"What do you think it was?"
"You ever watch any sci-fi TV, besides Star Trek?"
"No. Don't tell me you're going to go all alien conspiracy and shit."
"No, I was thinking alternate universes, stuff like that."
"They check your head when you came in here?" asked Delling.
"I'm serious, man!"
"So am I," Delling replied. "Seriously, that is some pretty out-there stuff. What did the colonel say about it?"
"He told me to keep to myself."
"And you're blabbing it to me?"
"You don't count. Besides, he told you himself."
"Thanks, I'm touched."
"Fuck you, man."
"Not in your dreams, buddy."
They kept up the banter until the nurse came to chase Delling out. It had eased Harrison's mind to see Delling again. It was good that at least one of his old friends was still alive. He'd been tormented with survivor's guilt for the first couple of weeks after waking up.
"Delling, thanks for coming by."
"No problem. Had to make sure the colonel wasn't just keeping the money for himself," he said with a wink.
Harrison laughed. "You ain't getting it that easy."
"You take care of yourself." With that, Delling turned away and left.
They kept Harrison at Bethesda another month for physical therapy.
The colonel came by to bring him some clothes and to see him off. Harrison had decided to retire. He'd done his duty. He was getting old, and he was sick to death of seeing his friends die around him. The country would be just fine without him to help train more troops.
"You change your mind, you call me," Colonel Jackson said as he was leaving. "I've got a little something special I'm working on. I could really use you on this one."
"I'm sorry, colonel. I just don't see it happening. I just want to go home, find a good woman, fish, and drink beer until I die of old age or cirrhosis."
"That doesn't sound too bad, I suppose. Not sure about the last part. Keep in touch, though."
"Yes, sir. You know I'm around if you really need me."
A driver took Harrison to Dulles International Airport, where he bought a ticket for Knoxville. Years ago, he'd bought a little place up in Pigeon Forge. His real estate agent rented it out during the tourist season, but Harrison had called, and no was currently renting it. He'd find a car in Knoxville and drive up to the cabin for a few weeks, get his head back on straight. Maybe then he'd feel more like himself.
Chapter Seven
Harrison's flight wasn't due to leave for a few hours, so he found an eatery that wasn't too ridiculously overpriced, and had a beer, a steak, and a salad. It was good to get some decent food, for a change. Just because he was used to military food didn't mean he'd liked hospital food. Military food might be tasteless, if you were lucky, but it didn't try to crawl off the tray and kill you.
He chewed slowly, taking his time.
He was retired. He hadn't thought he'd ever make it this long, to be honest. He had no idea what he was going to do. The military had been his entire adult life. The biggest challenge he could think of now was having to keep busy. He wasn't used to being his own man, with no responsibilities. Find a woman and settle down? Maybe. He was a little old to be starting a family. Maybe he could find a nice woman who already had a kid or two. He didn't have any hobbies except a fondness for reading, and he doubted that would be enough.
His chest itched where he'd been shot, and he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was being watched. Probably just NSA keeping tabs on me, he thought. What he had gone through made him a high-value security asset. He was accustomed to keeping secrets, though. He'd made a career of it. Almost everything he'd done for the last twenty years had been classified. He wasn't sure why they bothered to watch him. They had to know he wasn't a talker.
He finished his food and then had another beer because he could.
He didn't like airports. They were too noisy. Too many damn people. Airport security wasn't worth a damn, either. It wasn't difficult to bribe employees to smuggle contraband through, and then there was the problem of how to determine if someone actually was a foreign asset. Most people will do just about anything for money; they might not even be aware that they're being used. Any of the people around him could be agents.
Just because I'm paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't out to get me.
It was too much to worry about. Not my job, he thought angrily. Let the spooks worry about that. It's what they get paid the big bucks for.
He drained the last of his beer, paid up, and left in search of a pisser. His flight wasn't a particularly long one, but he hated using the facilities onboard planes. They weren't meant for big or tall people, and he was both. Not that he liked public facilities, but at least he didn't have to worry about rubbing the walls of the stall with his shoulders.
He nodded to the guy outside the restroom as he went in. The man was obviously military, although not in uniform. A lot of military personal took flights through the airport, with it being so close to the base. Harrison relieved himself in the urinal, trying not to breathe because of the rancid smell, and washed his hands in the sink.
Harrison looked up from the mirror to see the guy from outside standing behind him, watching silently. There was an unspoken rule that you don't talk to the other guys when you're in the latrine. You do your business, and you leave. You certainly don't stand there and stare at them.
"Sorry, buddy, you're barking up the wrong tree," Harrison said as he walked by the man. He didn't know if the guy thought he knew him, or if he was looking for some ass and a reach-around, but either way, Harrison wasn't interested. He didn't know the man, and he wasn't gay.
The man's hand shot out as Harrison walked by, and he deflected it without thinking, noticing that the man had a knife only when he felt the sting across his arm as the blade sliced through his shirt and left a shallow cut on his forearm. The knife was ceramic and razor-sharp.
