Zero Option

20

From the edge of the tarmac, Carson watched the two semis grind their way out of the DRMO parking lot. It had gone perfectly; in fact, almost amusingly, as the Army team tried to pretend this was just some scripted exercise. But he knew better. They had examined the feed and product streams for the Monster in clinical detail, but apparently they’d found nothing. How could they? The cylinder was still sealed. The fact that it had been hidden right in front of them added to his sense of victory. Now Wendell Carson was safe, although he knew he was making some assumptions about what the Army would do next. From his own days in the Quartermaster Corps, he was pretty sure he knew what that would be. Give the Army an opportunity to cover something up and all those eager-beaver, forward-leaning, team-playing general staff officers would positively sprint with it.

He went back into the demil complex and shut off all the lights and reset the door locks. It was too late to call Tangent. But first thing in the morning, he’d give him the good news, then agree on a date to transfer the cylinder. Sunday was still good: There’d be nobody here, and now that the Army had come looking for it, he had a better argument than ever for not moving the cylinder off the DRMO premises. He let himself in the back door of the admin office and walked down the hall to his own office— where he found Stafford sitting in his chair. He had to work hard to catch his breath.

“That wasn’t an exercise, was it, Carson?” Stafford said, folding his hands under his chin and looking up at him very much like a cop.

“What?” Carson barely managed to keep his voice from squeaking as he pushed the office door shut.

“That team being here tonight. That wasn’t an exercise, was it? They were looking for something. Something I think maybe you’ve got.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What are you doing sitting at my desk?”

“Waiting for you. I’ve had a sense about you since I came here, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. DRMO auctions. That’s small potatoes.

Maybe steady beer money, or Vegas money, but nothing to shout about. But CW? That’s different. Wa-a-a-y different, Carson.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” Carson shouted. He was trying not to sound scared, but he sensed he wasn’t succeeding. “You accusing me of something, you come right out and say it. Then I’ll. go get a lawyer and you can say it to him, and then we’ll sue your ass and your agency for harassment. You think you can just waltz in here like—”

Stafford put his hand up for silence. He got up and started walking around the room. “So tell me: What really happened to Bud Lambry?” he asked.

Jesus, where the hell did that come from? Carson wondered. His knees felt buttery, so he went around his desk and sat down. “Lambry?” he said. “What’s Lambry got to do with anything? He quit. I told you that.

Good riddance. Guy was a pain in the ass.”

“Must have been. One of your guys talks about Lambry, and then his house blows up. Did he know something he shouldn’t have? Like about the cylinder?”

For an instant, Carson thought he felt his heart stop. What had Stafford just said? The cylinder1?

Stafford had stopped pacing and was looking at him. “That’s right, the cylinder. Let’s see: stainless-steel, a few feet long, maybe — what, three, four inches in diameter? Sound about right? Containing some grotesque CW shit?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carson squeaked. Even to himself, he sounded scared. There was just no fucking way …”Oh, I think you do. I think you and Mr. Lambry found something in that shipment of containers the Army press lady out there was talking about.

I think that’s the real reason the Army is suddenly down here conducting some kind of bullshit exercise. Something’s missing.” “You’re whacked out, Stafford,” Carson said, shaking his head. He needed to stop this, stop this right now. He decided to attack. “Totally whacked-out. This the kind of shit you were doing up in D. C., got you thrown out of town?”

He saw that it was Stafford’s turn to be surprised. He stood up behind his desk. “Yeah, that’s right. I checked up on you, Pal,” he said. “I know some people who know some shit up there in D.C. So before you go making any more wild-ass accusations, you better think about why you’re here in the first place.

The way I hear it, you make any impolite noises, the DCIS isn’t exactly going to jump right on it. Now just get the hell out of my office.”

Stafford gave a crooked smile and walked over to the office door. “Nice try, Carson,” he said. “But I don’t have to convince my people back in Washington. All I’ve got to do is convince the Army. Tell them I think it’s here and that you’ve got it. I’ll bet they’ve got some seriously mean bastards who might want to come talk to you. Think about that, smart guy. Because I think you’ve made a huge mistake. I can’t prove it — yet — but if I tell them, maybe I won’t have to. Happy Trails, Carson.”

Stafford hurried to his car, anxious to get out of there in case Carson had a gun stashed somewhere. The DRMO manager had been white with either fury or fear when he’d slammed the door on him back there, and there was no telling what he might do. As he drove away from the DRMO, he thought about Carson’s reaction: That had been a direct hit if he’d ever seen one. The man had all but pissed himself when he’d said the word cylinder. Son of a bitch stole it, and I’ll bet he’s going to try to sell it. Damn, he thought: Could it be the girl was for real? He tried to think of what to do next. And how the hell had Carson found out about his problems in D. C.? Whom had he been talking to? Sparks? Had Ray been playing him along all this time? He didn’t want to believe that. He really didn’t want to believe that. He hit the state road and sped down through the wasteland of trucking terminals. He’d been bluffing about calling the Army, of course, and about telling anyone else: How could he, when his only “evidence” was a supposedly psychic child’s drawing?

He could always claim that Dillard had told him, but of course he hadn’t, and Dillard was hardly reliable witness material. But if he was right about the cylinder, Lambry might not have just quit. It might yet be determined that Lambry’s remains had been dragged off into the bushes by the rail yard dogs after that explosion.

And maybe he was all wrong about the Army’s little exercise at the DRMO.

Except you weren’t wrong about what you saw in living three-dimensional color on that monitor, he thought. That thing was a perfect match to the girl’s drawing.

Maybe the thing to do is to go to that team’s home base. Where is it — Anniston? Go to the Army installation at Anniston and see if anything is stirring. Surely if they had lost something like a chemical weapon, there’d be things happening, some visible undercurrents of a crisis. He was a Fed; he could get onto a military base.

And do what?

The interchange with the Atlanta Perimeter was visible up ahead. There was an all-night gas station on the right, and he swung the Crown Vie into the parking lot next to a fuel pump. The sign on the pump informed him he had to prepay at the money window.

He pulled out the government bag phone and called Ray Sparks’s home number. Sparks answered, and Stafford was relieved to hear the sound of a television in the background, which meant Sparks was still awake.

“Ray, this is Dave Stafford.” “Why did I know that, Dave?” Sparks said in a weary voice.

“Ray, look, I’m non-secure on a car phone. I think I’ve found out what’s going on at that DRMO. We need to talk.”

“Okay.”

“I mean we need to meet and talk. No phones.”

“Jesus, Dave. Now?”

“Yeah, now. It’s much bigger than simple fraud against the government.

I’m in southeast Atlanta, near the Perimeter. Can we meet somewhere?” Sparks sighed. The television sounds were not audible anymore.

“Okay,” Sparks said. “But this better be good, Dave.

And within the bounds of your current assignment, right?”

“Not even close, Ray. But definitely worth your time.” The store attendant was watching him through the bulletproof money window.

” ‘Not even close.’ Why did I know that, too? All right. You don’t know your way around Atlanta, so I’ll come down to your hotel. What are you driving?”

“It’s a white Crown Vie, government plates.”

“Okay. Park out front of the hotel. You’ll be reasonably safe downtown in a government car. I’ll be there in forty five minutes. And, Dave, no shit, you’d—”

“I haven’t done anything, Ray. Not yet. I’m bringing it to you first, all right? Just like I’m supposed to. Just get downtown, buddy.”

He hung up before Sparks could protest further. He got out and walked over to the window.

“I need ten bucks’ worth of regular and a map of Alabama,” he said to the black man behind the glass.