Scott put the call through to his team, then led the way back inside. He filled the Major in on what they had found as they walked, then pointed to a CCTV camera set into the ceiling of the entrance hall. “What I wouldn’t give to take a look at the footage from those.”
Schaefer gave the camera an almost dismissive look. “If Moreno’s guest list was as sensitive as intel suggests, there may be nothing to see.”
Schaefer and Scott were alone now, their men dispersed throughout the building, exchanging information prior to completing the handover. Scott gave Schaefer a sidelong look. “What would we see if there was, sir?” he asked.
Schaefer stared back at Scott appraisingly. “What do you think you’d see, Sergeant?”
Scott took a deep breath. “Evidence indicates a single opponent of above average size with incredible speed and strength. An opponent that has some unidentifiable green substance in place of blood, and the ability to come and go like a ghost. An opponent that can kill fifty armed men, skin them, remove their heads, and rip out their spines in less than an hour… All of which clearly points to the fact that whatever killed those men is non-human; no, more than that, that it’s superhuman.” He shrugged. “But we both know that’s crazy, don’t we?”
Schaefer was silent for several seconds. He appeared to be thinking, weighing up possibilities in his mind. Finally, he said, “Would you describe yourself as an open-minded man, Sergeant Devlin?”
Scott felt a thrill run through him. Was the Major about to confide in him? “I’d say I was a man who weighs up the available evidence and follows it to its logical conclusion, however outlandish it may appear. I’m not fanciful, I’m not gullible, but by the same token I don’t stick my head in the sand. I’m not such a skeptic that I would deny the evidence of my own eyes if it didn’t fit into—” he searched for the right phrase “—the accepted worldview.”
Schaefer nodded slowly. “And all this evidence. It’s been mounting up, hasn’t it, Sergeant? Over many years, many missions. Your head is full of questions. And you’re a naturally curious and intelligent man, so those questions have been eating away at you?”
Scott felt a need to tread carefully. “I’ve seen some strange things, some inexplicable things, over the years, sir. Things that appear to be linked. It’s only natural to be curious.”
Schaefer gave a grunt of humor. “It isn’t as natural as you might think.”
“Whatever questions I might have, I’ve kept to myself.”
Schaefer nodded slowly, though whether in acknowledgement or because he already knew the truth of that statement, Scott wasn’t sure.
“I think we need to have a little talk, you and I,” he said. “A proper talk. One-on-one. Somewhere quiet.”
“Am I in trouble, sir?” Scott asked.
Schaefer’s expression was unreadable. “What makes you think that?”
“Maybe because I think too much. Maybe because I ask too many questions.”
The Major barked a laugh. “I’ll fix things up,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Then he turned and marched away from Scott, leaving him alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
2006
By the time the call finally came through, Scott had begun to think the Major had forgotten all about it.
It had been almost nine months since he and Dutch Schaefer had spoken at Moreno’s stronghold, and for the majority of that time Scott had been on tenterhooks. He had just reached the stage where his first waking thought each morning had not been to wonder if today might be the day, when he received a message to say that Captain Starkey wanted to see him.
Major Dutch Schaefer was the last thing on Scott’s mind when he knocked on Starkey’s door. He assumed the Captain simply wanted to share the latest intel or discuss another potential mission with him. He was surprised, therefore, when, after being invited to sit down, Starkey said, “You’ll be having a visitor tomorrow, Sergeant.”
“Will I, sir?” said Scott. “Who?”
“A Major Alan Schaefer has asked to speak with you. I believe the two of you are acquainted?”
“Our paths have crossed on a couple of missions, sir, but I wouldn’t really say I know the Major.”
“Hmm.” Starkey was a hawk-faced man with no discernible sense of humor. “So you have no idea what this meeting might be about?”
“Have you not been briefed about it, sir?”
“I have not.” The Captain was clearly not happy about the fact.
