Resistance (16 page)

Cassie breezed past the desk, followed a hallway to a bank of sleek-looking elevators, and was in her cozy third-floor office five minutes later. It was barely large enough for two people, but it was all hers, and a haven of privacy.

Her first client was already seated in her guest chair, and his name was Sergeant Marvin Kawecki.

Hale hated the Denver Federal Center, the hospital, and everything that went with it. Especially since the trip to Denver required him to leave the base where the preparations for Operation Iron Fist were well underway. But, as Major Blake pointed out, it was a good idea to get an inhibitor shot prior to going out on a major mission, and sitting down with one of the shrinks was part of the process.

The spinal injection was old hat by that time, and given the number of Sentinels in town to receive it, the procedure was rather impersonal as well. Just like everything else the military did. One by one the soldiers were taken into an operating room where they were ordered to strip to the waist. They sat on a metal stool while a nurse painted a wide swath of cold antibacterial solution over the injection site.

Then a balding doctor plopped himself down on a stool and injected small amounts of a local anesthetic into the area around the site. Moments later, having checked to make sure that the area was numb, he removed a 10cc syringe from a Mayo stand and positioned
the needle between the L-4 and the L-5 vertebrae. As the needle went in, a fluoroscope allowed the doctor to monitor his progress via a black-and-white screen.

“Hold still,” the doctor admonished gruffly as he depressed the plunger, “or you'll be sorry.”

Hale felt the pressure as the inhibitor was injected into his body, and was glad when the needle was removed. A nurse gave him a list of possible side effects, which the Sentinel wadded up into a ball and threw into a trash can on the way out. He'd experienced many of the symptoms in the past, and survived them. That was all he needed to know.

With the shot out of the way it was time to head up to the third floor for his interview with Dr. Alan McKenzie, an elflike man who was forever peppering Hale with questions about his childhood, interpersonal relationships, and sexual fantasies. Much of which Hale made up as he went along, thereby causing McKenzie to emit puffs of cherry-flavored smoke from his pipe, as he scribbled notes in a spiral-bound notebook.

The elevator doors parted and Hale stepped out into the hall, only to see someone he knew standing among those waiting to board. It had been a long time since Project Abraham and the first experimental inoculations, but the sight of Cassie Aklin's face brought memories rushing back. The sterile environment, the interviews, and something more. A physical attraction most certainly, but another connection as well, and one he hadn't experienced before. And certainly missed.

Cassie's expression brightened.

“Nathan? It
is
you! I saw Sergeant Kawecki earlier this morning and he said you were here. I was about to go down to the clinic to see if I could find you.”

Hale smiled and reached out to take both of her hands in his.

“Cassie … This is a surprise! And a pleasant one. You look wonderful.”

Hale looked tired, and a bit worn, but Cassie didn't want to say that, so she lied. “So do you!” she said brightly.

Hale glanced at his watch.

“I'm supposed to see Dr. McKenzie in a few minutes … Is there any chance that you're free for lunch?”

“I was hoping you'd ask,” she replied, “and I am. I'll meet you at the Alameda Diner … It's two blocks east of the Center on Alameda.” She looked left and right. No one else was close enough to hear. “And Na than …”

“Yes?”

“I'd rather you didn't mention our lunch to Dr. McKenzie.”

Hale grinned.

“What lunch?” And then he was gone.

Hale left the Denver Federal Center via the gate that led to Alameda and took a left. A corporal saluted him, he returned the courtesy, and sidestepped a puddle of snowmelt. By keeping his answers short—and thereby giving Dr. McKenzie very little to work with—Hale had managed to escape the hospital in record time. It had been a while since he had spent time with a woman, never mind such an attractive one, and he was looking forward to the lunch with Cassie.

The truth was that Hale had mixed emotions about the psychologist. He was attracted to her, and had been from the beginning, but he had never been sure of how she felt about him. She had been decidedly cool toward him during Project Abraham. But had that been a matter of professionalism? Or a signal for him to back off?

He had never been sure.

