Koontz, Dean R. - Strangers

by Strangers(Lit)

front page. The pace of life in Elko County was rural, relaxed,

  sensible, and no one felt a burning need to be breathlessly

  up-to-the-minute on anything. The Sentinel was put to bed late in the

  evening, for distribution in the morning; therefore, since no Sunday

  edition was published, the story of the toxic spill and the closure of

  I-80 did not appear until the edition of Monday, July 9.

  But Monday's and Tuesday's editions were emblazoned with urgent

  headlines: TOXIC SPILL CLOSES- 80, and ARMY ESTABLISHES QUARANTINE ZONE,

  and NERVE GAS LEAKING FROM DAMAGED TRUCK?, and ARMY SAYS EVERYONE

  EVACUATED FROM DANGER ZONE, and WHERE ARE EVACUEES?, and SHENKFIELD ARMY

  TESTING GROUNDS: WHAT REALLY GOES ON THERE?, and

  - 80 CLOSURE ENTERS FOURTH DAY, and CLEAN-UP ALMOST FINISHED; HIGHWAY

  OPEN BY NOON.

  For both Dom and Ginger, it was eerie to read about these events that

  had transpired during days when they remembered nothing more than

  relaxing quietly at the Tranquility Motel. As Dom read about the

  crisis, he became convinced Ginger's theory was correct; it seemed

  obvious that the mindcontrol technicians would have needed an extra week

  or two in order to have incorporated this elaborate toxic-spill cover

  story into the phony memories of both Elko County locals and

  passers-through, and there was no way they could have kept the highway

  closed and the area sealed tight for that long.

  The edition of Wednesday, July 11, continued the saga: I80 OPENS!, and

  QUARANTINE REMOVED: NO LONG-TERM CONTAMINATION, and FIRST EVACUEES

  LOCATED: THEY SAW NOTHIN(;.

  Editions of the Sentinel, distinctly a small-town paper, averaged

  between sixteen and thirty-two pages. During those days in July, most

  of its news space was given to reports of the toxic crisis, for this

  event had drawn reporters from all over the country, and the low-key

  Sentinel found itself at the center of a big story. Poring over that

  wealth of material, Dom and Ginger discovered a lot that was pertinent

  to their quest and that would help them plan their next move.

  For one thing, the degree of security imposed by the United States Army

  was soberly instructive of the lengths to which they would go to keep

  the lid on the truth. Although it was not strictly within their

  authority to do so, Army units attached to Shenkfield had established

  roadblocks and closed a ten-mile stretch of I-80 immediately after the

  accident; they had not even informed the Elko County Sheriff or the

  Nevada State Police of the crisis until they had secured the quarantine

  zone. That was a startling breach of standard procedure. Throughout the

  emergency, the sheriff and state police complained with increasing

  vehemence that the Army was freezing them out of every aspect of crisis

  management and usurping civilian authority; state and local police were

  neither included in the maintenance of the quarantine line nor consulted

  on essential contingency planning for the possibility that increased

  winds or other factors might spread the nerve gas beyond the initial

  area of danger. Clearly, the military trusted only its own people to

  keep the secret of what was actually happening in the quarantine zone.

  Following two days of frustration, Foster Hanks, the Elko County

  Sheriff, had complained to a Sentinel reporter that: "This here's my

  bailiwick, by God, and the people elected me to keep peace. This is no

  military dictatorship. If I don't get some cooperation from the Army,

  I'll see a judge first thing tomorrow and get a court order to make them

  respect the legal jurisdictions in this matter." The Tuesday Sentinel

  reported that Hanks had, indeed, gone before a judge, but before a

  determination could be made, the crisis was drawing to an end and the

  argument about jurisdiction was moot.

  Huddling over the newspaper with Dom, Ginger said, "So we don't have to

  worry that all authorities are aligned against us in this. The state

  and local police weren'tpart of it. Our only adversary is-"

  "The United States Army," Dom finished, laughing at the unconscious

  element of graveyard humor in her assessment

  of the enemy.

  She also laughed sourly. "Us against the Army. Even with state and

  local police out of the battle, it's hardly a fair match,

  is it?"

  According to the Sentinel, the Army kept sole and iron control of the

  roadblocks on I-80, the only east-west artery through forbidden

  territory, and also closed eight miles of the north-south county road.

  Civilian air traffic was restricted from passing over the contaminated

  area, necessitating the rerouting of flights, while the Army maintained

  continuous helicopter patrols of the perimeter of the proscribed land.

  Obviously, substantial manpower was required to secure eighty square

  miles, but regardless of expense and difficulty, they were determined to

  stop anyone entering the danger zone on foot, on horseback, or in

  four-wheel-drive vehicles. The choppers flew in daylight and after

  dark, as well, sweeping the night with searchlights. Rumors circulated

  that teams of soldiers, equipped with infrared surveillance gear, were

  also patrolling the perimeter at night, looking for interlopers who

  might have slipped past the big choppers' searchlights.

