Gant spoke into his headset as he stepped from the porch and examined the unconscious creature. Overhead the chopper hovered like a monstrous mechanical guardian angel.
"Mission accomplished. Target has been bagged intact. Repeat, target has been bagged intact. Bring in the retrieval units and let's head for home."
3
Liz tightened the belt on her white robe and reached for a mug on the kitchen counter. She paused as her hands touched the porcelain handle, her eyes transfixed on the strands of steam rising and twisting from the black liquid inside. What did she see? Two entwined dancers … a pair of missile contrails?
Is it possible to give oneself a Rorschach test?
Sometimes a cup of coffee is just a cup of coffee.
She grabbed the drink and forced herself to swallow a sip of the hot liquid in the hope that a little burning pain would chase away the introspection. The last thing she needed was to dive into the recesses of her own psyche.
Her mind found a new focus on a stack of file folders piled high on the kitchen table. Liz slipped into a chair, put her coffee down, and reached for the top file. Inside she found the same thing she would find in every file in that pile: sheets of paper containing background information, various test results, and all manner of data — both numbers and language — designed to boil a person down into neat columns of information that could be analyzed and reviewed.
Of course, she also saw a tracking sheet, and on that sheet were three lines. The bottommost of those lines would eventually receive her signature, after she had thoroughly reviewed the information therein and come to the conclusion that the person detailed in those pages was psychologically, socially, and mentally fit.
Fit for what? Well, that was not her concern. She was only a stop along the way. The signatures on the other two lines indicated that two others had already reviewed the file. Her job was to serve as a third level of redundancy.
She started to read, stopped, leaned back, and let her eyes wander to the bay windows on the far side of the living room. A long shadow stretched across the sidewalk outside, barely visible beyond the half-open blinds. She figured that by the time she reached for the last of those file folders the sun would be hanging just above the townhouse across the street before it disappeared for the day.
Liz sighed. She had thought working from home might take away some of the monotony. When she had cleared out her in-box before leaving the office last night she had actually looked forward to today. She had planned to sit around in her robe and alternate between work, television, and maybe a midday run when she could have the streets of the development all to herself.
It seemed environment made no difference. Those piles of files … that bottom line waiting for her signature … they were a prison regardless of whether she worked at home or at the office. Of course, a prison comprised of paperwork was preferable to the kind with bars, and there had been a time not too long ago that such a fate did not seem out of the question.
How the hell did I end up like this was, perhaps, the more important question, one that had dogged her every day for the past two years.
She held her breath, closed her eyes, and then exhaled in the hope that the physical act of sighing would carry away all those pesky questions, the boredom, the bouts of self-doubt. When that failed, she tried to wipe them away by running a hand through her short blond hair, where she felt a few drops of moisture left over from the morning shower.
That did not work, either. Nothing ever did. At some point she must turn her attention to those files and begin another day of doing nothing noteworthy, of being the third signature.
The craving for a cigarette hit hard, more so than it had in the last six months. In truth, she wondered how she had staved off a return to that habit, particularly given the vast amount of nothingness occupying her days.
The house phone rang and she nearly jumped from her seat. It might have been the most exciting event at "work" in two years, although she did suffer a paper cut last week.
It rang again, as if urging her to act before the caller changed his mind.
Liz stood, returned to the kitchen counter, and grabbed the receiver.
"Hello? Yes, that's me. Sir, good morning, sir. Um, yes sir, I'm working from my home today. No, feeling fine, sir, just thought I could — okay. What's that? Oh, yes, well, I should point out that this is not a secure line. I … well, I'm not sure if I follow you, sir, that's not exactly my background. Yes, I was involved but I'm under orders not to … yes, I am familiar with your area of command, sir. Technically my last assignment was under your jurisdiction, if I remember correctly. What's that? Oh. No, I'm not familiar with that facility. Yes, I, well I would be interested, sir, it's just that, well, my understanding is that I've been restricted in my duties. The commission's final report — no sir, I'm not trying to argue. I would welcome the — yes, sir, I'll report this morning."
The line went dead. Liz held the phone to her ear until a recording said, "if you would like to make a call, please hang up."
She considered that the call could have been a hallucination or a prank but decided that if it were either, at least it would make for an interesting day.
Finally she hung up and marched to the closet outside the bedroom. She stared at the closed sliding doors, summoning the courage to open them, as if a dangerous creature lurked therein.
Inside waited a green dress uniform. Liz held the lapel and caressed the material with her thumb. She studied the silver oak leaf resting there and the black name tag.
Lieutenant Colonel Liz Thunder.
4
A set of steel elevator doors opened at the end of a tube-like corridor constructed of cement and painted in shades of gray and dirty white. Light panels shielding fluorescent bulbs lined the ceiling and emitted a harsh glow that eliminated any possibility of shadows. An orange and black decal identified the area as PYLON A, SUBLEVEL 1.
Major Thom Gant and Captain Brandon Twiste exited the oversized lift and walked the hall side by side, the former wearing black BDUs and carrying a sidearm, the latter in his preferred green version and, as usual, carrying no weapon of any kind, although Gant found that his friend did possess a sharp wit.
"Didn't look quite as nasty in the light," Twiste said, continuing a conversation begun several floors below outside the containment cells.
"Looked nasty enough to me, and I had an eyeful in the swamp. I'm not sure why you even wanted to see the thing again."
Twiste placed a hand on Thom's shoulder, stopping their progress. A sentry in green BDUs toting an M16 passed on his way to the elevator. Twiste stayed silent until he was by.
"Don't you ever wonder what happens after your team has done its job?"
"Not particularly."
"I'm supposed to be the Archangel science officer. I'm supposed to use my knowledge of biology and medicine to help you guys out. I worked on the net Taser design, I was with you in the Everglades the other morning to bag this thing, and I'm stuck in forty-eight-hour quarantine with you."
"Standard procedure for this type of encounter. Be thankful that at least we can wander the base. After Manitoba they stuck our entire team in one small barracks for—"
"That's not the point, Thom. We get the specimen all the way back here and ship him to the boys downstairs and now it's none of my business?"
"Everything is compartmentalized, doctor. You are not exactly new to the U.S. army, so why is this a surprise?"