Vic sat up a bit. “Sir, first I’d like to apologize for the business with Phenomen-X. I should have consulted with you before I brought them in, and I should have debriefed them before they left.”
“You’re right on both counts,” Alphonse responded. “Those people are a valuable resource to us. Regardless, had you consulted with me I would have agreed to bring them in. Events on this end prevented us from looking any further into Promise, but I suspect they would have worked out well.”
“You know,” Abe cut in, “I feel kinda like we didn’t get a chance down there. We’d barely gotten started when you yanked us back. I know you had some problem with Agent Stan, but can you tell us why the hell we’re sitting in Georgetown instead of working on the situation in Promise?”
“I’ll let Agent Nancy do that, actually,” Alphonse said. “She debriefed Agent Stan and has some information for you. But don’t worry, Agent Thomas. This op’s not over by a damn sight.”
Agent Nancy looked up from her notes and began talking. As she did, she struck Vic as being very strange in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. Nancy looked like an NFL cheerleader, except for the huge, thick glasses perched on her nose and the too-large sweatshirt she wore to try to hide her attractive figure. When she spoke, her voice had a tone that somehow didn’t match her face. It just didn’t belong to the young woman sitting there, as if Lauren Bacall was dubbing her voice over a performance by Marilyn Monroe. She spoke with an accent unsettlingly reminiscent of the man with gold teeth.
“In the spring of 1997, Cell S investigated the case of a teenager named Billy Ray Spivey. He was on a multi-state crime spree, and surveillance video showed him committing feats of superhuman strength. Once he was captured, we determined that portions of his body had been replaced with some sort of superior material. It was still biological material, and on first inspection it looked like bone, muscle, skin, and so forth. Closer analysis showed that the material could in fact be any of those things at any moment, or indeed most any other organic substance it chose, and that it seemingly had a will of its own—or at least some set of instincts or instructions. We termed this substance ‘neo-tissue,’ for lack of a better word.
“Cell S’s investigation led to the boy’s hometown of Groversville, which had been suffering a rash of UFO sightings and alleged alien abductions. Cell S determined that this neo-tissue was present in large quantities in the town’s reservoir, and that the entire population had been infected by it. A DG friendly along for the op died because of such an infection. Within days, whoever was in charge of this situation pulled the plug. The Centers for Disease Control were called in—we still don’t know by who—and they quarantined the town. Hantavirus killed a few hundred residents over a period of two weeks. Before Cell S fled the scene, they had a standoff with an armed group of federal agents led by an older man with three gold teeth. He knew Cell S worked for Delta Green. I gather you’ve met him.
“A month ago, Cell S came to Memphis looking for a Groversville survivor who’d popped up. As you know, they learned nothing useful and returned after three days.
“What we didn’t know is that there was no such survivor in the first place. Cell S was ambushed on their first night in Memphis and abducted. They were subjected to surgery, which involved the implantation of neo-tissue, and then they were released with no memory of their abduction. Instead, they remembered nothing but fruitless efforts to interview the survivor.”
The members of Cell T looked at each other, surprised at the news. “What was the surgery for?” Stephanie asked.
“Insurance. They wanted to flush Cell S out and program them to report on any further investigations into Groversville—now Promise. Should anything come up, they had instructions on how to contact their handlers and report on what we were doing. They brought them back in a couple weeks later to run some tests. Stan and Susan were released right away. Why they kept Shasta, I have no idea.”
Alphonse broke in. “You know we routinely practice a policy of compartmentalization. This is why. I kept the rest of Cell S out of the investigation of Shasta’s disappearance, and it’s a damn good thing. So far, not a word has gone up the channel to their handlers. They don’t even know that Agent Stan is dead.”
“He’s dead?” Vic asked, looking right at Agent Nancy. “I thought you debriefed him.”
Agent Nancy shifted nervously in her seat and looked at Alphonse, who paused thoughtfully before speaking. “He didn’t survive. The neo-tissue fled his system, and had replaced enough crucial elements that he couldn’t live without it. It wasn’t very pretty.”