Scott briefly considered divulging the details of the last conversation he had had with Schaefer, then immediately rejected the idea. Not only did Captain Starkey have no sense of humor, he also had no imagination.
“I’m sure it won’t be anything to worry about, sir,” Scott said smoothly. “Whenever I’ve encountered Major Schaefer, procedures have been followed to the letter.”
“I have no doubt about that, Sergeant,” Starkey said, then hesitated. Finally, he muttered, “You will do me the courtesy of letting me know if you’re planning to move on from us, though, won’t you?”
Scott raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I have no plans on that score, sir.”
Starkey’s expression remained unchanged. “Perhaps not. But you’re a fine soldier, Sergeant. I would hate to lose you.”
“That’s not going to happen, sir,” Scott said, touched by his superior’s comment.
Starkey leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands in front of him, his idea of a relaxing pose. “Well, all right, Sergeant. Be here at eleven hundred hours tomorrow. You and Major Schaefer can use my office.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Scott said.
* * *
“I suppose you thought I had forgotten all about you?” Schaefer said, the twinkle in his eye, combined with his trim white beard, giving him the look of a ripped Father Christmas.
Scott tried to sound nonchalant. “I hadn’t given it a moment’s thought, sir.”
“Liar,” Schaefer said, and laughed loudly. This was the most relaxed that Scott had ever seen him – which was hardly surprising, he supposed, as every other time they had encountered one another they had had serious business on their minds.
Schaefer lowered his bulk into Captain Starkey’s chair, which creaked beneath him, and waved jovially toward the chair on the other side of the desk. “Let’s not stand on ceremony, Sergeant. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Scott sat down, regarding Schaefer expectantly. This was the first time he had seen the Major out of combat armor and wearing an actual uniform. He looked well enough in it, though his shoulders, chest and upper arms were so highly developed that Scott couldn’t help imagining the jacket bursting open, buttons flying like bullets, if the Major should flex his muscles or take too deep a breath.
“Let’s get down to business,” Schaefer said, and pulled open the top right-hand drawer of Starkey’s desk. Scott half-expected him to pull out a bottle of whiskey – the Captain’s hidden stash, perhaps – and a couple of glasses, and he half-smiled at the thought.
What Schaefer did take out of the drawer and toss nonchalantly onto the desk between them, however, killed Scott’s good humor stone dead. His stomach clenched like a fist, his mouth turned instantly dry, and two words flashed with neon brightness inside his mind: Career Over.
“Want to tell me about this, Sergeant Devlin?”
Scott tried not to look guilty as he stared down at the little red notebook that had disappeared from his room at H12 over six years ago. For a while he had thought the MIBs might have taken it, but the fact that it was in Schaefer’s possession (had it been in his possession all this time?) was worse somehow, because he wanted the Major, if not to like him, then at least to respect him as a soldier.
He forced himself to look into Schaefer’s narrowed eyes, all too aware that his skin was heating up, and that at any moment sweat might spring out on his forehead, like everyone’s clichéd idea of a con under interrog
ation.
“It’s my old notebook,” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. “I used it to record my thoughts and observations.”
“And to attempt to make sense of some of the… let’s say unusual sights you had seen during your years in the army?”
“Yes, sir. That too.”
Schaefer nodded solemnly. “And you make links between these events. You posit theories, ask questions.”
There was a part of Scott that wondered whether he ought to express indignation, claim that the jottings in that notebook were private. But instead, still forcing his voice to remain calm, he said, “As we established last time we met, sir, I’m an inquisitive man.”
“Inquisitive,” Schaefer repeated, as if weighing the word. “And would you say inquisitiveness is a good trait for a soldier, Sergeant?”