Then there was the fact that she had a Ph.D. in psychology, while he merely had a high school diploma, which raised the question of whether he would be biting off more than he could chew where Cassie was concerned. Still, she had clearly been eager to see him, and that was worth something. Wasn't it?

Hale spotted the diner up ahead. It looked like what it was—a railroad dining car that had been taken out of service, refurbished for use as a small restaurant, and plopped down next to Alameda Avenue. Judging from the number of cars in the parking lot, the eatery was quite popular.

Hale followed a man wearing a business suit inside, where he looked for Cassie, but didn't see her. So as a couple got up to leave, Hale took possession of their window booth and a harried-looking waitress arrived to bus the dishes. “Sorry, soldier,” she said. “I'll clear this stuff away and come back for your order.”

About five minutes passed, and Hale was beginning to wonder if he'd been stood up when he looked out the window and saw Cassie hurrying up the street. She saw him, waved, and entered the restaurant a minute later. She was pretty, so lots of men took notice, but once they'd seen her most turned back to their meals.

“I'm sorry,” Cassie said apologetically, as she allowed him to take her overcoat. “My boss walked into my office just as I was trying to leave.”

“I understand,” Hale assured her. “You're a busy lady.”

They chatted for a few minutes, Hale about life with his fellow Sentinels, Cassie about her tiny apartment and roommate, and the waitress brought their menus. When she walked away, Hale turned to face Cassie and asked something he had been wondering about. “So did they send you to Denver? Or did you request it?”

“The latter,” she replied. “I have trouble staying in one place for very long—and I was tired of Alaska.”

“Maybe you should see a psychologist about that,” he suggested dryly.

She had short blond hair, direct eyes, and full lips that broke into a wry smile. When she laughed it had a full-throated sound.

“If you're suggesting that I have a problem with commitment, you're probably correct …” She paused, then said, “They make a really good chocolate shake here if you're interested.”

Hale was, and when the waitress returned both of them ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. All of which cost 30 percent more than six months earlier.

“You're a lieutenant now,” Cassie said brightly as their orders went in. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Hale replied. “I'm still getting used to it. After complaining about officers for years, it's weird to be one.”

“Well, it appears as if you're good at it, or at least so I'm told,” Cassie responded. “And who would know better than your men?”

It hadn't occurred to him that Cassie might have been assigned to monitor the psychological well-being of some of his subordinates, and Hale wondered if it was proper for her to talk about it that way. Not only that, but he felt embarrassed at the compliment, and looked away. “Yeah, well, I've been lucky so far.”

She must have seen his discomfort, because she changed the subject. The next forty-five minutes passed quickly, as their food arrived and they discussed a wide range of topics, including the war, the economy, and the latest Bob Hope-Bing Crosby movie:
Road to Rangoon
.

He hadn't seen it, but she had, and said it was very funny.

Then, having paid the bill, the couple suddenly found themselves outside. “I'll walk you back,” Hale said.

“Thank you,” Cassie replied, “but I don't think that would be a very good idea.”

Hale's eyebrows rose.

“It isn't? Why not?”

Cassie looked down, then up again. “The truth is that I probably shouldn't be spending time with you. You're seeing McKenzie now, and you and I had a clinical relationship during Project Abraham, so any sort of outside relationship might be considered unethical.”

“Which means we can't see each other again?”

“No,” Cassie replied evenly, as a wisp of vapor drifted away from her mouth. “It means we shouldn't see each other as long as we're both working for SRPA.”

Hale grinned. “Okay, problem solved,” he announced. “I quit! Now, will you go to dinner with me?”

She didn't laugh, as he had hoped she would, and she was silent for a moment. He realized then that he had no idea what was going through her head. Finally, she spoke.

“When do you have to return to Nebraska?”

“Thirty of us came down together,” Hale replied. “We were told to report to Stapleton by 0300. Knowing how long some of them have been waiting for a drink, I imagine the MPs will deliver at least half of them to the airport.”

“Then it's clearly my duty to save you from a similar fate,” Cassie said, as she removed a small notebook from her purse and scribbled on one of the pages. “So rather than go out—let's eat in. Here's my address … Dinner will be at seven. My roommate will have left for work by then.”