Stephanie was unsettled. “So you’re saying that the last time I saw Shasta, he had already been abducted? He had that stuff in his body?”
“I’m afraid so,” Alphonse said.
“Anyway, there’s a silver lining to all this,” Nancy continued. “Agent Susan is likewise programmed to report should she hear anything about us and Promise. She doesn’t know about what’s going on. We can feed her whatever scenario we like, and then find out who she reports to. Follow the chain.”
“You call that a silver lining?” Vic said forcefully. Nancy was getting under her skin, though she wasn’t sure why. “Susan doesn’t know she’s got some crazy shit in her body, and not only are we not gonna tell her but we’re gonna use her as bait? What great fucking news!”
“Calm down, Agent Tonya,” Alphonse said quietly.
“I’m not gonna calm down! Can’t we cure her or something?”
Nancy sighed. “Maybe. But only if the neo-tissue hasn’t replaced anything critical. And only if we can get her into a trauma unit before the stuff bails, because she may be bleeding out when it happens, like Stan. He got shot to hell during the ambush, and they replaced a lot of him with this stuff to cover it up, so when it left him it was a death sentence. Now from what Stan told us, Susan was taken unharmed. Hopefully she’ll have pretty minimal infestation.”
“Then let’s fuckin’ do it!”
“We can’t,” Nancy replied evenly. “Not yet. We can’t tip off her handlers until we can track them down. For all we know, removing the neo-tissue could warn them somehow; we don’t know this stuff’s capabilities. And to top it off, we’re not even sure we can remove it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s vulnerable, don’t get me wrong. Fire, acid, the usual. But chasing it out of a living human isn’t going to be easy. We developed a procedure, after Groversville first went down. It’s a radical treatment, it’s very dangerous—essentially, it’s a controlled form of blood poisoning, and if it’s not supervised properly, it’s fatal. But we haven’t had a test on an infected human subject. We haven’t had the opportunity until now.”
“So we use Susan as a double agent, then hope we get her back so maybe she can survive an experimental treatment that could kill her.”
“Bingo.”
“This sucks!”
Alphonse coughed, drawing everyone’s attention and stopping the conversation short. He lit a cigarette, inhaled, and blew out a smoke ring. Finally, he spoke. “It always does, agent. That’s why we’re here.”
Vic sat back angrily in her chair and finished off her drink. She shook her head. “Another round here, bartender.” Then, quietly: “Agent Susan, we hardly knew ya.”
Lt. Commander Elizabeth Severs tapped the edge of her desk with a pencil and looked at her appointment book: “Lunch w/Ms. Green 1pm.” She’d found the message waiting on her voice mail this morning when she arrived at the Office of Naval Intelligence in Suitland, Maryland, a suburb of Washington, D.C. The ONI was the U.S. Navy’s intelligence organization, and Elizabeth spent her days deciphering ELINT data—ELINT meant Electronics Intelligence, and consisted of signals received from radar, satellites, computers, and other sources of real-world data that did not consist of human-to-human communication. She was skilled at turning digitized electromagnetic information into recognizable shapes: submarines, fleet move-ments, and so forth. If pe
ople built it and it was in the water someplace, Elizabeth could find it and quote you chapter and verse on its specifications.
Her desk was littered with crossword puzzles. She worked at them constantly, even while on duty. It was calming to decipher information provided in a form that anyone could relate to—everybody knew what “Earth’s largest satellite” meant, but few could recognize the sound of a Russian-built twin-screw Kilo-class diesel submarine. Crosswords were her lifeline to the real world, they made her feel that she wasn’t quite such a specialist in obscurities. Her customary approach to deciphering a new mass of data was to use her left hand to tap at the keyboard while her right hand held a pen and fidgeted over a crossword. She’d whip her head back and forth, applying a custom signal-processing filter one moment and then agonizing over 12 Across (“21 Jump & 10 Downing”) the next. Her co-workers didn’t think twice about it anymore, but sometimes visitors gawked; it never occurred to her that her passionate effort to remain connected with the real world just made her look even more disconnected.
