Orlando braked a football field short of the station. He looked bored as two men appeared out of holes, camouflaged with ghillie suits and weapons at the ready. A third man appeared from behind and scanned Orlando’s eyes. Then the man did the same to Ivar. He seemed disappointed that the scanner beeped, his finger twitchy on the trigger. He waved Orlando on and the three disappeared back into their holes.
“They seem anxious,” Ivar observed.
“Told you,” Orlando said. “Security issues.”
Orlando shoved the stick into gear and they rattled up to the service station just as an old soda machine slid aside and a group of people climbed out of stairs that had been hidden behind it, arguing. All seven had the look that Ivar was now used to: Spec Ops. Competent, quiet (though not at the moment), professional. Well, except for the short, Indian-looking guy with thick glasses, but even he exuded something.
Scratch the professional, too, though, as one of them, movie-star good-looking, drew an MK23 from under his shirt and fired, punching holes in an old gas can and sending it tumbling.
“At ease, Mac!” the only woman among the seven called out in a voice that clearly indicated she was in charge.
Mac holstered his weapon and they all turned as Orlando stopped the jeep with a screech of brakes.
They didn’t seem happy to see Ivar. He recognized several from the hectic events at the University of North Carolina last year, but his memory of that event wasn’t the greatest, since he’d been under the influence of forces he still couldn’t comprehend.
“Fresh meat,” Roland said.
“Just what we fucking need,” Mac said with a Texas drawl, and Ivar sensed he would have preferred to shoot him. “Another rookie to break in.”
“Kirk did okay,” Roland said, indicating another member of their group. Kirk was of average height, lean. His face was almost skull-like, all angles, and he sported deep blue eyes that fixed Ivar with their gaze.
“Hey, Eagle,” Orlando called out. “My man here doesn’t know who Harvey is, even after I had him shoot the bugger back yonder.”
Eagle, a tall black man without a hint of hair on his head, laughed. “The Harvey test is so old school, Colonel.” The left side of Eagle’s head was covered with a burn scar, a gift from an Iraqi IED years ago.
“It’s not old if you haven’t done it before,” Orlando said.
“Who’s Harvey?” Roland asked.
“Big rabbit,” Eagle said. “But only one person can see him.”
“Nada killed a rabbit in the Fun Outside Tucson,” Roland said.
“Yeah,” Mac said bitterly, “where Burns got wounded.”
“And most likely infected,” Doc threw in.
“We’re not sure of that,” Moms said.
“What are we sure of?” Nada muttered, and Ivar threw a look at Orlando as if to say, See?
“So who the fuck — excuse me, the frak — are you?” Mac asked.
“My name is Ivar.”
“No one gives a shit what your name is,” Mac said.
“Roger that,” Eagle said. “Because if you say yes to Ms. Jones, you get a new name. And that will be that.”
Nada peered at Ivar. “I remember you. You’re from the lab in North Carolina.” He sighed. “A fraking scientist.”
They all turned and looked at Doc as if he were already Harvey.
“You going somewhere?” Nada asked.
“Not that I am aware of,” Doc said. “But we all know our lives here are full of uncertainty and—”
“Give it a break, Doc,” Mac said.
“So why do we need another scientist?” Nada asked, knowing there was no answer forthcoming from this group. Ms. Jones had her own ways, and trying to figure them out was a waste of brain energy.
Orlando got back in the jeep. “You gentlemen, and lady, have a fine rest of the day. Until next time.”
“Stay safe,” Nada said, and Orlando paused for a moment, as if that admonition was more a premonition.
“You too.” In a cloud of dust, Orlando drove away.
Ivar shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable under the gaze of the other seven. Finally Nada jerked his thumb at the rusting soda machine. “Punch grape soda.”
Ivar went over to the machine. He had four choices: Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, orange, and grape. The faded writing said .25 CENTS. He paused, thinking this through even as Mac called out, “Don’t hit the orange or we’ll all become part of the desert.”
Ivar didn’t have twenty-five cents. He also had a feeling it didn’t matter. He hit the button for grape. Driven by pneumatic arms, the soda machine slid to the side and a stairway beckoned.
“Got eight seconds,” Nada said, startling Ivar, since he hadn’t heard him come up right behind him. Along with the rest of the team. Ivar scuttled down the stairs, the others following. Before he reached the last stair, the steel door at the bottom slid open.
“Welcome to the Den,” Moms said as they came out of the hallway into a large circular room with dull gray walls and old battered furniture. It all looked like stuff the government should have auctioned off decades ago. Apparently the Nightstalkers weren’t working on the $10,000-per-toilet-seat federal budget. Ivar saw an assortment of tables; flip charts; whiteboards, some with incomprehensible writing on them; and a row of lockers. There was also a six-foot-high log impaled with throwing weapons: knives, axes, even a spear.
“You don’t get to throw,” Mac said to him, grabbing the handle of a hatchet and jerking it free of the log.
“Not yet,” Roland added, pulling the spear loose. “Not until after your first op.”
The woman stood in front of Ivar, having a two-inch height advantage. “I’m Moms. Team leader. We met once, but it wasn’t under the best of circumstances.” She pointed as she introduced him. “Nada, team sergeant. That’s Eagle, pilot and walking font of useful and useless information. Kirk, our communications man and contrarian. Roland, the one with the spear, naturally is weapons. Mac, the hatchet man, our engineer or as he prefers, demo man.” As she pointed him out, Mac threw the hatchet and it whirled, hitting the log with a solid thud, blade sinking in.
“What’s a contrarian?” Mac asked.
“I don’t think I am one,” Kirk protested.
“See?” Eagle said.
Moms pointed at the last person. “And Doc is Doc. He’s our scientist and doctor. I don’t know what you’re going to be, but you’re meeting Ms. Jones now and she’ll let you know. Then we’ll pick your name.”
“If you say yes,” Nada added. “Listen to what she has to say very carefully.”
“You might want to consider saying no,” Mac yelled from across the Den as he retrieved the hatchet. “Given recent events, that is.” He didn’t flinch as Roland threw the spear and it passed eighteen inches from him, burying its point into the log, the shaft quivering for a moment.
“There’s no shame in saying no,” Nada said. “You leave here and go on with your life.”
“He don’t look like he got much of a life,” Mac added, pulling the spear free along with his hatchet.
They all seemed to ignore Mac, except when he was shooting gas cans, so Ivar tried to ignore him also.
“We need more shooters,” Roland said. “Not scientists.”
“We need more brains,” Mac said. “Not sure this guy qualifies, though.”
“We need a bigger boat,” Eagle said, but no one got it, as usual. It was a sign of his frustration that he explained, “Jaws? Big shark? Need a bigger boat?”
“I got it,” Kirk said, “but I’m not a fan of the allusion.”
“The illusion,” Mac threw in.
“Yeah,” Roland added. “A shark I can handle. I don’t need a bigger boat. I need a bigger gun.”