“Is that what I’m hearing? Residual signal capacity?”
“It is.”
“And ALP can pinpoint the location of these signals?”
She was too polite to roll her eyes but I could tell she wanted to. Reclaiming her baby, she tapped a key. My entire team crowded around to look over her shoulder as a series of numbers and letters appeared in the oval display. Even I, the only certified non-techie present, could recognize GPS coordinates when they smacked me in the face.
“Quick! I need to write down these coordinates.”
Rocky snatched a notepad off my desk and Pen offered her nibbled-on pencil. The pencil was a little slippery but I wrapped my fingers around it without hesitation. I share a CHU with Dr. Penelope England during our quarterly excursions to Dry Springs, remember? Having been subject to her excessive passion for things natural and organic, I can state with utter confidence that her saliva is safer than the drinking water in all fifty states.
“Dennis, fire up my computer. Let’s enter these coordinates and see where they are.”
Ms. Singh let out a long sigh. “ALP has built-in satellite mapping capability.” She tapped another key and a red star popped up on the screen.
“Zoom out,” I requested.
Two lines appeared.
“Again.”
The lines resolved into Highway 54 as it snaked across the border of Texas and New Mexico.
There was no river anywhere in sight. The possibility that the phone used to contact Mr. Armstrong might not be at the bottom of the Rio Grande or any other body of water sent a frisson of excitement down my spine.
“Zoom out one more time.”
Towns appeared. El Paso to the south. Orogrande, New Mexico, to the north. Dry Springs at the far edge of the map to the east.
We all leaned in for a closer look. Rocky’s bony elbow dug into my side. Pen came close to putting out my eye with a Chinese chopstick. Dennis stated what was now obvious to us all.
“Looks like the device emitting these residual signals is in the middle of the desert. This spot’s almost as isolated as CHU-ville.” His glance cut to me. “What’s this all about, Lieutenant?”
“I’ll tell you later. Ms. Singh, would you consider leaving ALP with us for further evaluation? Dr. Balboa will be happy to assist you with the necessary paperwork.”
Rocky blinked but took the hint and escorted the young woman out of my cubbyhole and down the hall to his. That left Pen and Dennis staring at me with intense curiosity.
“Hang on,” I told them. “I need to relay this information. Then we’ll get Rocky back in here and I’ll explain all.”
I dialed Mitch’s number again. He answered on the first ring.
“What’s going on, Samantha?”
“That disposable cell phone you’re looking for? I know where it is.”
“Are you serious?”
“Is a pig pork?”
That was pretty lame but I was too excited for my usual witty repartee. Mitch only grunted.
“The FBI says the device is dead. How the hell did you locate it?”
“Too complicated to go into over the phone.”
Which was my way of saying I wasn’t up to explaining ALP to another non-techie.
“Got a pencil? I’ll give you the exact location.”
I rattled off the coordinates and posed the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
“Can I tell my team why you’re looking for the phone?”
“Okay, but advise them to keep it close-hold unless and until I say otherwise.”
“Will do. And . . .”
Too late. He’d already cut the connection. I swallowed my request that he keep me advised about ongoing events. Personally. Say, over dinner. Any night this week or next.
I had to rein in Pen and O’Reilly’s impatience until Rocky finished with Ms. Singh and escorted her out of the building. Luckily, Sergeant Cassidy returned from his appointment just as I was about to Tell All, thus sparing me the necessity of repeating myself later.
My team grasped the significance of the anonymous phone to Mr. Armstrong right away. Noel spoke for them all when he swore and shook his head in disgust.
“Someone set the old guy up.”
“That’s what Mitch—Agent Mitchell—thinks.”
“What kind of heartless bastard would play on a father’s grief and incite him to commit murder?”
“Maybe the same heartless bastard who used a cell phone to remotely detonate the fire in our lab.”
I showed them the arson investigation report and told them about my earlier visit to the fire department. We spent the rest of the morning in animated, if fruitless, speculation as to who had made the calls.
My office phone rang in mid-afternoon. I picked up, wondering if Mitch had decided to use a land line to let me know the results of his treasure hunt. I had to stifle a severe pang of disappointment when the caller identified himself as Lieutenant Colonel Bob Williams.
I knew him by name if not by sight. He’s one of those program managers I told you about. The kind who sit in a big office at DARPA Headquarters and managed trillion-dollar projects at major universities and research centers. As opposed to moi, stuck out here in . . .
Never mind. No point in more whining. You’ve heard enough of it.
“Hi, Colonel Williams. What’s up?”
“Your test lab, according to Dr. Jessup. He’s tagged me to conduct the official inquiry.”
“Oh. Right. Did he happen to give you a copy of the interim CID report?”
“He did.”
I didn’t bother to suggest an official inquiry might be superfluous given evidence of arson. During my thirteen months in uniform, I’d learned the hard way that reason and logic always yield to rules and regulations.
“I’ll be arriving in El Paso Friday morning at nine-twenty,” Colonel Williams informed me. “Delta flight 817.”
“Delta flight 817. Got it.”
“I’d like you to pick me up and drive out to the site with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you Friday.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon on DARPA’s website, reading about the projects Colonel Williams had in the works.