  "Nerve gases rate among the deadliest substances known to man," Ginger

  said as Dom turned a page of the newspaper they were currently perusing.

  "But even so, this much security seems excessive. Besides, though I'm

  no expert on chemical warfare, I can't believe any nerve gas would pose

  a threat at such a distance from a single point of release. I mean,

  according to the Army, it was only one cylinder of gas, not an enormous

  quantity, not a whole tanker truck as Ernie and Faye remembered it. And

  it's the nature of gas to disperse, to expand upon release. So by the

  time the stuff spread a couple of miles, it would've been diluted to

  such a degree that surely the air would've contained no more of it than

  a few parts per billion. In three miles ... not even one part per

  billion. Not enough to endanger anyone."

  "This supports your idea that it was biological contamination."

  "Possibly," Ginger said. "It's too early to say. But it was certainly

  more serious than the nerve-gas story they put out."

  By Saturday, July 7, less than one day after the interstate was closed,

  an alert wire-service reporter had noted that the uniforms of many of

  the soldiers in the quarantine operation bore-in addition to rank and

  standard insignia-an unusual company patch: a black circle with an

  emerald-green star in the center. This was different from the markings

  on the uniforms of the men from Shenkfield Testing Grounds. Among those

  wearing the green star, the ratio of officers to enlisted men was high.

  When questioned, the Army identified the green-star soldiers as a

  little-known, super-elite company of Special Forces troops. "We call

  them DERO, which stands for Domestic Emergency Response Organization,"

  an Army spokesman was quoted by the Sentinel. "The men of DERO are

  superbly trained, and they've all had extensive
field experience in

  combat situations, and all of them carry topsecurity clearances, as

  well, which is essential because they may find themselves operating in

  highly classified areas, witness to sensitive sights."

  Dom translated that to mean DERO men were chosen, in part, for their

  ability and willingness to keep their goddamn mouths shut.

  The Sentinel quoted the Army spokesman further: "They're the cream of

  our young career soldiers, so naturally many have attained the rank of

  at least sergeant by the time they qualify for DERO. Our intention is

  to create a superbly trained force to deal with extraordinary crises,

  such as terrorist attacks on domestic military installations, nuclear

  emergencies on bases housing atomic weapons, and other unusual problems.

  Not that there's any aspect of terrorism involved in this case. And

  there's no nuclear emergency here, either. But several DERO companies

  are stationed around the country, and since one was near when this

  nerve-gas situation arose, it seemed prudent to bring in the best we had

  to insure public safety." He refused to tell reporters where this DERO

  company had been stationed, how far they had been flown, or how many

  were involved. "That's classified information."

  Not one of the DERO men would speak with any member of the press.

  Ginger grimaced and said, "Shmontses!"

  Dom blinked. "Huh?"

  "Their whole story," she said, leaning back in her chair and rolling her

  head from side to side to work out a cramp in her lovely neck. "It's

  all just shmontses."

  "But what's shmontses?"

  "Oh. Sorry. Yiddish word, adapted from German, I guess. One of my

  father's favorites. It means something of no value, something foolish,

  absurd, nonsense, worthy of contempt or scorn. This stuff the Army put

  out is just shmontses." She stopped rolling her head, leaned forward in

  her chair, and stabbed one finger at the newspaper. "So this DERO team

  just happened to be hanging around here in the middle of nowhere

  precisely when this crisis arose, huh? Too damned neat.

  Dom frowned. "But, Ginger, according to these stories, although the

  roadblocks on I-80 were set up by men from Shenkfield, the DERO team

  took over little more than an hour later. So if they didn't just happen

  to be nearby, the only way they could've gotten here so quickly was if

  they were airborne and on their way before the accident ever happened."

  "Exactly."

  "You're saying they knew in advance there'd be a toxic spill?"

  She sighed. "At most, I'm willing to accept a DERO team might've been

  at one of the nearest military bases ... in western Utah or maybe up in

  southern Idaho. But even that's not near enough to make the Army's

  scenario work. Even if they dropped everything and flew in here the

  moment they heard about the spill, they couldn't have been manning those

  roadblocks within an hour. No way. So, yeah, it sure looks to me as if

  they had a little advance warning that something was going to happen out

  at the western end of Elko County. Not much warning, mind you. Not

  days. But maybe a oneor two-hour advance notice."

  "Which means the toxic spill couldn't have been an accident. In fact,

  probably wasn't a spill at all, neither chemical nor biological. So why

  in hell were they wearing decontamination suits when they were treating

  us?" Dom was frustrated by the elaborate maze of this mystery, which

  twisted and turned inward but not toward a solution, toward nothing but

  twistier and more complex pathways that led into ever deeper puzzlement.

