"Of course, sir." She relaxed a little. "I'm to show you to your quarters."
"Thank you." He gestured for her to proceed.
She wasn't bad looking: a little young, a little chunky around the shoulders, but everyone came out of basic like that. He admired the tightly-clothed view as she led him down a maze of corridors.
He really had been cooped up too long. Looking around at the barren corridors, he had a feeling that wasn't going to change. The military wasn't likely to let him off the reservation any time soon.
"Here you are, sir," she said, gesturing to a door like all of the others. This one had his name and rank typed on a little card in the holder next to the door, just under the room number. "Your passkey will unlock the door. Someone from the infirmary should be here for you shortly. Is there anything else?"
"Got a map of this place?"
"Sir?"
He laughed and shook his head. He'd been that serious once. Thank god I got over it.
"Thank you, corporal. That will be all."
She looked confused, but she sketched another salute and hastily departed. He didn't blame her; he was probably more than twice her age. He sighed again. It was going to be a long night if his thoughts were going to keep going there.
The door unlocked when he swiped his badge over the keypad. The room was small but adequately furnished. It looked just like any other VIP room he'd stayed in. In other words, it looked like a cheap hotel room. All the place lacked were a vibrating bed and giant cockroaches. Harrison tossed his duffel bag on the perfectly normal bed and sat down at the small writing desk. The paperwork the colonel had given him consisted of the usual legal waivers and non-disclosure agreements. He wasn't sure why they were having him fill out more of these; he'd held a top-secret clearance for years. Surely nothing he'd be doing was any more clandestine than what he'd already done.
Weirder, but not more secretive.
The closet doors stood open, and two fresh BDUs hung there in white plastic bags, no doubt newly tailored to fit. He got up and pulled them out of the bags. They were both plain black, with no insignia or name tag. It had been a long time since he'd worn that uniform. Two pairs of black boots sat on the floor of the closet. He checked: the boots were slightly worn. He even remembered where a couple of the nicks had come from. They were his boots. Someone must have raided his house. I guess the colonel is serious about having me back under his command, he thought. Not that I have to dress formally anymore, if that is the case.
He unpacked his duffel.
The only things he really needed out of it were his spare Sig pistol, black boonie hat, undergarments, and his personal hygiene kit, which he put in the small bathroom. He wasn't supposed to have carried the pistol onto the base, but he was used to the rules not applying to him, and it wasn't as if he'd worn it on his hip. He also pulled out a couple of thick paperbacks and set them on the nightstand, just in case he had trouble sleeping. He suspected that he might after he read the interrogation files.
He left the plastic-framed picture of his old team in the bag with his civvies. Delling had been into some weird shit himself, and Harrison was sorry that he hadn't been there for him. He owed Delling his life a couple of times over.
He thought back to when he'd first met Delling. Harrison had been a cocky young captain, just through selection and advanced training. He and Richards hadn't even been on an op yet, although they had seen combat several times.
It was their first day on base, the colonel had seemed nice enough, and they had gotten settled in all right. In the mess, a big man with auburn hair and a shaggy beard had stepped in front of them in line.
It was a little thing, but it had pissed Harrison off.
"Hey," he'd said, tapping the man on the shoulder. "You got a problem, pal?"
The man glanced over his shoulder at Harrison with a look that said what he thought of new recruits and said, "No problem, thanks for asking."
"Let it go, Harrison," Richards said.
Harrison hadn't let it go. He'd tapped on the man's shoulder again. This time the man actually turned around. His eyes said he pitied Harrison, but his lips curled in a sneer. "You keep it up, and you and I are going to have something to discuss outside."
"Bring it, big man."
They'd gone outside behind the tent. Several of the other men followed, making jokes at his expense. He'd been top of his class in hand-to-hand, and their comments just made him want to prove himself more.
Old proverb: Shit happens – don't step in it.
He'd stepped in it.
The man with the scraggly beard had tied Harrison into a pretzel. The fact that he did it seemingly without effort just made it worse. He was a good sport about it, though. As he'd helped Richardson carry Harrison to the infirmary, he'd told him that he'd put a good fight and offered to give him some pointers.
The man had been Delling.
Hell of a way to start a friendship.
Chapter Thirteen
Harrison pulled his thoughts back to the present and rapidly changed into one of his new black uniforms, plus his old Wellco boots. The military might have officially switched to those new ugly padded things, but he was going to keep wearing his old boots until somebody pulled them off to put a tag on his toe.
He was just settling his pistol on his hip when a knock at the door startled him.
The medical technician looked surprised when Harrison opened the door, although Harrison couldn't fathom why.
"Yes?" Harrison asked.
"Major Harrison?"
"You were expecting someone else?"
"Ah, no, sir. I was told to escort you to the infirmary."
"Just a minute."
Harrison stuffed his badge and dosimeter into his breast pocket and pulled his door shut. The latch clicked satisfyingly behind him.
"Ah, sir?" the technician said as they walked.
"Hmm?"
"Your, ah, your ID card, sir."
"What of it?" Harrison patted his pocket. "Safe and sound right here. Works just as well in a pocket."