Her lunch appointment was in half an hour. She recognized the modus operandi: a Delta Green agent was requesting a wetware interface. (That was her usual phrase for meeting someone in person; she really had no idea just how far outside the mainstream she’d gotten.) This was bothering her for some reason, though she wasn’t quite sure why. There was the disappearance of David, of course, but if this was about him, wouldn’t the meeting be with Alphonse? Of course, “Ms. Green” (or “Mr. Green”) was a standard nom de plume for the group; she had no idea who it might be, and conceivably Ms. Green could be Andrea of Cell A, coming in place of Alphonse. Presumably, though, Ms. Green was some other agent looking for information on a past Cell S op. Elizabeth shrugged mentally; she’d find out soon enough.
Still, she was unsettled enough—probably because of this David business—that she decided to leave her office early and go see Harley. Rear Admiral Harley Patton was the director of the ONI, and also the man who’d recruited her into Delta Green almost ten years ago, first as a friendly and then, in 1995, as a full agent.
Elizabeth got up from her desk and got her coat and purse. She was thirty-seven, short and stocky, with black hair that framed her fleshy oval face. As she walked out of the office, her heels punched holes through the papers on the floor. She didn’t notice.
The floor of Elizabeth’s office was littered with dozens of torn-out crossword puzzles. For the last month, she’d been doing them at the rate of almost a hundred a day, zipping through them as fast as she could read in between bouts of signal processing. They accumulated on her desk so fast that she’d taken to tossing them on the floor, where the cleaning staff picked them up and disposed of them every night. A few of her co-workers had made nervous jokes about it, but they hadn’t registered with her—this sudden surge of activity was somehow compartmentalized in her mind, and she wasn’t even aware that it was going on.
It took her almost ten minutes to reach Harley’s office. He was up in administration, away from the analysts’ warren where she worked. His secretary, Jacob, smiled when he saw her. “You can go on in. I think the old man’s practicing his swing.” Elizabeth smiled back and opened the door. That Jacob is sweet on me, she thought. Or as an alternative helix he’s sculpted of sugar and meltdowns in the rainbow or through a prism of mitochondria.
Harley Patton had his feet up on his desk, his arms behind his head, and his eyes focused on the large picture window in the opposite wall. It was mirrored on the outside for security reasons, and dampers at the edges prevented vibration-sensitive lasers from recording conversations held within. “Lizzie!” he exclaimed as she walked in and saluted him. He sat up and returned her salute. “What brings you up to these lofty heights?”
Elizabeth took a seat opposite his desk. “I was just wondering, Harley. I’ve got a lunch date with Ms. Green today. Do you know anything about that?”
The smile briefly faded from Harley’s wrinkled, weathered face. “No, it’s news to me, darlin’. I suppose it’s about Shasta.”
She nodded. “That’s my guess, but why Ms. Green then? Wouldn’t it be Alphonse?”
Harley shrugged. “Lizzie, I left that game. I’m happy to do what I can to help out, but it’s not much. They got me pretty boxed in here. They hand you a load of security clearances, next thing you know you can’t take off your shoe without somebody wanting your sole.” He cackled and slapped the desk.
“Harley, you’re incorrigible.”
“It’s the devil in me. Mrs. Patton always said so.”
“I’m sure she knew. Well, I’d better get to that lunch date. Sorry to bug ya.” She started to get up.
“Hey, wait,” Harley blurted. “Siddown.”
She did so.
“Listen, I know this Shasta thing is bad news. How ya dealing with it?”
“Just fine, Harley. Comes with the territory.”
“Just fine, yeah, I know,” he said quietly, drumming his fingers on his desk. “But look. I’m a little worried about you.” He paused. “Other people are worried about you. You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“What do you mean, Harley?”
