“McLanahan doesn’t have any authority over us,” Long said irritably, his anger from being elbowed in the face by his ex-boss welling up to the surface.
“You’re wrong, Colonel Long,” Luger said. “Those wristbands mean he has total authority over you.”
“What’s he going to do if we tell him to go piss up a rope?” Long asked. “Kidnap us?”
As if he were talking only to the cool alpine air, Dave Luger said, “Lieutenant Colonel Luger for Gunnery Sergeant Wohl…” There was a brief pause; then: “Chris, come give us a hand upstairs, please.”
“Who the hell are you talking to?” Rebecca asked.
Luger did not reply. Moments later the biggest, meanest-looking man any of them had ever seen came into Furness’s office. He was the archetypical commando — square jaw, piercing eyes, huge hands, tight, muscular frame, some broken bones in his face and nose that made him look even meaner. He looked at the three guardsmen with undisguised hostility, as if he had been personally insulted or inconvenienced by them.
“This is Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl, guys,” Luger said. “He’s our noncommissioned officer in charge of ass-kicking at HAWC.” As he said that, Chris Wohl reached inside his field jacket, grasped the pistol grip of his MP5K submachine gun, and gave it a tug. The little weapon snapped free of its harness, and in the blink of an eye the stock had extended and the big ex-marine had it at port arms. In another instant he had withdrawn and attached a sound suppressor.
“What are you going to do, asshole?” Long sneered. “Shoot us?”
“Yes, sir,” Wohl said, smiling. And at that, to the complete astonishment of the three guardsmen, he leveled the MP5K and fired a round right into John Long’s chest from less than twenty feet away.
“Jesus! Are you nuts?” Rebecca screamed. Long fell backward, his eyes staring straight ahead, clutching his chest. He went down so fast that Rinc and Rebecca had to scramble to catch him. There was no blood. They quickly found that he was not dead because there was no hole in his chest — just a patch of light brown dust on his shirt. But Long was out of it. One moment he was awake and wondering why his legs and arms wouldn’t work — the next instant, his eyes rolled up into his head and he was fast asleep. “What in hell did you shoot him with?”
“A very mild nerve agent crystalline needle,” Hal Briggs explained. “The needle is about the size of a human hair and can penetrate several layers of clothing, very much like a bullet but with none of the tissue trauma. It contains a nerve agent that paralyzes all voluntary motor functions. He can breathe, blink, his heart will work okay — he just can’t move. He’ll be out for about an hour or so.” He motioned to Long’s crotch and added with a grin, “He can’t keep from peeing and shitting on himself either.”
“Are you absolutely insane?” Rebecca cried. She checked for a pulse and breathing and found both were normal — but Long was indeed out. Not just asleep, but completely limp, his limbs as mushy as a half-filled water balloon. She got the first whiff of relieved bowels and bladder too, which made her even angrier. “You can’t just drag us out of here like criminals…”
“We can and we will,” Hal Briggs said calmly. “Rather, you two will drag Colonel Long downstairs and into our waiting car, which will take us over to our waiting jet, which will take us to Elliott Air Force Base. If you give Gunnery Sergeant Wohl any more grief, he will shoot both of you, and he and his men will drag you however way they find most convenient to the van.”
“By accepting those bracelets, guys, you agreed to be part of Dreamland and HAWC as long as they exist and as long as you exist,” Dave Luger said. “I’m sure General McLanahan made that clear to you before you landed at our base. We don’t allow visitors, and there’s no such thing as a TDY into or a PCS out of Dreamland.”
“Just like ‘Hotel California’ in reverse, guys,” Hal added with a big smile. “You can leave anytime you like, but you can never check out.”
“This is ridiculous!” Rebecca exploded. “You’re taking us back to Dreamland? Now? No orders, no prior arrangements, no warning? What about our lives, our families, our careers?”
“All three of you have been federalized,” Dave said. “Major Seaver just left a message telling his partners that he’s on extended leave of absence — actually, we took the liberty of leaving the message on his behalf. Colonel Furness, you and Colonel Long both are still full-time Nevada Air Guard, even though your unit has been deactivated. The Nevada adjutant general has agreed to allow you to go on extended active duty. We’ll see to it that someone looks out for your house or apartment and pays the bills and feeds your dog.”
“Which sucks big-time,” Briggs added. “Didn’t you guys know enough not to have pets if you’re single in the military? Who’d you think was going to take care of them if you had to deploy? Shame on you. Colonel Long needs some serious pet care counseling.”
“Later, Hal,” Luger said. “Any other squawks, folks? If not, or even if you do, save it for when we get on the plane. Grab an end and let’s get Long downstairs.” With the big, mean-looking gunnery sergeant standing guard — the guardsmen could see that the spare magazines he carried were all loaded with real bullets, not paralyzing crystals — they carried Long down the flight of stairs to the hangar floor below.
A waiting unmarked blue windowless van was waiting, with Annie Dewey inside. Her eyes got round with worry as she watched Long being carried into the van. “What happened to Long Dong?” she asked.
“He opened his yap one too many times,” Rinc said.
A few moments later the group arrived at the other side of Reno-Tahoe International Airport, where an unmarked Gulfstream IV executive jet was waiting inside a hangar with two plainclothes guards standing watch. Out of sight of any curious onlookers, they loaded up, got towed out to the ramp, and took off minutes later. In less than thirty minutes, they were on the ground back at Dreamland, and they pulled into a different set of hangars than the ones they’d seen when they first arrived at this haunting, desolate place.
“I want to talk with General McLanahan right away,” Rebecca demanded. “Just because he stuck those microchips in our arms doesn’t mean he has the right to yank us out of our homes and drag us here.”
“Go ahead,” Dave Luger said matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“Go ahead and talk to him.”
“How?”
“You’re wired for sound now, remember?” David said. “We can hear everything you say. The microchip is a transceiver too — not just GPS or physiological data, but two-way communications.”
“He can hear everything I ever say?”
“Try it and see. Announce who you are and who you want to talk with.”
Rebecca looked at Rinc and Annie, shrugged, and then said aloud, “Colonel Furness to General McLanahan. Come in, please.” There was no response. At a nod from Dave Luger, she tried again: “General Mc-Lanahan?”
“Patrick here, Rebecca. Welcome back.”
“A computer analyzes your request, pages the other party, and makes the connection — sometimes it takes a moment,” Dave explained.
“How can I hear him without headphones or a speaker?”
“It’s a little complicated, but the microchip reads and translates nerve impulses associated with speech and hearing,” Patrick explained. “When we say your whole body is wired for sound, we mean it. On a very rudimentary but very real level, we can even read your thoughts.”
Rebecca gulped in astonishment — the idea was too wild to even comprehend right now. “Can my crew members join in the conversation?” she asked.
“Sure,” Patrick said. “Conference in Major Seaver and Captain Dewey with General McLanahan, please.” Patrick paused for a moment, then asked, “Can all you guys hear me okay?”