No, I didn’t intend to kiss ass! But neither did I want to sound like a total airhead during the long drive out to Dry Springs.
I have to say the colonel was working some impressive programs. Like a Constant Volume Combustion engine capable of delivering twelve thousand pounds of payload up to nine thousand nautical miles in less than two hours. And, at the opposite end of the spectrum, the world’s smallest UAV. That’s Unmanned Aerial Vehicle to you non-military types. Or to use the vernacular, a remote-controlled drone.
This particular UAV was less than three inches long, flapped its wings like a blood-sucking mosquito and—brace yourself!—was the result of a $1.7 million Phase One brain-storming project. I gaped at the insect-like vehicle and wondered what would prevent some hungry sparrow from deciding it was supper.
I was still perusing Colonel Williams’s projects when Mitch called. My pulse kicked into overdrive as I recognized his number on my cell phone’s digital display. I flipped up the lid and wasted no time on preliminaries.
“Did you find it?”
“We did.” His voice reverberated with satisfaction. “Looks like someone removed the memory card and put a boot heel to the case, but the circuit board was more or less intact. Must have been how you picked up those residual signals.”
“Must have.”
“Paul Donati wants to talk to you about that.”
“No problem. Tell him I’m available for consultation any day but Friday.”
“Why not Friday?”
“I have to go back out to the site.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure. Probably just the day. Why?”
“No reason.”
I mulled that over for a moment before asking, “Will the pieces of the phone p
rovide any additional evidence as to who made the call to Armstrong?”
“Too soon to tell, but you can bet the FBI forensics team is going to swipe, spray or sniff every atom of it. I’ll let you know if they find anything.”
I hung up wondering if I’d imagined that kiss at my place. Agent Mitchell certainly didn’t seem in much of a hurry for a repeat performance.
TO my surprise, Dr. J didn’t share Mitch’s excitement over the found phone . . . or FST-3’s role in locating it. He initiated a video-call the following afternoon and looked distinctly uncomfortable at being thrust into what I soon realized was a turf war.
“I received a visit from a Special Agent assigned to CID Headquarters a little while ago, Samantha. He was accompanied by an FBI agent.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh is right. They strongly suggested that any information or evidence relating to an investigation being conducted on U.S. military installations be channeled through them, not the Border Patrol.”
“How dumb am I?” I shook my head at my own naivete. “For some reason, I thought all those guys with badges were on the same side.”
Dr. J cleared his throat and looked as stern as anyone in a tweedy sport coat and red-checked bow tie could.
“The agents also advised that this case is extremely sensitive, with very high level interest.”
“Sensitive is right. My nerve endings jump and twitter every time I think about stumbling over those bodies. Good thing I found them, though, or there wouldn’t be an investigation.”
“Yes, well, try to remember to go through proper channels in the future.”
“Yes, sir.”
I disconnected, my jaw tight. I knew who I owed for that little dressing down. CID agent Hurst aka Comb-Over and I would have a come-to-Jesus meeting. Soon.
I had pretty much gotten over my snit when I left to pick up Lieutenant Colonel Williams at the airport the next morning. Resilience is one of my more positive traits, if I do say so myself. I tend to bounce back quickly from scoldings and reprimands. Probably because I’ve been on the receiving end of so many.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d be out at the site so I packed a cooler with bottled water and stashed some PowerBars in my purse. Advising my team I’d see them when I saw them, I drove to the airport.
The colonel strode out of the gate area looking sharp and senior officer-ish in his service uniform. That’s the dark blue one we wear when we’re playing dress-up. The silver oak leaves designating his rank gleamed in the bright lights, as did his nickel-coated command pilot wings perched above rows of colorful ribbons.
I suspected those wings wouldn’t look anywhere near as bright and shiny after a day of poking around our test site but kept the thought to myself as I shook his hand.
“Good flight, sir?”
“Good enough.”
I escorted him to the parking lot. When he caught sight of the Bronc, I got the usual forehead scrunching and disbelieving looks.
“Did the fire damage your vehicle? I didn’t see it listed under ancillary items on your report.”
“No, sir. It’s just, uh, well-seasoned.”
With a small grunt, he opened the door and slid into the front seat.
Despite that inauspicious beginning, I enjoyed the drive out to the site. All my prep work paid off. I got the colonel talking about his projects and could actually contribute an intelligent comment once in a while. As I mentioned earlier, he was working some really slick stuff. Even the mosquito drone made sense after he explained its aerodynamics and potential capabilities.
I could tell Dry Springs didn’t make much of an impression on him when we drove through. I thought about stopping at Pancho’s but decided to save that for the way back. By then the colonel would need feeding and something tall and cool to drink. So would I, although I knew I would have to pull a Mitch and stick to non-alcoholic beverages while chauffeuring a senior officer around.
Colonel Williams appeared even less impressed when we topped the rise that sloped down to CHU-ville. There they sat amid the cholla and scruffy mesquite: the five metal-sided boxes and dinky little storage shed that comprise FST-3’s test facility. The colonel didn’t say anything but I suspected he was giving silent if fervent thanks for his cushy office in Virginia.
