He arrived at Andrews Air Force Base at dawn, had a big free breakfast at the Transient Officers' Mess, and then loitered around until nine-thirty. Then he called General Blaisdell.
Lieutenant's bars don't move you through the Pentagon's switchboards very fast. He told two civilians, two sergeants, and a fellow lieutenant that he had a personal message for General Blaisdell. Finally, he wound up with a bird colonel who was his administrative assistant.
She was an attractive woman a few years older than Thurman. She eyed him suspiciously. "You're calling from Andrews," she said, "but my board says you're stationed in Portobello."
"That's right. I'm on compassionate leave."
"Hold your orders up to the lens."
"They aren't here." He shrugged. "My luggage went missing."
"You packed your orders?"
"By mistake."
"That could be an expensive mistake, lieutenant. What is this message for the general?"
"With all due respect, colonel, it's very personal."
"If it's that personal, you'd better put it in a letter and mail it to his home. I pass on everything that goes through this office."
"Please. Just tell him it's from his sister – "
"The general doesn't have a sister."
"His sister Gavrila," he pressed on. "She's in trouble."
Her head jerked up suddenly and she spoke beyond the screen. "Yes, sir. Immediately." She pushed a button and her face was replaced by the green DARPA sigil. A shimmering encryptation bar appeared over it, and then it dissolved to the general's face. He looked kind, grandfatherly.
"Do you have security on your end?"
"No, sir. It's a public phone. But there's no one around."
He nodded. "You spoke with Gavrila?"
"Indirectly, sir." He looked around. "She was captured and had a jack installed. I jacked briefly with her captors. She's dead, sir."
He didn't change expression. "Did she complete her assignment?"
"If that was to get rid of the scientist, no, sir. She was killed in the attempt."
While they were talking, the general made two unobtrusive hand gestures, recognition signals for Enders and for Hammer of God. Of course Thurman didn't respond to either one. "Sir, there's a huge conspiracy – "
"I know, son. Let's continue this conversation face-to-face. I'll send my car down for you. You'll be paged when it arrives."
"Yes, sir," he said to a blank screen.
Thurman drank coffee for most of an hour, looking at the paper without actually reading it. Then he was paged and told that the general's limousine was waiting for him in the arrivals area.
He went there and was surprised to see that the limo had a human driver, a small young female tech sergeant in dress greens. She opened the back door for him. The windows were opaque mirrors.
The seats were deep and soft but covered with uncomfortable plastic. The driver didn't say a word to him, but did turn on some music, soft-drift jazz. She didn't drive, either, other than pushing a button. She read from an old-fashioned paper Bible and ignored the numbing monotony of the huge gray Grossman modules that housed a tenth of a million people each. Thurman was kind of fascinated by them. Who would live that way voluntarily? Of course most of them were probably government draftees, just marking time until their term of service was up.
They traveled alongside a river, in a greenbelt, for several miles, and then went spiraling up an entrance ramp to a broad highway that led to the Pentagon, which was actually two pentagons-the smaller historical building nested inside the one where most of the work was actually done. He could only see the whole structure for a few seconds, and then the car banked down a long arc of concrete toward its home.
The limousine came to a stop outside a loading bay, identified only by the flaking yellow letters blkrde21. The driver put her Bible down and got out and opened Thurman's door. "Please follow me, sir."
They went through an automatic door straight into an elevator, whose walls were an infinite regression of mirrors. The driver put her hand on a touchplate and said, "General Blaisdell."
The elevator crawled for about a minute, while Thurman studied a million Thurmans going off in four directions, and tried not to stare at the various attractive angles of his escort. A Bible-thumper, not his type. Nice butt, though.
The doors opened to a silent and spare reception room. The sergeant went behind the desk and turned on a console. "Tell the general that Lieutenant Thurman is here." There was a whisper and she nodded. "Come with me, sir."
The next room was more like a major general's office. Wood paneling, actual paintings on the walls, a pic window that displayed Mount Kilimanjaro. One wall of awards and citations and holos of the general with four presidents.
The old gentleman rose gracefully from behind his acre of uncluttered desk. He was obviously athletic and had a twinkle in his eye.
"Lieutenant, please sit over here." He indicated one of a pair of leather-upholstered easy chairs. He looked at the sergeant. "And bring in Mr. Carew."
Thurman sat uneasily, "Sir, I'm not sure how many people ought to – "
"Oh, Mr. Carew's a civilian, but we can trust him. He's an information specialist. He'll jack with you and save us all kinds of time."
Thurman had a premonitory migraine glow. "Sir, is that absolutely necessary? Jacking – "
"Oh yes, yes. The man's a jack witness in the federal court system. He's a marvel, a real marvel."
The marvel came in without speaking. He looked like a wax replica of himself. Formal tunic and string tie.
"Him," he said, and the general nodded. He sat down in the other chair and pulled two jack cables from a box on the table between him and Thurman.
Thurman opened his mouth to explain, but then just plugged in. Carew followed suit.
Thurman stiffened and his eyes rolled back. Carew stared at him with interest and started breathing hard, sweat dotting his forehead.
After a few minutes he unplugged, and Thurman sagged into relieved unconsciousness. "That was hard on him," Carew said, "but I have a great deal of interesting information."
"Have it all?" the general said.
"All we need and more."
Thurman started to cough and slowly levered himself into a normal sitting position. He clamped his forehead with one hand and massaged a temple with the other. "Sir... could I ask for a Pain-go?"
"Certainly ... sergeant?" She went out and returned with a glass of water and a pill.
He gulped it down gratefully. "Now ... sir. What do we do next?"
"The next thing you do, son, is get some rest. The sergeant will take you to a hotel."
"Sir, I don't have a ration book, or any money. It's all back in Portobello; I was under detention."
"Don't worry. We'll take care of everything."
"Thank you, sir." The headache was retreating, but he had to close his eyes at the mirrored elevator car, or face the prospect of watching himself puke a thousand times at once.
The limousine hadn't moved. He slid gratefully onto the soft slick plastic.
The driver closed his door and got in the front. "This hotel," he asked her, "are we going all the way downtown?"
"No," she said, and started the engine. "Arlington." She turned and raised a silenced .22 automatic and shot him once in the left eye. He clawed for the door handle and she leaned over and shot him again, point-blank in the temple. She made a face at the mess and pushed the button that directed the car to the cemetery.
MARTY DROPPED HIS BOMBSHELL by bringing a friend to breakfast. We were eating out of the machines, as usual for the morning meal, when Marty walked in with someone whom I didn't at first recognize. He smiled, though, and I remembered the diamond set into his front tooth.
"Private Benyo?" He was one of the mechanic guards replaced by my old platoon.
"In the flesh, sarge." He shook hands with Amelia and introduced himself, then sat down and poured a cup of coffee.