gang—or so I’d imagine. Doc Collins had to add a few more stitches where I tore my ankle again, and Callie wrapped the crap out of it. It’s not near as flexible as it was, but I suppose that they’re right and I should give it a day or so of rest. Or at least not so much abuse. Anyhow, we made it back to the marina in record time, and despite the tarp that we were using as a wind shield, every single one of us that had gone swimming were chattering like those wind-up jumping teeth they sell around Halloween. We beached the ski boat and offloaded, and then Sam, Michelle, and the young boy got ferried up to Walters’s house for a hot shower and a change of clothes. I volunteered for dry clothes, hot tea—two giant-sized mugs of it—and PR duty with people at the store that were waiting for our report. I thought about giving a “heads up” briefing to Walter, Amy, and the others first, but by the time I had changed into dry clothes and downed my first mug of tea, most of the people in the store had gathered around me and were pressing for any information they could. Ray was there as well. The long and short of it is that the child we rescued at the campground didn’t belong to anybody at the store, and almost as soon as that realization hit them, they were out the door, loaded up, and following the fire truck. I guess I should also mention that two of the couples that had originally said they were staying ended up changing their mind. By the time the tail end of their caravan disappeared from sight, it was just a little after noon. Amy had also pulled me aside for a little chat. It turns out that her and Preacher Dave—Rebecca and Scott also—had decided to stay with the others at the store. The two couples we lost had brought the numbers from ten people down to six, and their little influx would bring it back. She also mentioned that she’d be happy to take care of the boy we rescued. By that time, I was almost finished with my second giant mug of tea, and the semi-warmth that was returning to my body was fighting a losing battle against the pressure in my bladder. I excused myself and went to the restroom in the store. It was one of those long . . . really long . . . moments of relief that just seems to go on forever. But hey, I’m sure you’ve been there, so I’ll try and skip over the toilet humor for now. No promises that I won’t come back to it though. So where was I? Oh yeah, in the bathroom. When I came out, Walter and Sam were there, talking to Mr. Lee and the others. As soon as I shut the door behind me, Sam came over, his gap-toothed grin leading the way.
“Hey chief, how are you doing?” he asked.
“Starting to thaw out. I’m getting kind of hungry though, I guess the lobster is wearing off.”
“I happen to know there’s a big pot of hot oatmeal due to arrive here in about five minutes.”
He kept his gaze tracking on me for a bit too long, and that immediately triggered my suspicions. “What?”
“Nothing . . .”
My glare shot forward and collided with his mischievous grin midway between our faces. In the space of two seconds, my glare had tunneled through and kicked the stuffing out of his grin, and he broke into a low chuckle. “OK, I’m not saying where I got this information, but the word on the street is that you like to eat dog food.”
I rolled my eyes at the memory of the porridge-like mystery slop that Bernice had watched me eat before confessing that it was, in fact, meant for Max. I was about to explain that to Sam when Walter came over.
His gruff features brought a sense of familiarity and stability to my mind, but at the same time, they carried along the vision of Marty’s red eyes on top of the office roof. He must have recognized the grimace that passed over my face.
“Tell me about it later.” His voice was steady and even, but his eyes seem to sparkle with excess moisture.
I nodded.
“I’m getting ready,” he said, “to run the tractor down here and scoop up all the bodies. For right now I’m moving the dumpster across the road and all the way to the back of the gravel parking lot. That’s where I’m going to put them.”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
“No, I’ve already got some volunteers.” He nodded at the man with a braided beard and waved him over. The Asian man, Mr. Lee, followed at his heels.
“Officer Coleman,” the pot-bellied man with a long white bea
rd thrust forward a hand, “We haven’t been formally introduced yet. My name is Clark Jasinski—C.J. for short. My wife over there is Nancy.” He thumbed toward a dark haired lady who was seated on the ground playing one corner of a ‘hand ping-pong’ square with BB, his brother, and their mother.
Still holding Walter’s shotgun over his shoulder, Mr. Lee extended his arm as I was shaking hands with C.J. “Choon Lee.”
I shook hands with him. “Call me Eric. I’m sorry I haven’t had the time to talk with either of you personally in the last few days. Things have been, as you well know, a bit hectic.”
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 34
