Bo Pan nodded once.
Steve sighed. “You’re blocking my sun.”
Bo Pan looked down, realized he was casting a shadow. He quickly stepped to the left.
“Sorry, sorry,” the man said.
Bo Pan wore secondhand jeans, secondhand sneakers and a Detroit Lions sweatshirt that was probably third-hand, if not fourth. With wispy hair around the temples of a bald head, and eyes that were deeply slanted even by Chinese standards, Bo Pan didn’t look like a threat to anything but the grass on some rich white dude’s lawn.
Steve sat up, turned, put his feet on the sparse, cool grass and packed dirt. “There’s nothing new to report. But you know that. Here to check up on me?”
Bo Pan shook his head. He looked out at the river, squinted at the sun, then took in Steve’s chair.
The old man frowned. “You look comfortable. Are you enjoying yourself?”
Steve smiled. “I am, actually. It’s a beautiful day for a pimp like me.”
Bo Pan’s mouth pursed in confusion. For someone who had spent decades living in America, he understood little of the culture and none of the lingo.
“Do your mother and father know it’s a beautiful day? I saw them working away in the restaurant.”
Bo Pan hadn’t come around in, what… three months? Three months without a peep, and the first thing he had to communicate was a guilt trip?
Steve eased back in his chair. He took his time, milking the motion just to annoy Bo Pan.
“My mother and father don’t need me today.”
“You are lazy,” Bo Pan said. “You have grown up like them.”
Like them: like an American.
Steve glanced over at the girls. He couldn’t help it. As if being a semi-heliophobic nerd sitting with a laptop wasn’t enough of a turnoff, now he was hanging out with a hunched-over, fiftysomething old man.
The girls were pulling on sweatshirts of their own, stepping into form-fitting jeans. The temperature was dropping.
“I’m not lazy,” Steve said to Bo Pan. “I’m efficient — my work is done, remember?”
The old man shook his head. “No longer. We have a search location.”
Steve sat up. He forgot about the girls, forgot about the sun.
“A location?”
The older man smiled, showing the space where his front right incisor once resided.
A location. Five years of effort, millions of dollars spent — Steve didn’t know exactly how much, but it was a lot — the whole reason his family and the People’s Party had hidden him away in this inflamed hemorrhoid of a town, and now it was finally his moment to shine. He didn’t know what to think, how to feel. Afraid? Excited? After all this time, was it finally his turn?
“A location,” Steve repeated. “How did we get it?”
Bo Pan shrugged. “The American love of money knows no bounds.”
“No, I mean how did we, or they — or whatever — get the location? Satellite? Did someone properly model the entry angle? Did someone find…” His voice trailed off.
Did he dare to hope?
Gutierrez’s green men. The story of the century. Steve’s task: build a machine that could dive, undetected, to the bottom of Lake Michigan. Could there be actual pieces of an alien spacecraft?
“Wreckage,” he said. “Did someone find wreckage?”
Bo Pan shook his head. “You don’t need that information.”
Steve nodded automatically, acquiescing to Bo Pan as if the man was something more than a simple go-between.
Wreckage. It had to be. Steve had finished work on the Platypus three months earlier. His baby was more a piece of art than a cutting-edge unmanned underwater vehicle. It sat in a crate like a caged animal, unable to move, unable to fulfill its purpose. Other than midnight test runs, there had been no point in putting the UUV to work. Unless Steve knew where to look, he couldn’t have the machine go out and explore 22,400 square miles of Lake Michigan.
But now, they had a location.
The old man cleared his throat, dug his left pointer finger into the folds of flesh below his left eye, rubbed there. “When I last spoke with you, you said you had researched a local vessel that could take your machine far out on the water?”
Steve nodded. “JBS Salvage.”
“A small operation, as I asked? Not a big fleet of ships?”
“Just two men,” Steve said. “Only one boat.”
“Good. And you check on them frequently?”
“Every week.” A lie; a lie fueled by a stab of fear that maybe JBS had finally landed a job, that they wouldn’t be available. It had been three weeks since he’d even bothered to see if their boat was still in port.
Bo Pan cleared his throat again. This time, he spit phlegm onto the dirt. “Can you talk to them right now?”
“Of course,” Steve said, that feeling of foolishness growing. Why hadn’t he checked every week? Bo Pan was right — Steve had been lazy. If they had to find another company to carry the Platypus to the target area, how long would that take? Days? Weeks?
Bo Pan’s eyes narrowed. “You seem unsure.”
“It’s fine,” Steve said. “I got this.”
“And your strange machine… it is ready? There is nothing you need to tell me?”
Steve smiled: that was something he didn’t have to lie about.
“My gear is ready to rock, playa.”
Bo Pan nodded. “Good, good. They will be happy to hear that. If you hire the boat company today, how soon do you think we can leave?”
Steve felt a small burning in his chest. “We?”
Bo Pan looked away, embarrassed. “They want me to go with you.”
Of course. There had to be something to diminish the moment. Steve would be stuck on a boat with this old man for days, maybe even weeks. Well, that was a small price to pay to finally put the Platypus to work.
And, at the very least, it was better than rolling up forks and knives in napkins.
“I’ll go see JBS right now,” Steve said. “Maybe we can leave in a day or two.”
Bo Pan slid both of his hands into his sweatshirt’s front pocket. He pulled out a thick envelope and a cell phone.
He handed the envelope over. “Tonight,” he said. “Make them leave tonight.”
Steve took the envelope. It felt solid, heavy, a brick of money.
Bo Pan then handed Steve the cell.
“Call me when you know,” Bo Pan said. “Use this phone only. I am already prepared for the trip.”
The old man turned and walked across the park grass, headed for his rust-spotted, ten-year-old Chevy pickup.
Steve turned back to face the water. The girls were gone. The wind was already growing from a stiff breeze into shirt-pulling gusts. November was supposed to be the worst time to be out on Lake Michigan.
Five years preparing for this day. No, more like nine considering that they’d recognized his intelligence early and sent him to Berkeley, readying him for a project that would require a brilliant, deeply embedded engineer. Embedded? That wasn’t even the right word. Steve had been born right here, in Benton Harbor. He was as American as those girls, and yet he longed to serve a country he had never seen.
A lifetime of waiting for a chance to serve his people, his heritage, and now — perhaps — his moment had finally come.
He just hoped no one would get hurt.
DUTY