Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (6 page)

"Relax, I'll see you in a few days at Red Rock Mountain. You ever heard of it?"

Gant thought about that. The name did strike a chord, but he could not place it.

"I don't know. Maybe. I can't remember."

"A place more secret than Darwin? I bet it's really something."

Gant thought about that and replied, "I'm sure it will be a lot of fun."
 

Lieutenant Colonel Liz Thunder faced piles of folders again, but things had changed drastically in the last couple of days. Instead of boredom, she felt excited, but not the fun kind of excited. More like a test pilot flying an experimental plane at insane speeds at high altitude, wondering if the rocket beneath her seat would fly straight and true or blow to smithereens.

Instead of one pile of files waiting to be reviewed, her new desk held two piles that were separated by a lot more than just a few inches on her desk. No, those two piles might as well be light-years apart.

In her hand she held yet another folder, scanning the information inside. The next few minutes would decide if this particular folder ended up in the pile to the left or the pile to the right, and whether her signature would go on the top line.

After saying "hmm" and "okay" a few times, she shut the folder and returned her attention to the soldier sitting on the business side of the desk.

"Okay, Private Evans, let’s see here." She thought for a moment, then continued, "So you’re a Pittsburgh Steelers fan?"

The young man—little more than a kid, really—nodded with a stiff upper lip, an expression that conveyed the seriousness with which he viewed the session. At the same time, Liz felt that he was surprisingly at ease, considering that she sat in the chair that once had belonged to this kid's commanding officer, a man this kid had helped gun down a few days ago.

It must have occurred to Private Evans that nodding was not the correct way to answer a superior officer, so he added, "I mean, yes ma’am, a real diehard, ma'am."

"Good, okay, well then," she shut the folder and slid a photograph across the desk to Evans. It was a black-and-white picture of a street scene including cars, pedestrians, buildings, an intersection, street vendors, and the like. Just an ordinary photograph from an ordinary day in Chicago, or New York, or somewhere.

"I want you to look at this photograph, Private. It is very important that you stay focused on this photograph. Do you understand?"

"Ma’am, I think so."

"Good. Because I’m going to ask you questions about this photograph. I’m also going to ask you other questions about other things. How quickly you answer the questions about the photograph is important, and how accurately. The other questions are not as important, but I will want correct answers. Do you understand? Your focus
must
be on the photograph and what’s pictured there."

He half-nodded then caught himself, "Yes, Colonel."

"There’s a vendor in the photo. What is he selling?"

"Hotdogs." He squinted and added, "Hotdogs with sauerkraut."

"There’s a brick building to the right. How many stories tall is it?"

As he counted the floors she asked, "Who’s your favorite Steeler?"

He lost count and told her, "Probably the quarterback this year, I think he—"

"How many floors in that building, private?" A little sterner. That threw his attention to the picture again.

"Six stories, ma’am."

"This photo was taken at eight o’clock in the morning. What direction is the man crossing the street facing?"

The soldier scanned the photograph for—

"Boy, the Cowboys really kicked the Steelers’ ass in the ’93 Super Bowl, didn’t they?"

"Um," he scanned the photo.

"What was the score? Something like 30–0, right?"

"No, actually, it was—"

"Which way is he facing, soldier? Study the fucking photograph and stop thinking about how the 'Boys just whipped those pussy Steelers."

"He’s facing west—no, no, east."

"Why? How do you know that?"

"It was 27–17. No way is that an ass-kick—"

"You said he was facing west. Why is he facing west?"

"Because he’s holding his hand above his eyes to screen away the sun."

She nearly yelled: "But it’s eight in the goddamn morning On my planet the sun rises in the east, not the west."

"I said the east. I mean, I meant the east."

Damn, she hated this. She chose psychology to help people. Nothing like a career opportunity and a little rank to change those priorities. It was no longer about helping people; the army had made it about deconstructing them. Of course, along the way she tended to deconstruct herself, too.

He told her, "And it was the ’95 Super Bowl. Or, rather, after the ’95 season when—"

"There’s a woman in the photograph with a short skirt on. What color are her eyes?"

He looked, squinted, and told her, "Brown."

"Brown? What are you, clairvoyant? It’s a black-and-white photograph. How can you tell her eyes are brown?"

Private Evans said nothing. She took the photograph from his hands.

"Ma’am, it really was a lot closer than the final score."

"What was?"

"That Super Bowl. Besides, the Steelers beat the Cowboys twice before in Super Bowls in the '70s."

"Private, I don’t care."

He fell silent, his stiff upper lip not quite as stiff.

She rifled through some papers that were in yet another pile on top of the battleship-gray metallic desk. She studied one for a moment and then asked, "Do you know what the Gettysburg Address was?"

"A speech by Abraham Lincoln, ma’am."

"Where?"

"Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m not an idiot, ma’am."

She smiled. "Good. I’m glad. We don’t want idiots in the army. Certainly not here at Red Rock. Do you know the Gettysburg Address by heart? Did you memorize it in grammar school or high school or basic training?"

"I studied it in high school but I did not memorize it. That is, I don’t know it by heart anymore, ma’am."