Harrison dropped his bag and went into a defensive crouch as the man slashed at him again. He caught the man's wrist, but he couldn't get a good enough grip to make him drop the blade. The man's other fist rocketed into his head, and Harrison's vision greyed for a moment. He still wasn't up to his normal level of fitness. He slung the man around and into the jutting sink.
Some instinct made him turn around as another man came in, knife drawn. Harrison kicked that man in the chest and then jumped back against the wall to avoid a lunge from the first. He didn't know what was going on, but it didn't seem like a mugging. These guys were well trained, and they hadn't been interested in talking. They didn't want his money. They wanted his blood. He needed to get out of here. The walls were too close for a good fight. It would be too easy to pin him.
Harrison fell back. The airport restroom was in a U shape. If he could get them to follow him, even just one of them, he'd have a better chance of getting out into the main part of the airport and calling security. He considered using his cell phone to call for help, but he didn't think he could do it quickly enough, and he wanted his hands free. He backed away from the men, watching them warily.
He heard the distinctive sound of someone chambering a round, and dove into a stall just as a deafening report sounded behind him. The bullet smashed into the door frame with a screech of torn metal. These guys weren't trying to be subtle. They really wanted him dead. Somebody would have heard that gunshot; they'd report it. All Harrison had to do was stay alive until security arrived.
He slid under the partition between stalls, trying not to think about how disgusting the floor was. One of the men stood outside the stall. Harrison thrust his hand out from under the stall and snatched the man's leg, sending the man tumbling over backward. His head hit the tiles with a sickening crunch. Harrison dove out of the stall, going for the man's gun. One of the other men tackled him, and he barely avoided a slashed throat.
Harrison was more pissed off than scared. I'm retired, da
mmit!
He slammed his elbow into his attacker's solar plexus and rolled over on top of him. Harrison hesitated for just a moment at the look in the other man's eyes; then instinct took over, and he crushed the man's throat. There was something familiar about him.
Blinding pain shot through his back and left arm as the other man stabbed Harrison in the back. The blade sank into the muscle and lodged in his left scapula. It was excruciating but not that dangerous. It had been a thrust of opportunity, not executed very well. A part of Harrison was offended by the shoddy workmanship of the thrust – not that he was complaining.
Harrison lunged for the gun, gasping with pain.
"Abomination!" the other man hissed.
Harrison got a good grip on the gun and shot the man in the leg as he tried to kick the gun away. The man screamed and stumbled away, out of the restroom, streaming blood from his shattered tibia.
Harrison spat out blood and wiped it from his face with his sleeve. The gun was unfamiliar. It was lightweight, seemingly made of plastic or some kind of resin. It was so light that it kicked like a mule. He checked the magazine and found three .45 APC rounds left. He reached and pulled the knife out of his back.
The other man was moaning. Harrison stood up and shot him in the head before leaving the restroom. He thought he knew who these guys were now. They were from the other side, the place where the other him had come from. It was the only thing that made sense.
Out on the concourse, people were screaming and running. More people screamed when they saw him, covered with blood, the gun in his hand. The man Harrison had shot earlier was about fifty yards away, staggering and bleeding all over the place. Harrison couldn't allow the man to be taken and questioned by the local police or airport security. There was too much at stake.
He shot the man in the back twice.
Then Harrison tossed the empty gun away, knelt down with his fingers interlaced behind his head, and waited for security. He suspected he wasn't going to get to retire, after all.
Chapter Eight
Major Harrison rode in the back of the sedan and watched the people in the other cars scurry about with no idea what kind of world they lived in. How could they have any idea? He shook his head in resignation. He'd lived in a different world from them long before what happened in Brownsville. He had spent his whole life making sure people like them didn't have to know what kind of world they lived in.
Of course, the official story was that the entire town had been destroyed in the tragic refinery explosion. He looked out the window again. Yeah, people probably believe that, too, if they think about it at all. People will believe anything that lets them keep the version of reality they know best, no matter how much proof they get to the contrary.
The incident at the airport was being reported as domestic terrorism. The news had reported that a soldier on leave – him – had foiled a plot to plant a bomb in the airport – he hadn't. His name had never been disclosed, and amazingly, no one stood there with a camera phone and filmed it all going down. That had to be a first. The security footage from the airport was confiscated in the interest of national security.
He'd spent three weeks in a sealed basement lab at Fort Campbell while doctors tried to figure out if he had contracted anything new from the three would-be assassins. The enemy could have released a new bioweapon in the airport. That would have been a global disaster. He wasn't sure why they hadn't. They hadn't shown that kind of restraint at Brownsville. What was different?
Harrison was free of infection, as were the enemy bodies. He'd been allowed to read the reports on them. They had valid IDs, and their backgrounds checked out. They appeared to be just a few guys with no history of violence. He knew better. They'd been agents of the enemy. He wondered if they had killed and taken over the lives of people they found here.
It was good that he was clean of infection. but staying cooped up underground had all but driven him mad. Of course, when they let him out, it was only to be flown to Washington, D.C. for endless testifying before small, select, and very secret Senate subcommittees. He hadn't liked Washington before all that; now he knew it had lost its soul.