When I pulled up at the site, he shed his coat and tie and rolled up his sleeves. We then spent three hot and distinctly uncomfortable hours while he inspected the fire-ravaged lab and verified the list of equipment we’d declared too damaged to salvage.
“Once I file my inquiry report, you’ll need to talk to DRMS about hauling off the CHU,” he said when he’d finished poking through the sooty remains. “They might be able to sell what’s left of it for scrap.”
“Er, DRMS?”
“The Defense Reutilization and Marketing Service. Not sure where the one for this region is located. You can look it up on the Internet.”
“Right.”
We were both sweating profusely when I padlocked the lab again and we climbed back into the Bronco. Thankfully, the colonel was very much in favor of a stop at Pancho’s when we cruised into Dry Springs.
He left his tie and blue jacket with all its shiny accoutrements in the Bronco and followed me inside. I could tell the moment his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He came to a dead stop, swiveled his head, and took in the Sports Illustrated decor. He was still admiring the view when Pancho strolled in from the convenience store side of his establishment.
“Hola, Lieutenant.”
“Hola, Pancho.”
I delivered the ritual kiss on his cheek and derived some comfort from the familiar, waxy scent of his mustache. I’d never deflate his macho-ness by telling him so, but Pancho has become sort of a father figure to me. Probably because I don’t remember much about my own. He disappeared from my life when I was three or four. My mom swears he split on us but I’m pretty sure it was the other way around.
“Who’s this?”
I introduced him to the colonel and we took stools at the bar. I ordered iced tea and my usual bowl of green chili stew. Colonel Williams ordered the same.
“So what’re you doing in Dry Springs?” Pancho asked as he served the drinks.
“Working the final report of the damage to the lab and our equipment.”
I put a slight but intentional emphasis on the word “final.” I was certain not even the United States government would require yet another submission. I nourished that foolish hope through two bowls of stew and for a good part of the drive back to El Paso.
En route, the colonel requested I drop him off at the hotel near the airport where he’d reserved a room. He planned to fly back to D.C. tomorrow afternoon, after inspecting the equipment we’d hauled away from the site.
I did a mental squirm but didn’t remind him this was Friday evening. Except when we were rusticating in Dry Springs, my team kept more or less regular hours. Weekends they indulged their individual interests.
Rocky had mentioned something about driving up to Albuquerque to visit a fellow engineer who worked at the air force’s Space Technology Lab. I wasn’t sure what O’Reilly had planned, but I knew that come nine o’clock tomorrow morning Pen would be sitting front row center at the monthly gathering of the El Paso chapter of Scientists for a Safer Environment. She’d dragged me to one meeting. So far I’ve managed to resist a repeat appearance. I just can’t get all worked up over lobbying Congress to classify quantum dots and nanoparticles as a new class of non-biodegradable pollutants.
Taking the coward’s way out, I flipped up my phone and hit speed dial for Sergeant Cassidy.
“Hey, Noel. I’m with Colonel Williams. Right. The colonel from Headquarters conducting the inquiry into our damaged equipment. He needs to inspect the items we salvaged tomorrow morning. Yes, tomorrow. Contact the rest of the team. Have everyone assemble at the office at . . .”
I glanced at my passenger for his druthers.
“Oh-six-thirty. That’ll give me a good three
or four hours to look over the equipment before I have to catch my plane back to D.C.”
Gulping, I relayed the time to Noel and left it to him to break the news to my team of dedicated professionals.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I picked Colonel Williams up at his hotel the next morning and drove him on-post. To my relief, all members of FST-3 showed for early morning roll call. Ignoring their mutters and nasty looks, I introduced them to the colonel.
He must have boned up on resumés before he flew out to El Paso as he had good things to say about Pen’s latest paper on fluorocarbons and the software mod Dennis had made to one of DARPA’s standardized programs. Sergeant Cassidy got a friendly nod and a returned salute, Rocky a glance that combined wariness and fascination.
“Dr. Balboa. I work with one of your, uh, former colleagues. Dr. Alvin Reed.”
The name obviously struck a nerve. Rocky blinked and twitched but stuck out his hand manfully. “Have his eyebrows grown back?”
“Not completely.”
I tucked that interesting exchange away for later discussion and herded my troops to the gym. Even at that ridiculous hour, weights clanked and sneakers squeaked on the basketball court. My nostrils twitched at the acrid odor of sweat overlaid with chlorine from the lap pool while we waited for Noel to hunt down someone with a key to the storage room where we’d crammed our salvaged equipment.
We un-crammed it piece by piece so the colonel could compare serial numbers and the equipment’s condition to the information I’d sent in. He made several notes in the margins of the report, which started me thinking things like liability and negligent behavior again, but he finished with a reassuring comment.
“Looks like you covered everything adequately in your report, Lieutenant. I’ll need an update on what works and doesn’t work when you set up and begin testing again.”
“Right. We’re looking for an interim facility. So far . . .” I glanced at Noel, who shook his head. “. . . no luck.”
“Maybe I can help with that. I’ll make some calls when I get back to D.C.”
All the Wrong Moves Page 11