"They are a little particular about that here, sir."
"I'm sure they are. You let me worry about that."
The tech sighed. "Yes, sir."
It took almost twenty minutes for them to get down to the infirmary. Construction traffic congested every corridor. Harrison thought the military was shaping the Jellico Mountain Complex into a major center of operations, which didn't exactly jive with what the colonel had told him.
"Why all the activity?" he asked.
"Sir?"
"What's with all the construction?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I'm sure you'd know better than me."
He didn't ask the tech anything else. Either he didn't know, or he'd been ordered not to say – probably the former. Badgering him certainly wasn't going to do any good. Evidently they were keeping everybody in the dark.
The infirmary was quietly bustling with nurses and doctors. The busy construction seemed to have generated a number of minor injuries. Harrison was continually amazed by the fuss that most grown men made over a few broken bones. It wasn't as if they'd been shot or something.
"You must be Major Harrison. Good," said a greying doctor as he walked briskly by. He had a nasal New England accent. "This way, please."
"Sure, Doctor..."
"Oh, sorry. I'm Dr. Ferguson. Come on in here." He held open a door to a private exam room.
"Listen, I've had about all the examinations and inoculations I can stand." Harrison sat on the exam table as Ferguson unlocked a cabinet to his right.
"Yes, I've read the reports from your doctors at Bethesda," Dr. Ferguson replied. "They said you were real pain in the ass."
"Well, they were right," said Harrison. "They kept me there in bondage, against my will, for three months while conducting illegal medical experiments on me. I've filed a protest with Geneva, but I doubt anything will come of it."
Ferguson glared at him speculatively for a
moment. "Some of what they were testing for was to see if the disease from Brownsville was still infectious. They were concerned that if you were to have a relapse, you'd become infectious again."
That was something Harrison hadn't even thought of. "I would have thought they'd keep me in quarantine, if that was the case. They didn't. Not after the first two weeks, anyway."
"You don't have to worry. There is no possibility of you becoming infectious again, obviously. They'd never have let you out of quarantine if you had been. You'd be a permanent guest of US AMRIID, Level Four." Ferguson pronounced it us-am-rid. It was the primary military bioweapon facility in the United States – at least the one everyone knew about, anyway.
"Lovely thought, doc."
"Oh, I'm sure they would have euthanized you," was Ferguson's absentminded reply. "Eventually." He was preparing a hypodermic syringe of some greyish fluid.
"Doctor, you've got a wonderful bedside manner. You must be a real favorite down at the orphanage. What do you do for fun? Kick puppies?" drawled Harrison in his thickest Southern accent.
"Major, I know that you have a reputation as a rogue, but this is taking it too far. I don't even understand what you're saying. Was that English?"
"Okay, let me make it clear." Harrison dropped his home accent. "I'd like to call your attention to the fact that I am armed."
"Excuse me?"
Harrison gestured to the syringe. "Don't even think about putting whatever the hell that is in me until you tell me what it is."
"I'm sorry, major, but that's classified."
"Isn't everything around here? If you don't tell me, it doesn't go in me."
"Be reasonable, major."
"I am. See? I'm calm, reasonable. Tell me what that is, and I'll consider allowing you to administer it. I'd advise against trying to force me. Things could become unpleasant. Call the colonel if you have to."
Dr. Ferguson frowned at the syringe as if it were to blame. Then he sighed and put it back in the cabinet. "Stay here. I'll be back shortly."
As soon as Ferguson left the room, Harrison crossed to the cabinet. The bottles were marked only with coded designations, but he didn't like the fact that most of those codes started with an X. He knew far too much about the military's programs of experimental vaccinations.
Chapter Fourteen
A few minutes later, Ferguson came back into the room. Dr. Dixon was with him. Harrison put on his best smile and pretended to be the prefect patient.
"You giving your doctor trouble, major?"
"Just being my usual cautious self, Dr. Dixon." Harrison shrugged. "I don't like it when people try to inject me with experimental drugs. It makes my Gulf War Syndrome act up, and sometimes I get a little violent."
"I can understand your misgivings, major. Please allow me to explain. We need to inject you with three different things. The first is a radioactive isotope. Don't worry: the levels are low, and it isn't a type that is absorbed by the body. You'll pass it in a few weeks. It will allow us to make sure that the person who returns from the mission is you, if you know what I mean. The second is a sub-dermal RF chip with a special code, just in case the mission takes you longer that we expect."
"Sure, makes sense. And the other one? The foul grey one that looks like mercury?"
Dixon glanced at Ferguson and shrugged. "It's an experimental drug made up of microscopic machines designed to intercept viruses and bacteria that enter your bloodstream."
"You're talking about nano-technology. I thought we were years away from that."
"It's being used in some civilian applications now, although not at this degree of sophistication. It'll be ten years, at best, before something like this reaches the civilian market."
Harrison sighed. "So it hasn't been tested? Is that it?"
"Oh, no. It's been tested extensively," Ferguson replied.
"Just not on humans," added Dixon, ignoring the glare Ferguson directed at him.
"Lovely."