“I mean, maybe you should take some time off. Hell, you never take a rest from this place. That’s my secret—I get outta here every damn chance I get. All those zeroes and ones, hell, it’d crack anyone up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know, I asked Alphonse about you and this Shasta business. Because I’m worried about you. He stonewalled me. Hah! Old bastard. He’s never forgiven me for letting Darren go down.”
“What is this about, Harley?”
He sighed. “You’ve been acting a little strange lately, darlin’. People notice. It’s not good. They come to me and say that Santa’s little helper is maybe stressed out, maybe.”
“I love my work, Harley. I work hard. Not everyone understands that.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. But . . . darlin’, can you tell me about this?” He pulled a folder from a stack on his desk and opened it up. Inside was a ripped-out crossword puzzle, all filled in—but not in English. The puzzle was filled with strange markings, almost like cuneiform.
“I got almost a thousand like this. A thousand. In just a few weeks. What the hell’s up with this?”
Elizabeth sat there quietly, staring at the markings on the puzzle. Position suborned assault substantiate blanket, she thought.
“Lizzie? Help me out, here.”
“Bury it. Bury it, Harley. Or I tell the press how I slept with you to get into the ONI.”
Harley boggled. “Lizzie! What the hell is that talk? We never did no such thing!”
“It doesn’t matter, Harley. You’re old. You’re just marking time here. They’ll make you retire, no matter what you say. When the press figures out how Darren was your protegé, they’ll torpedo you. You’ll be gray and under way, Harley.”
“Christ, Lizzie! For the love of Christ, girlie, you’re like a daughter to me, how can you say these things?” The old man was distraught.
“I love my work. I want to stay here. Bury it, Harley.”
He shook his head, uncomprehending. But finally a small voice emerged from his weary bones.
“Okay.”
Elizabeth rose sharply and saluted. He just stared at her. She left the office.
Lunch, she thought. Digestive enzymes break down organic matter shunt wastes absorb nutrients. Pleasure center indication stimulus derivation glucose-spiked mastication experience.
“Stick of gum?” she asked Jacob as she took a pack from her purse.
“Nah, I got Altoids,” he replied. “How’s the old man?”
“Still not getting any,” she said cheerfully, putting a piece of gum in her mouth.
“No wonder he’s always playing golf.”
“Why me?” Stephanie said in the dim barroom. “Vic’s the cell leader. She’s got the most experience.” The expression on Vic’s face seemed to suggest that she concurred.
“Because you pulled the trigger,” Alphonse said coolly. “They’re going to be curious about you. They might even have a grudge. Because of the three of you, you’re the most interesting to the people behind Shasta’s disappearance.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Make her believe you.”
Elizabeth exited the ONI building and headed for the nearest intersection. It was around noon, and the sun warmed the busy lunchtime pedestrians as they poured out of office buildings and came blinking into the light. She crossed the street and entered a little park, erected by the Navy. At the entrance was a small memorial to Naval personnel lost in the Cold War. Elizabeth stopped by the memorial and stared at the names on the list. She tapped her foot impatiently.
A blond woman got out of a taxi and walked over to the memorial. She turned to face Elizabeth. “Hi,” she said. Elizabeth looked at her. “I’m Ms. Green,” the woman explained, and they shook hands. Ms. Green was taller than Elizabeth, quietly attractive with a studious air about her. She wore a dark blue peasant dress with a necklace made of small seashells.
“What is this about?” Elizabeth asked curtly.
“I just need to talk to you,” Ms. Green said, a little nervously. “I need some help.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Okay. Where to?”
Ms. Green looked around, then gestured at a sandwich stand. “Let’s get a bite to eat and go find a bench.”
“So where do we meet?” Stephanie asked.
“Meet her in a public space,” Alphonse replied. The fire was burning low, and it had gotten quite dark in the barroom. Abe got up to put another log on. “Get a hot dog or something. Stay outside, in the open, away from the street. It doesn’t matter if her handlers are eavesdropping. You just want to make sure they can’t take you.”
Delta Green: Strange Authorities Page 15