"That’s good, private. I’ve got a copy of the Gettysburg Address right here. And now you’re going to read it to me, out loud. You’re going to read it from this piece of paper. And you are going to recite it to me slowly and clearly and perfectly. You are not going to skip a word. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma’am."

She started to hand the paper to him, but hesitated.

"One more thing, Private. As you’re reading this I’m going to ask you some questions and speak my mind on a few matters. You are not to answer my questions until after you are done reading this great speech. Do you understand?"

Evans accepted the sheet of paper with both hands.

"Should I begin, ma’am?"

"When you’re ready, private."

He cleared his throat, then read, "Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the …"

"How long have you been stationed here?"

"… proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing…"

"What number does the Steeler's quarterback wear? Sixty-nine, right?"

A little hesitation, not much. "Whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met …"

"I think the best quarterback the Steelers ever had was Bubby Brister."

"… to dedicate—no—we are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place…"

"Steelers won, what? Two Super Bowls?"

"… for those who here gave their livers—lives that nation—that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot concentrate—"

"Do you think the letters in
Penthouse
are real?"

—

Lieutenant Colonel Thunder rubbed her eyes and looked at the two piles of folders. Private Evans’s now rested in the pile to the left with the folders of soldiers to be transferred out of Red Rock.

She did not like what she had just done. She had not liked doing it over and over again for nearly twenty-four hours straight. But it was her job to push their ability to stay focused and she had to push as hard as she could because someone had not pushed Colonel Haas enough.

The door creaked open at the same time as a soft rap sounded.

"Colonel Thunder?"

In walked a man with a shaved head and a sturdy upper body; a man with a lot of strength in his arms and strong shoulders. However, she spied a fair number of wrinkles around his eyes, as well as age spots on his hands, suggesting that he was approaching senior citizen status.

Regardless, she worried less about his years and more about the three stars on his dress uniform. She snapped to her feet.

"General, sir."

"At ease, Colonel, and welcome to Hell Hole."

He offered his hand and she took it, returning his strong shake with a firm grip of her own.

General Harold Borman,
she thought.
The legend.

"Thank you, sir. Hell Hole?"

"You mean they haven’t told you yet? I thought Corporal Sanchez would’ve filled you in. Officially we all know and love this place as the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility. To those who have to deal with this pit, well, they call it the Hell Hole. Probably not too far from the truth, actually. You haven’t been down to the vault yet, have you?"

He knew she had not because he had ordered her to wait until his arrival before visiting the lower levels.

"No, sir. This is as far down as I’ve gone."

"Do you have your key card? Your security pass?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, gather them up. It’s time you saw what this is all about."

Liz did as told and they left the office. She closed the door tight behind them with a
click
, making sure the lock caught; the door tended to slip open. That
click
echoed through the vacant hallway.

The buzz of the fluorescents; the tap of her shoes on the cold surface; the rumble of power generators—to Liz's ear the corridor seemed filled with noise, as if she traveled in the belly of a giant machine churning around her. But as she spoke her voice sounded too loud and alone, causing her to whisper as she realized that the ambient noise remained just that; a steady drone in the background magnified to her ear by imagination and unfamiliarity with the complex.

"Sir, I do have a few questions."

"You’re wondering why you’re here." His voice boomed with authority. He did not whisper. Nothing about him was quiet. His very presence was loud.

"Yes. Yes, sir." Now it was her turn to struggle with concentration. "Sir, I’m honored with this position but I do not have a facility command background. My expertise—"

"Your expertise," he continued for her, "is in psychology. You worked in advanced PsyOps for more than ten years."

"True, but I’ve never commanded a base before." She thought about her career experience and her mind instinctually paused, throwing up defensive barriers one after another. "I've managed special projects but not a facility."

"I am quite aware of your experience, lieutenant colonel. I know you've gone through a bad spell. I was at the commission hearings. Nasty business, but we're in a nasty business. Sometimes I think there are those in the Defense Department who forget that. They want things neat and clean. They think you can make progress without risk. You took those risks, Colonel, just as you were expected to. You weren't working on a new missile system or software package; you were working with the human mind, and some people felt that made some sort of difference. Russian involvement just complicated the matter."

"Sir, I—"

He held a hand up and said, "I agree, no reason to dredge up the past. Point is, you've been on the bench, so to speak, for a while now. That's not fair, but it happens. When this opportunity came up I needed to find someone with your background; someone who understands that this is a nasty business and who understands people."

They arrived at the large elevator offering access to the lower levels. Liz spied a security camera hanging from the ceiling. She remembered watching video of Colonel Haas’s controlled march. She remembered him fumbling with his card, needing two tries to gain clearance.

An icy hand grabbed hold of her spine and gave a good shake.

Borman swiped his card through the lock. The doors opened immediately, startling Liz. They made her think of predatory jaws opening in anticipation of a kill.

"You have something that none of our previous commanders here have had."

She did her best to remain attentive, but as they entered the elevator her muscles tensed and sweat formed on her neck and in her palms while the adrenaline pumps in her body went to work at full speed.