Zero Option

28

Stafford opened his car window and poured the dregs of his coffee out onto the gravel of the truck park. He had backed his rental in between two large deuce and halfs in a line of transport vehicles parked across the railroad tracks from the DRMO, which positioned him to watch the entrance.

The run to Atlanta from Anniston had been uneventful. He had passed some state troopers lurking in the median. strip, but they’d seemed more interested in watching for real Hotlanta-bound speeders than in his nondescript Army sedan. He wondered when the Army would figure out what he had done with the Fort Gillem Crown Vie, but that was their problem.

It would put them on notice that he was aware of their interest, though.

Perhaps he should have done something a little less in-their-face. A pang of conscience had prompted him to mail back the keys to the Fort Mcclellan motor pool, along with the parking stub. That officious sergeant would probably get his ass handed to him.

So what’s the plan, Stan? He wasn’t entirely sure why he had come back to the DRMO, except that Sparks might be having his hotel hi Atlanta watched, and he couldn’t just show up in Graniteville at four in the morning. He was convinced more man ever that the Army had somehow managed to lose a cylinder of some seriously bad shit. The visit of the CERT, the military police showing up at his motel, and Ray Sparks’s entire demeanor were signs of real trouble. He wished he had not told Sparks what he suspected, because if Sparks and the rest of the DCIS went into the cover-up mode, he’d be out in the cold. Again.

He had also promised Owen Warren not to drag the girl into this mess, but by telling Sparks about the girl, he’d blown that, too. That, he really regretted.

A Fort Gillem MP car on night patrol came down the main street in front of the truck park and turned across the tracks into the DRMO complex.

After a minute, he could see the car’s headlights reflecting off the back buildings of the complex, and then the car emerged at the far end, crossed back across the tracks, and resumed its patrol. Stafford was pretty sure his car was just about invisible in the pocket of shadow between the two large trucks.

And then there was the problem of Carson. Stafford was equally convinced that Carson either had the cylinder or knew where it was. He had told Sparks he suspected Carson. The question was, Had Sparks told the Army, and what would the Army do about that? If they couldn’t even admit they’d lost the cylinder, would they be likely to move against Carson?

After seeing those military police at the Holidaytnn, he thought they might just be looking to pick his ass up and take him to the backwoods of the Anniston Depot. On the other hand, he wondered if today’s politically correct Army really had it in them to squeeze someone. He doubted it So all Carson really had to do was sit tight and not say anything, and he could do whatever he wanted to with the cylinder in due course, assuming the Army didn’t find it He rubbed his eyes with his left hand, around and around. So what was the plan? It was Sunday morning, so there shouldn’t be anyone coming to the DRMO until Monday.

Maybe go in and take a look around himself? He yawned as the caffeine wore off. Not much point in that, he concluded.

All those warehouses filled with stuff — it could be anywhere, or not even here at all. What he needed now was some sleep, and men he would head for Graniteville at daylight This time, he would talk directly to that girl, Jessamine: What a fascinating name. Then he fell asleep.

At twelve-fifty in the morning, Wendell Carson drove through the gates of Fort Gillem. He drove by the empty guard shack, up the deserted main drag, and then turned across the railroad tracks toward the DRMO parking lot The lot was empty, as was the rail siding. The nearest vehicles were a few dozen Army troop transports spotted across the tracks. He parked in his usual place and shut down to wait and watch for a few minutes. He wanted to be damned sure no one was watching the place, and he would prefer not to be unlocking the front door just as the night patrol came past, necessitating explanations he’d rather not give.

I After fifteen minutes, the night patrol did come by. Carson slumped down in his seat, but they did not appear to notice the Army pickup truck that had not been there the last time. When the MP car went back across the tracks, Carson got out and let himself into the admin office.

He left the lights off and went straight through to the back door that led into the auction warehouse. He stopped at the back door of the warehouse to examine the lay-down area through the window hi the door.

The tarmac was well lighted by rose-colored security lights mounted on all the warehouses, but all he could see out there were the darkened lines of palletized materiel. There were four flatbed trailers parked over by the demil building, but no trucks or other vehicles were visible anywhere hi the area. He noted the time. The MPs came around about every thirty, forty minutes, but they wouldn’t stop and check a building unless something seemed wrong from the outside or one I of the alarmed warehouses had signaled a problem.

He let himself out the back door and walked confidently across the lay-down tarmac. If someone was watching, he did not want to appear as if he was anything but the manager checking the place out. He went straight to the feed assembly building and let himself through the cipher locked door. Inside, the warehouse was dark except for two security lights. The stacked shelves were empty, as was the conveyor system leading next door to the Monster. He did a walk-through of the entire warehouse anyway, just to make damned sure. If someone wanted to watch the demil building, this would be a good place from which to do it, but the place was empty, with only the forklift battery-charging station displaying any signs of energy.

He went back outside, after once again surveying the lay-down area through the door window for a few minutes. Then he let himself into the demil building itself, carefully closing the door to make sure the cipher lock had reset. He walked through the darkened anteroom and into the control area. Here there were small security lights set high up on the wall, illuminating the great bulk of the demil machine, the open area in front of the Monster, and the conveyor belt coming through the wall from the feed building next door. The control booth was shut down and devoid of lights.

He walked over to the conveyor belt, took one last look around, and then put his hand down on the last roller before the feed aperture of the demil machine. I should have brought a flashlight, he thought as he counted back to the third roller from the aperture and squatted down to examine the bearing assembly and end cap in the dim light. It looked no different from the ones on either side.

