alert adj. 1. Vigilant; attentive. 2. Mentally responsive and perceptive. 3. Lively; brisk. -n. 1. A warning of attack or danger; esp. a siren or klaxon. 2. The period during which such a warning is in effect. -on the alert. Prepared for danger or emergency; watchful. -tr.v. alerted, alerting, alerts. 1. To warn; to notify of approaching danger. 2. To call to action or preparedness. [French alerte, from Italian all'erta, "on the watch," from Latin ille, that + erta, watch.]
-Webster-Wangchi Unabridged Dictionary of Standard English Tomas y Hijos, Publishers
2465, Terran Standard Reckoning
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mordecai Morris's eyes popped open, and the phone rang again. He jerked up in bed and grabbed, cutting off a third ring before it woke his sleeping wife, then peered bleary-eyed at the bedside clock. Two-thirty? He'd kill the son-of-a-bitch!
"Morris," he mumbled thickly, then straightened. "What? Yes-yes, of course! No, wait." He rubbed his puffy eyes, feeling his brain wake up. "This is an open line. Hold the call-I'll be back in a minute."
He waited for an acknowledgment, then slid his left foot into a slipper, strapped the prosthesis to the stump of his right calf, and slipped silently out of the bedroom and downstairs to his library. He ignored the phone on his desk, unlocked a bottom desk drawer, and lifted out another one. He set the scrambled line on his blotter and punched buttons. Within seconds, he was speaking once more to the base communications center.
"All right, we're secure at this end now. Put him through." There was a moment of silence, then a familiar deep voice.
"Howdy, M&M," it said.
"Why the hell are you calling me on scramble at two o'clock in the damned morning?" Morris demanded.
"It seemed the most appropriate way to talk to someone as scrambled as you are, shit-for-brains," Richard Aston said cheerfully, and Morris's eyebrows crawled up his forehead in astonishment.
"Easy for you to say," he returned with automatic levity, but his mind raced. It was largely due to Dick Aston that he'd lost only a foot when the Islamic Jihad decided the US naval attachО in Jordan was responsible for certain difficulties they'd encountered. Aston had been in operational command of the SEAL teams which swam ashore in Lebanon and rescued six American and European hostages and left thirty-two Shiite dead behind, and Morris had assembled the information that targeted the terrorist safe houses for him. They'd used the emergency code phrase "shit-for-brains" exactly once-when Morris called Aston over an open line to report that he was being shadowed by three men. Aston and a team of Embassy Marines had arrived ten minutes later, finished off the remaining pair of terrorists who had him cornered behind his burning car, and gotten him into a hospital.
But that had been eight years ago! Still, it was also the one and only time they'd actually worked together... .
"Old memories die hard," Aston said cheerfully, and Morris's stomach muscles tightened at the confirmation. What in God's name-?
"What can I do for you, Dick?" he asked calmly.
"You still have that pretty assistant?"
"Jayne? Sure. What about her?"
"Well, I think you should visit Scotland for a vacation," Aston sounded totally unaware that his suggestion was outrageous, "and you might as well bring her with you."
"We're a bit busy right now, Dick," Morris said.
"Really? Oh, I guess you're all biting your tails over that business with the UFOs." There was something hidden in his voice, Morris thought, then tightened all over as the other went on. "I was single-handing across the Atlantic, you know. Saw the whole thing, shit-for-brains."
Dear God in heaven, he knew something! That was what this was all about! But what could Dick possibly know?
"Well, I might be able to clear a little time with the boss next week," he said, voice level despite the sweat beading his forehead as his brain settled into overdrive. This was one of the most secure lines in the world-and Aston evidently felt it wasn't secure enough. That, coupled with the repeated use of the code phrase and his request for Jayne Hastings's presence meant he had to believe he was onto something incredibly sensitive. But what? What?
"Aw, I don't know if I can hang around that long," Aston said. "C'mon! I'm sure you can make it sooner than that."
So. Whatever it was, it was urgent.
"It's tempting," Morris replied slowly, "but I'd really have to clear it with the boss, you know."
"I figured you would," Aston agreed, "but I'd keep it simple, if I were you. Don't tell him anything he doesn't need to know."
"You might be right," Morris said, trying to sound cheerfully normal. "All right-I'll do it."
"Knew I could count on you," Aston's relieved chuckle sounded genuine. "Oh, say! Did you get the results on that checkup of yours?"
Checkup? Despite himself, Morris lowered the handset and stared at it. Now what was he up to?
"Sure," he said into the phone after a moment. "Why?"
"Oh, just curious. Especially about the EEG. I've been worried about you ever since I heard, Mordecai. In fact, I kind of wish you'd bring it along just so I can be sure you've really got a brain. Hell!" Another chuckle, but Morris heard both tension and hidden meaning in it. "Bring Jayne's, too. We can compare them and show you what a functional brain looks like."
"Okay, why not?" Morris returned, his mind awhirl with confusion and speculation. Either Dick was onto something incredible, or his friend had gone totally off the deep end. At the moment, Morris was hardly prepared to place a bet either way, but he owed Aston the benefit of the doubt ... however wacko it sounded.
"Great! Jack Rose and I will be waiting for you, M&M," Aston said quietly, and hung up.
Morris sat motionless long enough to hear the high, piercing tone that signaled a disconnected line, then hung up absently, staring blindly at his desk blotter in the quiet of the night as he tried to make sense out of the conversation. It was impossible, of course, but the longer he played it back, the more excited he felt. He knew Dick Aston, and he'd encountered enough weirdnesses dealing with purely terrestrial affairs to leave him with a wide-open mind about this. Aston would never have made that call unless he knew something-and if he knew anything at all, he was one up on anyone else on the damned planet.
The commander turned to his regular phone and punched more buttons. The bell at the other end rang several times before a sleepy voice answered.
"Jayne? Mordecai." He grinned at her reply. "Yes, of course I know what time it is ... I'm going to tell you, if ... Look, just listen, will you? Thanks. Now, have you ever had an EEG?" His grin grew even broader at the short, pungent reply. "Well, neither have I, but I think it's time we repaired that oversight. Get hold of the base hospital and set us up for this morning, will you?" The silence at the other end was deafening.
"It's important, Jayne," he said softly. "Don't ask me why, because I can't tell you. Just set it up-early, Jayne." He listened again, nodding to himself. "Fine. Handle it any way you want." He paused again, then chuckled. "Jayne, if you think you're pissed, I can hardly wait to hear Admiral McLain's reaction when I wake him up!" The sudden silence which greeted that remark from the other end of the line told him that it had set her brain as furiously to work as he'd expected. "Gotta run now, Jayne," he ended brightly. "Bye."
He hung up and drew a deep breath, then flipped through his rolodex to double-check the number for the admiral's quarters. Then he began punching buttons again, wondering how he was going to convince CINCLANT that his senior intelligence officer hadn't lost his mind.
Ludmilla gave Aston a disgusted look as he stepped into the isolation area of McKee's sickbay. The big Emory S. Land-class depot ships were designed to provide support-including hospital facilities-to a squadron of up to nine nuclear submarines, and their sickbays were scaled accordingly. For all that, McKee's sickbay was a spartan place, and Ludmilla looked thoroughly disgruntled as she sat on the edge of the bed.