“Bill,” Dan said, then paused. “Forget everything I said.”
“Already forgotten,” Weaver replied. “Hey, if you want to be a help, find whoever has to sign the contracts, and I can imagine what howling they’re going to make when they see my hourly rates, and get the whole team down to the anomaly site. I’ve got a national guardsman who used to be a physics student doing all my monitoring and half the analysis. He’s been helpful and I’d like to keep him but I could use some help.”
“Will do.”
“And see if you can find a guy named Gonzales or Gonzalves or something in England, Reading, I think. Pure math guy. Ray Chen used to go to him for Higgs-Boson math he couldn’t get. And send me some clothes. And get somebody to pay my cell phone bill.”
“Okay,” Heistand said, chuckling. “In retrospect, the meeting this morning wasn’t all that important, despite the fact that there was about two million dollars in billing riding on it and you were the star of the show.”
“Hell, Dan, I’ve probably billed a quarter of that just this weekend,” Bill said. “Okay, we’re pulling into a McDonalds to get some breakfast. As soon as I can slow down enough to do anything like a report I’ll get it to you.”
“Bye, Bill,” Heistand said. “And, oh, try not to get blown up again, okay? You’re my star biller.”
“Will do,” Weaver said, chuckling. Then he thought of something apropos of the order and frowned.
“Oh, one more thing, Dan,” he added. “Send the Wyverns.”
“That’s a classified program, Bill,” the vice president said. “I can’t just open up that compartment on your say-so.”
“I’ve got the access I need to get it opened,” Weaver replied. “But do you really want me to go that route? Call the DOD rep, explain the situation, get the compartment kicked open. But in the meantime, put them in their shipping containers and get them down to Orlando. I’m tired of nearly getting my butt blown off. Send the Wyverns. And their full suite of accessories.”
“I had to call my boss, too,” Chief Miller said. “What do you want?”
“Number one, Diet Coke,” the physicist replied.
The SEAL gave the order and pulled around in the Humvee, the Mk-19 just clearing the overhead. The employees manning the windows were visibly bemused to be serving a Humvee with a grenade launcher being driven by a heavily armed SEAL.
“The Team didn’t know where I was; they thought I’d bought it at Eustis,” the chief said. “Even sent a damned counseling team over to my house, chaplain, a captain, the works. My wife couldn’t decide if she was happy as hell that I was still alive or pissed that I hadn’t called earlier when I called and told her they were wrong. They didn’t even know that Sanson was in the hospital. Most of the casualties at Eustis were ‘missing presumed dead’ including the Old Man.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Weaver said. “Glasser was a good man.” He looked over at the chief who was driving the Humvee with one hand and eating a Quarter Pounder with the other. “I didn’t even know you were married.”
“Three happy years,” the chief replied around a mouthful of burger. “And twelve that weren’t so bad either. Hell, every time I go out the door she figures I’m not coming home. The kids hardly know who I am. But she doesn’t bitch about it. Well, not much. Somewhat more when I return from the grave.”
“And kids,” Weaver said, shaking his head. “It just doesn’t fit the image of the world-traveler SEAL. How many?”
“Three,” Miller replied. “Being a SEAL’s just like any other job after a while. At first it’s all ‘oooh! I’m a SEAL!’ and getting into fights in Bangkok. Then there’s the ‘Okay, I’m a SEAL, that’s my job and it’s sooo coool’ phase after you’ve been on the Teams for a while. Then there’s the ‘honey, I’m off to work’ phase, which is basically me.”
Weaver laughed at that.
“And one from my marriage to She Who Must Not Be Named,” Miller added. “He’s in the Army. Studying computers of all things. The rest are high-school and one in elementary school. Sixteen, fifteen and nine. Boy, boy, girl.”
“And she’s the apple of daddy’s eye?” Weaver grinned.
“She’s daddy’s nightmare,” the SEAL groused. “Daughters are nature’s revenge on fathers. She’s already got a string of boyfriends. She’s going to be impossible when she’s a teenager. I’m seriously thinking about putting her in a barrel when she turns twelve and not letting her out until she’s eighteen and no longer my problem.”
“Be a pretty messy barrel,” the physicist pointed out. “Maybe with a mesh bottom? And rinse it out once a week?”
“Whatever.”
When they got to the developing encampment around the Orlando anomaly they had some problems getting into the main camp. The guards there had never heard of a Dr. William Weaver, didn’t care that they were in a National Guard vehicle and seemed only mildly interested in the fact that Command Master Chief Miller was a SEAL and had been one of the first people through the gate.
After a few calls and calling the Officer of the Guard they were let through but only on condition that they report to the camp headquarters and obtain proper passes.
Weaver had Miller drop him at the physics trailer, which had acquired a sign while he was gone. It was now designated “The Anomaly Physics Research Center” and had another sign that said: “Authorized Persons Only. All Others Keep Out. This Means You!” He figured he’d better get the proper papers later.
The guard on the trailer, however, had another opinion.
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t let anyone in who doesn’t have the right pass,” the guard, an 82nd Airborne private, said.
“Look, son,” Weaver said, patiently. “This is my lab! This is my project. And unless the secretary of defense or the national security advisor have taken me off the job, that is my equipment in there.”
“That may be the case, sir,” the guard said, doggedly. “But unless you have the right pass, you’re not going in.”
Weaver had just opened his mouth when his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and held a hand up to the guard.
“William Weaver.”
“This is the Secretary,” the secretary of defense said. “There’s supposed to be a FEMA representative down there to coordinate the tracking of the gates. You talked to him, yet?”
“If he’s in my lab the answer is: no,” Bill said, shaking his head. “I’m having a little trouble getting into it.”
“Why? Lost your keys?” the SECDEF chuckled.
“No, the nice young man from the Army who is standing outside the door won’t let me in.”
There was a long pause as the secretary digested this fact.
“Let me talk to him.”
Weaver handed over the phone.
“Private First Class Shawn Parrish, sir,” the private said, politely.
“No, I don’t recognize your voice, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No, sir,” this somewhat strained but determined. “But I’d be happy to call the sergeant of the guard, sir.”
There was a long period while the private’s face gradually got whiter.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.” This with a very white face.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dr. Weaver, I need to call the sergeant of the guard,” the private said in a very small voice, handing back the phone. He pulled a civilian multiband radio off his LBE and spoke into it.
Weaver spent the next three minutes considering the nature of boson particles, muon detection and particle degradation. He’d been doing that a good bit while not being attacked by aliens or visiting alien planets in the last couple of days, which mostly meant while driving or eating, but every little bit helped.