"The V. A. is still denying everything. Refusing to treat our vets who've got Gulf War Syndrome. Why don't you set them straight?" One of the commandos jammed Cris's head down to the floor and held it there roughly, but Cris continued, "You won't do it because it would expose everything you're doing here. It's easier to just throw those poor sick guys away," he said through clenched teeth.
"It must be nice to view the world from such a morally lofty position," Zoll said.
"The men who broke into your neurotransmitter lab are White power survivalists. They have samples of armed Pale Horse Prion, and they're going to use it against segments of the population. You're about to be exposed anyway," Stacy said.
"Are there any missing samples of that protein?" Zoll asked, looking at Chittick.
"All accounted for," Chittick responded.
"Dexter DeMille had two vials in marine depth containers at the bottom of Vanishing Lake. They took him back there after the fire and retrieved them," Stacy countered.
"Dexter DeMille is dead," Zoll answered, his demeanor changing slightly; some of his blustery command presence left him as the beginnings of doubt took hold.
"He's alive, and he's certainly not going to defend you or the Devil's Workshop after what you've told the media about him," Stacy said.
"That still doesn't change my responsibilities with respect to you and Captain Cunningham. You two are out of the equation." He looked at Nino DeSilva, who had once again regained his stoic expression. "You know what to do," Zoll told DeSilva, who nodded. Then the Admiral moved around the table to where Cris was being held down on the floor. "I'm sorry about your daughter," he said. "But the course we've chosen here is the right one. Your record says you were a brave soldier. Unfortunately, sometimes brave soldiers have to be left behind."
"Go fuck yourself," Cris growled. "Your apology and bullshit sentiment are not accepted."
They were in the back seat of the Provost Marshal's sedan being driven to their own executions. They watched in dismay as Nino DeSilva turned left off the rutted road and jounced out across the dark, uninhabited part of the Fort, where their graves would be lost forever.
DeSilva slowly brought the car to a halt, and sat behind the wheel with the engine idling. He rested his right hand on his nine-millimeter Beretta, which was bracketed in a gun rack next to the radio. The three of them sat in silence.
Nino DeSilva momentarily shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror and studied his prisoners. Cris and Stacy were forced to hunch over slightly because of the chains shackling their hands to the metal rings in the floor. "You got a good military package," Nino finally said to Cris.
"Yeah. Big deal. And the medal you're about to give me comes shaped like a bullet."
Again they sat in silence. Nino turned around and looked directly at Cris and Stacy through the metal grate. "That shit you were saying about Huntsville Prison and us making Gulf War sickness in the eighties-is that really true?"
"You didn't hear Zoll deny it, did you?"
They listened to the motor idling until DeSilva said suddenly, "I didn't join up to kill our own guys."
"None of us did," Cris said.
"My older brother was in Desert Storm. He got the sickness. He can't do shit anymore. Lays around, no energy, got rashes. Even his wife quit him. The V. A. tells him it's in his head, y'know, that he's got a psychosomatic illness like P. T. S., like he's fucked up in the brain, which is just plain shit, y'know?"
Stacy could see DeSilva hated what he was being asked to do.
"This bio-weapons program helped destroy your brother, Captain," she said. "Now it's in the hands of fanatic White supremacists who won't hesitate to use it."
But DeSilva didn't seem to be listening. He was reliving something else. When he next spoke, his voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I killed this Indian in Badwater, Texas… a deputy or something. He was just in the way. I had orders, so I killed him. Haven't slept good since." He was looking down now, at the front seat, his eyes fixed on nothing. "And I stole that kid's body. Now I gotta take you out, a Silver Star winner, a Marine like me, and a woman. It doesn't make sense I gotta do this."
"Let us go, man. Zoll won't know. He won't find out till it's too late."
"I'm in this up to my nose." Nino sat in silence. "Nothing's been the same since I killed that Indian. Nothing." He sat for another half minute, then turned off the engine and pulled the Beretta out of its bracket. He opened the driver's door, stepped out, and threw the keys to the handcuffs through the open window onto the back floor.
"What're you gonna do?" Cris asked.
"I let you go, I'm a dead man. Either that or I go to jail for life," DeSilva said. "I gotta do like I was ordered. Unhook yourselves and get out." Cris and Stacy exchanged looks in the back seat of the car. The glance told Stacy to be ready, that Cris was going to try something. She nodded subtly.
They unhooked the chain and got the cuffs off. Then DeSilva opened the rear door and motioned them out while aiming the gun at them.
As Cris stepped out, he tried to move as close to DeSilva as he could, but Nino was combat-trained and instantly backed off. "Stay where you are. Get down on your knees," he commanded. "I can do this so ya won't feel a thing." Cris and Stacy did as they were instructed.
"Like you did with Max Richardson?" Stacy said.
"I don't know nothing about that. Nick Zingo told me he committed suicide."
"He was murdered," she shot back.
"I didn't wanna kill the Indian," DeSilva said softly. "I can't stand it that I killed that guy."
Cris watched as Nino brought the gun up to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. Cris had reached the end. He had nothing more to lose. He decided that he would lunge up off his knees, directly into the muzzle of the Beretta and almost certain death. He hoped Stacy would use his charge to get away into the night. But just as Cris was about to make his move, Nino DeSilva lowered his weapon.
"Can't," he said softly. "Can't do it again." He stood ten feet away, staring at them. "Get out of here," he finally said.
Cris nodded. He took Stacy's hand, pulled her up, and started to lead her away into the darkness. Then Cris turned and looked back at Nino DeSilva. He was standing with the gun at his side and his chin on his chest. "Sometimes men fall, but the good ones can stand again," Cris said.
Then he turned and moved away, holding Stacy's hand.
Nino DeSilva watched until he could no longer see them in the dark.
Chapter 48
You make movies about milking cows and picking flowers and I'll make movies about fucking and getting loaded and we'll see who puts more asses on theater seats," Buddy growled at Alicia Profit from the motor home's command chair.
She had been talking about a movie she loved, made by some fruity Italian director. The flick had died in the art houses, and Alicia's enthusiasm for it pissed Buddy off. He demanded a little more allegiance from a Brazil Nut. Still, Alicia, who Buddy thought was too pretty and too young to be as smart and self-assured as she was, didn't back down.
"Is it just about money, Buddy? You've got money. Is it just about seeing how high you can pile the greenbacks? How many Testarossas can you drive at once? I don't know why you never made The Prospector. That could have been a beautiful movie- a man's search for himself before death. It was full of pathos and humanity. You shoulda fought for it."