The transfer area was a drab space with green walls, slit-style windows, and furniture that was bolted to the floor. Ironically enough, the only decoration in the room consisted of three pictures: one of the Federal Center’s head administrator, one of Vice President McCullen, and one of President Grace.
Before being allowed to enter the transfer center, Hale was searched, not just once, but twice. Two armed guards stood side by side with their backs to a cement wall as he waited for Susan to appear.
The chains on her wrists and ankles made a rattling sound, so he heard his sister before the steel door swung open and Susan shuffled into the brightly lit room. Her hair had been shaved off and the spot where Hale’s bullet had nicked the side of her skull was concealed by a white bandage. Had the projectile been one inch to the right, she would have been dead. Susan was dressed in gray prison garb, including a coat with a hood that hung down onto her shoulders.
“You’ve got five minutes,” the prison matron said sternly. “Don’t touch, don’t whisper, and don’t exchange physical objects without permission. The clock starts now.”
Susan nodded impassively as she looked into Hale’s golden yellow eyes.
“So you came.”
“Of course I came,” Hale replied. “You’re my sister. I hired a lawyer… He’ll visit you in the prison.”
“Why bother?” Susan replied bleakly. “I did it. Everyone knows that.”
“You sure as hell did,” Hale agreed soberly. “But who knows? Maybe we can get your sentence reduced.”
Susan smiled grimly.
“All of us are under a death sentence. You—of all people—should realize that. The so-called Liberty Defense Perimeter isn’t going to work, the Grace administration is more interested in holding on to power than winning the war, and anyone with the guts to oppose them winds up in a Protection Camp… or worse. The only thing I regret is the fact that I missed. That was your fault, Nathan… And you’re going to regret it, too,” she added bitterly.
“That will be enough of that,” the matron said grimly as she noticed the prisoner’s agitated state, and motioned to the guards. “Load her on the bus. And keep your eyes peeled. She belongs to Freedom First, and there are plenty of sympathizers in the area.”
Hale wanted to say something comforting, wanted to make peace somehow, but couldn’t find the words as the guards escorted Susan through the door, and into the cold light beyond. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” the matron said gruffly. “She’ll be all right.”
“Thank you,” he responded, but he wasn’t sure anything would be “all right” ever again.
After days spent worrying about Susan, and being questioned by law enforcement officers of every type, Hale was happy to return to work. Even if the first thing he had to do was attend a meeting.
It was being held at the Federal Center, but on the far side of the complex, and Hale no longer had the Lynx. So he set a brisk pace for himself, and after a ten-minute walk, he spotted his destination ahead.
SRPA headquarters-Denver was located in an unremarkable four-story brick building, which, according to the sign out front, was home to something called the “Federal Land Acquisitions Agency.” A very real organization that occupied half of the first floor. The rest of the structure served the needs of SRPA staff. They were an extremely hardworking group who were responsible for planning and coordinating SAR missions throughout the West.
The briefing center was located on the second floor, and after clearing a security check, Hale arrived five minutes late. As he entered the rather austere conference room Hale saw that Major Blake, Chief of Staff Dentweiler, and a man he didn’t know were waiting for him.
“Sorry I’m late, sir,” Hale said. “I had to hike in from the other side of the center.”
“No problem,” Blake replied. “We just sat down. Have a chair. You know Mr. Dentweiler… And this is Mr. Burl. He was a prisoner in what was almost certainly a Chimeran Conversion Center until just days ago.”
Hale shook Dentweiler’s hand, noticed that it was still cold, and turned to the other civilian. “Mr. Burl… It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. And congratulations on your escape. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you pull it off?”
Burl had a firm grip and a direct gaze. “I was lucky,” he answered simply. “The stinks were holding us in a big pit. We dug escape tunnels, and one of them paid off. A few of us got away.”
“Mr. Burl was the last person out,” Blake added. “The alarm had been given by then, so rather than run into the Chimera’s arms, he found a place to hide not fifty feet from the tunnel. So close the stinks didn’t bother to search it carefully enough.”
“I damned near froze my ass off,” Burl put in ruefully. “But I was wearing four layers of clothing, and that helped. The real break came six hours later when a snowstorm passed through. I made use of the low visibility to escape the area.”
“He stumbled across a road, followed it to a house, and hot-wired a pickup,” Blake said admiringly. “And there he was, racing south, when a VTOL crew spotted him.”
“Nice work,” Hale said sincerely. “Did anyone else make it out?”
“A few did,” Burl answered soberly, as he looked down at his hands. “But there’s no way to know if any of them are still alive. Hundreds of people are still in the pit.”
“Yes,” Dentweiler said, as he spoke for the first time, “and one of them is ex-Secretary of War Walker.”
Hale’s eyebrows rose.
“Really? The man we’ve been looking for?”
“Exactly,” Dentweiler replied grimly. “It seems the stinks grabbed the bastard while he and his wife were on their way to Chicago. All we have to do is pick him up.”
Burl felt a sense of forboding. He’d been too trusting. That was apparent now. But his intentions had been good.
Almost from the moment the VTOL picked him up, Burl had been telling anyone who would listen that Walker was being held prisoner, in hopes that authorities would want to rescue the Secretary of War—and therefore all of the poor souls in the stink hole.
He hadn’t mentioned the tapes, however, and wasn’t going to—not until he had to. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, you might want to remember that the stinks take people away every few days. So Walker could be dead by now.”
“We need to know,” Dentweiler put in vehemently, his eyes hard. “The man’s a traitor!” He turned to the Sentinel. “I want you to go in and get him. More importantly, the President wants you to go in and get him.”
“And the other prisoners?” Hale wanted to know.
“We’ll bring them out, too,” Blake responded hurriedly, as if fearful that Dentweiler would give some other instruction. “But it’s got to be fast… So the Chimera won’t have time to counterattack. Otherwise we could wind up having to rescue the rescuers.”
Hale nodded. “Understood. How large a force can I have?”
The question was directed to Major Blake, but Dentweiler chose to answer for him.
“You can have anything you want,” the Chief of Staff said flatly.
Major Blake frowned but remained silent.
“And one more thing,” Dentweiler added, his eyes on Hale. “The thing with your sister… Good work. We kept your name out of the press—we had to, given the fact that you’re officially dead—but the President is grateful. He’d like to thank you personally once this mission is over. And with Major Blake’s permission, we’re going to add a contingent of Sentinels to the President’s security team, and put you in command of them.”