Sold it, more likely, he thought sardonically.
All he wanted to do was retire on an honorable discharge. Maybe get a dog. He even knew what kind of dog he wanted, but that life was not for him. He'd flown home from Washington and had been at his cabin all of an hour when he heard the knock on his door. The young officer with the sealed orders just saluted and handed him the packet, saying something about waiting by the car. Harrison had been in the military too long not to accept his fate, but that didn't make him happy about it. The military was his whole life and had been since his parents died while he was in college.
How long has it been? he thought. Twenty years? That long? What had he done for himself in that time? How many friends did he have? Any who weren't military?
The lieutenant had stuck him on a puddle-jumper, and from there he'd flown into McGhee Tyson Airport outside Knoxville. The military put him up at a cheap airport hotel, where he'd gotten little real sleep. Drinking didn't have its usual appeal, either. The barflies in the hotel lounge were the typical low-brow, loathsome sort that made Harrison wonder why he'd joined the military to protect people like them. He gritted his teeth as they sat there talking about the war, the government, and celebrity gossip. He took his drink back to his room and watched the ice melt until the sun came up.
The car moved away from the highway, and Harrison paid more attention to the terrain. It felt good to be back in familiar country. A thick fog flowed through the valleys, green mountain tops rising from the mists like lost islands of trees. He'd spent so much of his life in barren deserts and naked mountains. The lush temperate rainforests of Tennessee had been just a distant dream then.
Technically, Harrison had recovered fully from his gunshot wounds, but the cold, rainy mountain weather made his ribs ache. He wasn't sure why he'd been ordered to northern Tennessee. Oak Ridge National Laboratory had its own security forces, as evidenced by the periodic stops at checkpoints along the road. They needed a semi-retired Special Forces operative about as much as a fish needs a raincoat.
"Here we are, sir," the driver said as they pulled up to a building marked only with a number. A tall, distinguished-looking man in a lab coat stood waiting for him. The man had the look of a career scientist.
Harrison got out of the car, stretched, and pulled his duffle bag out of the back seat. The driver had been scandalized that Harrison wouldn't put his bag in the trunk and that he didn't wait for doors to be opened for him. As if. He wasn't some staff officer to be pampered.
"Major Harrison," the man said, holding out his hand. "I'm Dr. Dixon. I'm here to escort you through and answer what questions I can."
Harrison had already gotten the scientist's name from his badge. He was a physicist. "Pleased to meet you, Dixon. You could start by telling me why the hell I'm here. I'm retired, or at least I ought to be. I was thinking that I might take up fishing and drinking as a serious sport, or at least a serious hobby. What's this all about?"
"My understanding is that you've been recalled to active duty, but let's get inside and out of the cold first."
Harrison shrugged and followed the man inside to another security post. He'd read his paper. He knew he was back on active duty; he'd just wanted to know what Dixon knew.
"Here is your badge. You'll need to keep that with you and visible at all times from here on out. It also works as a near-field passkey, and you won't be able to open any doors without it. And here is your dosimeter."
"Excuse me?" Harrison held the small, white clip-on box gingerly.
"Dosimeter. It measures the amount of radiation you're exposed to," Dixon said pedantically.
"I know what a dosimeter is. This isn't my first rodeo, doc. What I want to know is why I need one now."
"Major, I know you're confused by all this security, and curious about what's going on," the scientis
t said, holding up one hand to forestall any more questions, "but you're going to have to wait until we reach our destination. I promise you, all will be revealed."
Harrison sighed and clipped the badge and dosimeter to his pocket.
"This way, major. If you please."
Harrison didn't please, but his orders had been clear. Well, clear on where he was supposed to go, anyway. The young officer who had handed those orders to him hadn't answered his questions, either.
He'd probably known even less than Harrison did.
Chapter Nine
Dr. Dixon led him past two more security checkpoints to a heavy-duty freight elevator. The scientist didn't press any of the buttons but instead inserted a key, swiped his pass card, and then turned the key. The doors closed, and they dropped quickly. Harrison couldn't tell how many levels they descended; it didn't register on the digital display.
Upon their arrival, the elevator doors opened on what looked like an old brick subway station. A WPA-style mosaic tile mural, like those from the depression, covered one wall in a riot of muted colors. It reminded him of one he'd once seen in an airport outside Cincinnati.
"This is different...," Harrison said. The construction was entirely of tan brick, with arched ceilings. There were no benches, although marks on the floor and walls looked as if benches had been there once upon a time. The station appeared to have been swept clean recently. Even the ceiling looked clean, which showed enormous enthusiasm that left Harrison feeling exhausted.
"Built in the fifties," Dr. Dixon replied, "back during the height of Cold War paranoia."
"So this is a bomb shelter? Looks like a subway station."
"It's not a bomb shelter. Not really – even if it is deep enough – but it leads to one, of a sort. You're not wrong about how it looks, though."
A distant scraping, squealing noise came from down the tunnel to the right, and an aging electric subway train pulled up to the platform with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. The train looked as if it could carry hundreds of people, but it was empty. It seemed strange to Harrison to use the train for just him and Dixon.
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