Scott considered what his answer should be, and decided to be honest. “In truth, sir, I do think it’s a good trait, yes. If you’re inquisitive, you’re alert. And if you’re alert, you’re more aware of danger, more adaptable, more able to use your initiative.” He paused. “I know being in the army is about discipline, taking orders, doing what you’re told, but the world isn’t black and white, sir, there are a lot of gray areas, and sometimes you have to be prepared to change the way you think about things at a moment’s notice, and not only to change the way you think, but the way you act too.”
Schaefer reached across and picked up the notebook. It looked tiny in his huge hand. “And what was your ultimate intention, with regard to the information in this book?”
“There was no ultimate intention, sir,” Scott said. “Last time we met you said something about how all the questions inside me must be eating me up. That book was my attempt to purge myself of them, to put my thoughts in order for my own sake.”
“If only for your own sake, then why did you hide it away?” Schaefer asked.
“I realized some of the information in there might be a little… sensitive, sir. So I concealed it where I didn’t think it would be easily discovered.”
“And did you not think that writing this potentially sensitive information down was a foolish thing to do?”
“It did occur to me that there was a risk involved. But I thought it was a negligible one. My mom always said I should question everything, sir. But sometimes in the army asking questions is not encouraged.”
Schaefer’s lips twitched in what Scott thought might have been a half-smile. “Not sometimes, Sergeant. Almost always. The rule is to follow orders and keep your mouth shut. Don’t rock the boat.”
“Yes, sir,” said Scott woodenly.
“Luckily for you, that’s not a rule I adhere to.” He sat back, the chair creaking again, and waved the notebook in the air. “You realize what would have happened if this had fallen into the wrong hands?”
“I expect I would have been hauled over the coals, sir,” said Scott.
Schaefer raised an eyebrow. “That would have been the least of it.”
He stared at Scott with a directness that Scott found uncomfortable, but also oddly invigorating. He forced himself to stare back, struck for the first time by how blue and clear the Major’s eyes were. With his grizzled white beard it was easy to think of Schaefer as a tough old bird, ravaged and battle hardened, but there was a vitality about the man that was missing from many men half his age.
After what seemed to Scott like a lengthy pause, Schaefer said, “I like you, Sergeant Devlin.”
“Thank you, sir,” Scott said.
“More than that, you impress me – and I can’t say that about many people I come across. Both from reading what’s in this book, and from speaking to you, I find you astute, intelligent, observant and dogged. But you’re patient too, and discreet. You keep your cards close to your chest.”
Scott was a little overwhelmed. From thinking his career was over a few minutes ago, he was now on the receiving end of a glowing character reference from a man he knew little about, but couldn’t help but admire.
But the Major wasn’t finished yet.
“I also like the way you handle yourself in the field. From what I’ve seen, and the reports I’ve received, you’re brave, you’re resourceful, you’re calm under pressure, and you make good decisions.”
Schaefer fell silent. For a moment, Scott didn’t know what to say. Then, unable to help himself, he asked, “Is there a ‘but’, sir?”
Schaefer gave a mirthful grunt. “Do you think there should be?”
“Well, it’s just the notebook… You did mention that writing down my thoughts was perhaps a foolish thing to do.”
“I asked whether you thought it was a foolish thing to do.”
Carefully, Scott said, “Okay. So I guess my question, sir, is—”
“What’s the purpose of this meeting? Aside from the fact that last time we met, I said I’d arrange for us to have this talk?”
“Yes, sir, I guess so. I mean… if you don’t mind me asking, are you just here so you can let me know you’ve got my notebook? Which I guess is kind of a relief, and it does solve a six-year-old mystery…”
“I’m here because I think you’re ready, Sergeant.”
Scott’s heart beat a little faster. “Ready for what, sir?”
“And because I think we can help each other.”
Now Scott gave a jerky nod. “Okay.”
Schaefer put the notebook down on the desk and pushed it across to Scott. “That’s yours. Keep it safe or destroy it. Whatever. It’s not particularly incriminating, and it especially won’t be after today, but it’s still probably best not to let it fall into the wrong hands.”