"I assure you it is perfectly safe," said Ferguson.
"I'm sure you think so."
"So you'll accept it?"
"Is this really necessary? I mean, I'm immune to the virus they released. Do you know of more?"
Dixon glanced at Ferguson again before replying. "They released a different virus during the Ashland incursion. It was a supercharged version of smallpox. I guess they didn't like the fact that there were survivors at Brownsville. This one was much worse. Everyone infected died. We lost every soldier who was wounded, and two of the doctors who tried to save them."
"Okay, but know this, doctor," Harrison said seriously. "If I die from this, I will be avenged."
Dr. Ferguson seemed to think that it was a joke, judging by his grin, but he stopped smiling when he got a good look into Harrison's eyes. The doctor looked at Dr. Dixon for support, but he was already leaving.
"Look, major…"
"Just get it over with, doctor."
Ferguson made the injections rapidly and then implanted the chip in Harrison's leg. The injections made him feel sick to his stomach, and a little lightheaded. He was assured that the feeling was normal, and that it would pass, but how the hell would they know? Unless it was the radioactive isotope making him queasy. He made it back to his room before vomiting – barely.
This is fun, he thought. Now I just need a good case of the shits to make me feel right at home.
The colonel had sent the materials he'd requested. Whoever had dropped them off took the paperwork Harrison had signed earlier. A small cart with a television and DVD player had been left in the hall. He rolled it in and placed it in front of the bed so he could read and watch at the same time.
Most of the information, he either already knew, or it was so complex that it was over his head. He'd never heard of brane theory, or of quantum multiplicity. The way his head felt, he didn't want to know about it. He didn't need to know how it all worked; he just needed to be able to depend on those who did. He dumped all those folders next to his bed and watched the CIA interrogation videos.
They weren't pretty.
The spooks hadn't gotten much out of the prisoners. The initial drugged interrogations had yielded the most information about the other side. The men spoke of unending war and plagues that had wiped out the populations of entire continents. The interrogators hadn't been satisfied with that, though. They'd resorted to some things that Harrison thought had gone out with the Inquisition. It made him uncomfortable enough to skip to the end. The spooks had put bullets in the heads of the ones still alive, once they were sure they had everything.
That's what the enemy will do to me if they take me alive. They will suck every bit of information out of me, play with my broken body for a while, and then put a bullet in my head. Governments do what they want to people without repercussion anyway. What would a government do to someone who's not even a native of the planet? Someone who didn't have any rights at all under the law? He felt dirty just being a part of such things, and yet they had to get all the information they could, right? At what point do we cross a line and become no better than the enemy?
It gave him pause. Can we afford not to be that ruthless?
All of the preparations around the complex made him think that maybe it was already too late to worry about that. Why the build-up of personnel, if the military wasn't planning on doing a few raids of its own? What was it the government wanted? Technology? This place was for more than just defense, that was certain.
Harrison gave up and tried to read one of his novels, but the hero couldn't hold his attention, and the buxom heroine just depressed him. He lay awake for a long time in the dark and tried not to think about what the future might hold.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, an aide escorted him to the mess for breakfast and then down to the armory, where – for the first time since entering the complex – Harrison finally felt at home. He'd always liked the smell of an armory: gun oil and steel.
Harrison's personal w
eapons had been shipped in from North Carolina: his custom black FN SCAR-H and one hundred rounds of 7.62mm x 51mm ammo in five magazines. His rifle also carried an underslung FN40GL-H grenade launcher. He normally carried eight M433 high-explosive dual-purpose grenades and four M576 buckshot grenades... for close encounters.
He checked the case that held the two Sig Sauer P220 .45 caliber pistols equipped with suppressors; they were fine. He had four magazines with subsonic ammunition for those, probably more than he'd need. He'd be using them when he first went in. Two Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knives and his personal .45 caliber pistol in an underarm sling completed his armament.
The rest of his gear was packed in a duffel. He'd take that to his room.
"You do like your weapons, don't you, sir?" the seasoned sergeant in charge of the armory commented. "Mind if I ask what you need all that for? The colonel just said to give you whatever you wanted."
Harrison grinned. "I'm goin' bear huntin'."
The sergeant just shook his head as Harrison signed for the gear and carried everything back to his room. He took out his kit, and disassembled and cleaned all the guns. He sharpened and oiled the knives, slipping them silently back into their sheathes. He needed to get some time in on the range; it had been too long since he'd used his guns.
He caressed those guns. Part of him actually hated guns and the need for them, but he was too much of a realist to think that there would ever come a day when they weren't needed. People were people – that wasn't going to change – and sometimes people just needed to be killed. He knew on some level that, given the mission, he should probably be carrying a 5.56mm, but he preferred the 7.62. He was a big enough guy to not care about the recoil, and he wasn't going to be laying down much suppressive fire.
I hope.
An aide came by in the early afternoon and asked him to see the colonel.
Some of the confusion had died down in the main corridors. Harrison could still hear construction down someplace, though. No one saluted him as he walked along – he wasn't wearing any rank insignia – and that suited him just fine. He didn't look up until he had reached the room indicated.
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