Hale felt a sense of elation, but tried not to show it as he accepted the scrap of paper. He didn't want to screw this up.

“What can I bring?”

“Bring yourself,” she replied as she glanced at her watch. “Yikes! Sorry, I have to run! See you at seven.”

Hale watched her walk away, thought about how lucky he was, and turned in the opposite direction.

There was a bus stop one block east and on the other side of Alameda. He had an afternoon to kill—and a mission to accomplish.

The administrator watched as the couple left the diner, spoke with each other, and parted company. The lunch wasn't a big deal, not really, but it was currency of a sort. The kind of deposit which, when combined with similar payments, would eventually add up to a promotion.

The thought made him feel cheerful as he left the diner, tucked the
Post
under his arm, and returned to work. The world might be going to hell in a handcart, but his life was good.

It was necessary to transfer once before arriving in downtown Denver—and both of the electric trolleys were crowded. So Hale stood, as did most of the men aboard, allowing women and elderly people to sit. Based on information gleaned from the driver, he knew that the Customs House was located on Broadway, and that the trolley would stop across the street from it. So he was ready as the trolley came to a halt.

“Customs House, post office, and main business district,” the driver intoned. “Please watch your step.”

The bi-fold doors opened, Hale took two steps down, and hurried to get out of the way so that other people
could board. Having cleared the back end of the trolley, he could see the Customs House on the far side of the street. It consisted of two matching five-story buildings, divided by a long, gently sloping flight of stairs that led into the courtyard between them. And, much to Hale's surprise, a long line of people stretched from the inner courtyard out onto Broadway, where it turned the corner and ran down 19th Avenue.

There was no way to tell what the people were lined up to do, and based on how diverse they were, it was impossible to guess.

He went down to the corner, waited for the light to change, and crossed the street. A whalelike blimp could be seen in the distance, propellers turning slowly as it patrolled the western suburbs. A staff sergeant stood in front of the Customs House. He had a round face and his cheeks were a ruddy red. The noncom saluted as Hale approached. If he was curious about the officer's golden yellow eyes, he managed to hide it.

“Good afternoon, sir … Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Hale replied, having returned the salute. “I was hoping to visit the Bureau of Displaced Persons. Could you tell me where it is?”

“It's at the other end of that line,” the sergeant replied, as he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “It seems like everybody's looking for somebody,” he added soberly.

That was true. And he was one of them. Now that Hale knew Susan had survived the attack on the Rocking F Ranch, he was hoping to find her. According to the newspapers he'd read, a central registry had been established by the Department of the Interior's Bureau of Displaced Persons. The problem was that there were millions of people to keep track of—many of whom were suspicious of the government-run program. In fact, the group
called Freedom First had gone so far as to suggest that rather than trying to help family members find each other, the registry was simply one more effort by the Grace administration to strip the population of its freedoms.

Hale had no way to evaluate the truth of that allegation, but he was determined to find out if Susan was alive. “Yeah,” Hale said as he glanced at the line, then back again. “I guess there are a lot of folks in that position. I'm looking for my sister.”

“I hope you find her, sir,” the noncom said, and he sounded sincere. “I'll have Private Yano take you to the head of the line.”

Hale shook his head.

“No, that wouldn't be fair. I'll wait like everybody else.”

“Okay, sir,” the noncom replied doubtfully. “But you might want to bleed your tanks first.”

It was good advice, so Hale entered the Customs House via another door and paid a visit to the men's room before returning outside. After following the line all the way around the corner onto 19th and down the block, he fell in behind a woman in a tattered overcoat. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his overcoat to keep them warm.

As they began to notice him, those around Hale peppered him with questions about the fighting, as if expecting everyone in uniform to know everything that was going on. Some of them had been listening to broadcasters like Peavy, and believed that the Chimera were on the run, while others had been tuning in to clandestine broadcasts by Radio Free Chicago, which was operated by Freedom First. They held the opinion that the stinks had crossed into Nebraska, and were pushing south.