Automatically, Scott reached for the notebook and slipped it into his pocket. It felt strange to have it back in his possession after all this time. Despite that, his main focus was on the Major, who was again reaching into the still-open drawer of Captain Starkey’s desk. What would he produce this time?
What he did produce was an old-school, buff-colored file with nothing written on the front – not even, Scott thought wryly, the words “Top Secret,” stamped in big, red capital letters. Schaefer dropped the file onto the desk in front of him and placed a large, scarred hand on top of it.
Quietly he said, “What is in here will change your life, Sergeant. And I promise you, I’m not exaggerating when I say that. I believe you’re as prepared as you can be, but what is in here will still turn your concept of the world upside down. Now my question is, do you think you’re ready for it? If you wish, I can put this file back in the drawer unopened, and things will probably remain much as they are, our paths crossing from time to time.” He smiled suddenly. “Or I can expand your horizons. What do you say?”
Scott’s heart was thumping hard now. He had an odd feeling that the last ten years of his life had been coalescing into whatever was in that innocuous-looking file on the desk a few feet away. He swallowed, licked his lips; his mouth was so dry. Trying to stay composed, but all too aware of his rasping throat, he said, “I think you already know what my answer is, sir.”
Without another word, the Major pushed the file slowly across the desk to Scott. “Take your time. Absorb. I’m going to send out for coffee. I think you’re going to need it.”
Scott took the file. Opened it. It was full of photographs. Even though his fingers itched with the urge to flick through them rapidly, he forced himself to take his time, to be methodical, to study each image carefully and allow his mind to – as Major Schaefer had said – absorb what he was seeing, rather than flitting from one image to the next like a butterfly.
The first images were of battlefields, similar to the ones Scott and his team had already seen – bodies skinned, beheaded, spines removed, some of them hung from trees like animal hides left out to dry. The locations in which the bodies had been photographed were widely varied – some were inside buildings; some in urban environments, the bodies lying on roads or pavements, or piled up against walls scrawled with graffiti; some in what appeared to be farmland;
some laid out on dirt roads, or sand (coastal or desert, it was impossible to tell), or in dense, tropical jungle.
After the human remains came other remains, difficult to identify. Chunks of mangled meat, scraps of chainmail-like clothing, charred pieces of twisted machinery, which reminded Scott of burned-out car parts.
Then there were the weapons.
Many were similar to the ones Scott had seen Schaefer himself carrying, and also to the ones he had glimpsed during his encounter with the MIBs less than an hour into the new millennium, over six years ago.
They were brutal but sleek, vicious but elegant; a mixture of the medieval, the Oriental, and… something else. Something unknown. Alien.
There were blades, both swords and knives, with odd curves and angles, and serrated edges that looked like rows of sharks’ teeth. There were hinged hooks and claw-like contraptions that looked organic, skeletal. There were discs from which curved blades projected; strange attachments that looked as though they were part of something else; other items, jutting with hooks and spikes, that were simply unidentifiable.
Many of the weapons were etched with weird symbols or hieroglyphs. Scott pored over them, but they meant nothing to him.
At some point the coffee arrived. Major Schaefer met its bearer at the door and carried the tray over to the desk himself.
“How do you take it?” he asked, breaking Scott’s reverie.
Scott blinked. “Hmm?”
“Your coffee?”
“Oh. Black’s fine,” Scott said, then hastily added, “thank you, sir.”
Schaefer poured, and pushed the cup toward him. “You may need this for the next set of photographs. They’re mostly images lifted from head cams, so they’re not the best quality.”
The Major was right. The images were blurred, grainy, murky. Most of them depicted figures in motion, or parts of figures. Three in particular grabbed his attention.
One was of a figure in silhouette, in wooded or jungle surroundings. The figure was standing between two trees, or stands of trees, which leaned away from it, and it was backlit by some kind of soft, natural light source – maybe early evening sunlight breaking through an overhead canopy of leaves.
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