  He had the irrational urge to tear the newspapers to shreds, as if, by

  ripping them to pieces, he would also be ripping apart the Army's lies

  and would somehow find the truth revealed, at last, in the resultant

  confetti.

  With a note of frustration that matched his own, Ginger said, "The only

  reason the Army called in a DERO company to enforce the quarantine was

  because the men patrolling the zone would have a view of something

  highly classified, something absolutely top-secret. The Army felt they

  couldn't trust ordinary soldiers who didn't have the very highest

  security clearance. That's the sole reason the DERO team was used."

  "Because they could be trusted to keep their mouths shut."

  "Yes. And if it'd been nothing more than a toxic spill out there on

  I-80, the DERO men wouldn't have been required for the job. I mean, if

  it was just a spill, what would there've been to see except maybe an

  overturned truck and a damaged, leaking canister of gas or liquid?"

  Turning their attention once more to the newspapers spread before them,

  they found additional evidence indicating the Army had had at least some

  warning that unusual and spectacular trouble would erupt in western Elko

  County that hot July night. Both Dom and Ginger distinctly remembered

  that the Tranquility Grille had been filled with a strange sound and

  shaken by earthquake-like tremors about half an hour after full darkness

  had settled on the land; and because sunset came later during the summer

  (even at 41 degrees North Latitude), the trouble must have started

  approximately at eight-ten. Their memory blocks began at the same time,

  which further pinpointed The Event. Yet Dom spotted a line in one of

  the Sentinel's stories stating that the roadblocks on I-80 had been

  erected almost at eight o'clock on the dot.

  Ginger said, "You mean the Army had the highway closed off five or ten

  minutes before the 'accidental' toxic spill even happened?"

  "Yeah. Unless we're wrong about the time of the sunset."

  They checked the weather column in the July 6 edition of the Sentinel.

  It painted a more than adequate portrait of that fateful day. The high

  temperature had been expected to hit ninety degrees, with an overnight

  low of sixty-four. Humidity between twenty and twenty-five percent.

  Clear skies. Light to variable winds. And sunset at seven-thirty-one.

  "Twilight's short out here," Dom said. "Fifteen minutes, tops. Figure

  full darkness at seven-forty-five. Now, even if we're wrong to think it

  was half an hour after nightfall that trouble hit, even if it came just

  fifteen minutes after dark, the Army still had its roadblocks up first."

  "So they knew what was coming," Ginger said.

  "But they couldn't stop it from happening."

  "Which means it must've been some process, some series of events, that

  they initiated and then were unable to control."

  "Maybe," Dom said. "But maybe not. Maybe they weren't really at fault.

  Until we know more, we're just speculating. No point to it."

  Ginger turned the page of the Sentinel's edition for Wednesday, July 11,

  which they were currently examining, and her gasp of surprise directed

  Dom's attention to a headand-shoulders photograph of a man in an Army

  officer's uniform and cap. Although Colonel Leland Falkirk had appeared

  in neither Dom's nor Ginger's dreams last night, they both recognized

  him at once because of the description that Ernie and Ned had supplied

  from their nightmares: dark hair graying at the temples, eyes with an

  eerie translucency, a beakis
h nose, thin lips, a face of flat hard

  planes and sharp angles.

  Dom read the caption under the picture: Colonel Leland Falkirk,

  commanding officer of the company of DERO troops manning the quarantine

  line, has been an elusive target for reporters. This first photograph

  was obtained by Sentinel photographer, Greg Lunde. Caught by surprise,

  Falkirk was angry about being photographed. His answers to the few

  questions asked of him were even shorter than the standard "no comment."

  Dom might have smiled at the quiet humor in the last sentence of the

  caption, but Falkirk's stony visage chilled him. He instantly recognized

  the face not only because of Ernie's and Ned's description, but because

  he had seen it before, the summer before last. Furthermore, there was a

  ferocity in that hawklike countenance and in those predatory eyes that

  was dismaying; this man routinely got what he wanted. To be at his

  mercy was a frightening prospect.

  Staring at the photograph of Falkirk, Ginger softly said, "Kayn

  aynhoreh. " Aware of Dom's puzzlement, she said, "That's Yiddish, too.

  Kayn aynhoreh. It's an expression that's used to . . . to ward off

  the evil eye. Somehow, it seemed appropriate."

  Dom studied the photograph, half mesmerized by it.

  After a moment, he said, "Yes. Quite appropriate."

  Colonel Falkirk's sharply chiseled face and cold pale eyes were so

  striking that it seemed as if he were alive within this photograph, as

  if he were returning their scrutiny.

  While Dom and Ginger were examining the back-issue files at the Elko

  Sentinel, Ernie and Faye Block were working in the office of the

  Tranquility Motel, trying to contact the people whose names were on the