He put his hand on the highly polished steel surface of the roller by the edge of the conveyor belt and was surprised to find that it was warm. He took his hand away and tried again, then compared the sensation by touching the rollers on either side. They were cold. The third one was definitely warm. He remembered thinking the cylinder had been warm the last time he touched it, too.

He removed his hand and thought about that. Why in the hell would it be warm? Some chemical reaction going on inside that cylinder? Could the thing be unstable?

He touched the roller again. No doubt about it. In marked contrast, he felt a cold tendril of fear stirring in him as he straightened up. Would it be safe to open the roller assembly to retrieve this thing? Suppose it was build big up pressure, or worse, about to burst or start leaking?

He almost didn’t hear the rumble of several large trucks outside, until one of them locked his air brakes, causing Carson nearly to jump out of his skin.

He ran to the anteroom of the demil building, but unlike the one next door, this front door had no window. He listened. Trucks, several of them. Large doors opening, the sounds of several people out there. A radio. A car door, maybe two. The clump of heavy boots and the scrape of equipment being moved.

He tried the door leading into the assembly warehouse, but it was locked. He swore out loud, realizing that he needed the operator’s key ring to open it After Bud’s demise, they had had to generate some spare keys, but they were now all in the security control room. He couldn’t go out the front door, and there was no fire door in the rear. He was trapped in the demil room.

If they came in here, how in the world would he explain what he was doing? And there was sure as hell no place to hide.

He looked around frantically as the noise level outside grew. There were definitely several people out there, making vaguely familiar noises.

Then he focused on the batwing doors through which material came from the feed-assembly building into mis building. He remembered the night Lambry had gone through those doors, how he had been unable to pull them open from the other side. But that was because they opened only one way, into (his side. From here he could open them!

He moved quickly to the conveyor belt and climbed up onto it. Hunkering down on all fours, he went into the safety cage and reached the two flap doors. There was a full inch of space between them, enough to get his fingers through. He pulled and they moved, but just barely. The hinges were obviously spring-loaded, but something else was holding them. He felt around in the darkness to see if there was a release of some kind, but there was only a line of small metal tabs on the edge of the conveyor belt. Then he understood: The tabs on the moving belt probably hit a detent button in the door assembly, which would allow them to open. He tried to move the belt, but that was impossible.

He had to get out of here. Whoever that was out there, they could find him in any building except this one.

He crawled back out onto the floor and ran to the control console. He hit the master power button, then found the controls for the belt. He couldn’t start up the Monster; that would make much too much noise. But he could energize the belt. He hesitated for an instant, then pushed the button to activate the belt. The belt began to move with a distant hum of large electric motors back in the feed assembly building. Hurry, he told himself, they’ll hear that in a minute. He ran back over to the belt and climbed on, crawling in the opposite direction of the belt’s travel. Behind him the feed aperture of the Monster, motionless steel teeth poised, waited in silence.

He crawled to the doors, and, sure enough, they were partially ajar.

They would probably open fully when the first article hit them from the other side. He reached for the doors and pulled them open; he was about to go through when he remembered the console would still be energized.

He swore, then slipped his belt off and tied one of the doors back against the safety cage. He turned around to crawl back out, but his pants began to fall down. He let go of the cage long enough to grab his pants, but not before the right cuff caught underneath the belt on something. He swore again and pulled, but the damn thing was stuck hard, and not only stuck; each succeeding roller was tightening the pants against his ankle. And he was moving.

He looked up, aghast. He was caught on the belt and being taken straight into the feed aperture of the Monster. The demil machine wasn’t running, of course, but those steel band-saw blades were right there, waiting to strain him into baby food. He fought hard not to panic, feeling each succeeding roller bumping his knees as he pulled against the fabric of his trousers. The grip around his ankle was getting very tight, and he was losing all sensation of feeling in his right foot.

Wait, he told himself. Just wait. The cuff will be released when it gets to the last roller. There were only five more rollers, then four, then three. He twisted his body around to jump off the belt at the last instant, then pulled as hard as he could when his foot bumped over the last roller, just one foot in front of the row of band-saw blades. But instead of coming loose, his foot was twisted savagely under the belt as it descended beneath the rollers and headed back toward the flap doors.

His body tumbled off the belt and he hung momentarily upside down, his right leg trapped up in the roller assemblies, his left leg frantically scrabbling for traction on the polished linoleum floor. For a terrifying instant, he thought he was going to be pulled back into the rollers, but then suddenly he was free, sprawling out onto the floor with a grunt. I He stood up, windmilling his arms because of the pain in his ankle. The noises from outside were getting louder. He had to shut off the belt and get the hell out of there. Pulling up his trousers, he limped awkwardly across the floor to the console and quickly shut it down. Then he hopped back across the floor, crawled up on the now stilled conveyor belt, and, banging his knees across every one of the rollers, reached the flap doors. He pushed his body through into the next building, then reached back through the opening to retrieve his belt. But then he stopped.

Would the damned doors slam shut and trap his hand? He let go of the belt and pulled himself through the safety cage into the feed-assembly warehouse and got down off the belt. He looked around and saw a stack of the plastic material trays in which small demil items were placed before being put on the belt. He grabbed one and climbed back into the safety cage, wedged the tray where the doors ought to meet when they closed, and released his belt. Sure as hell, the steel doors snapped shut, nearly trapping his hand as they squashed the flimsy tray. He pulled hard on the edge of the bowed tray and it popped out, propelled by the edges of the doors.

He scuttled back out of the safety cage, his heart pounding, and limped like a wounded crab to the front door of the feed assembly warehouse, discarding the bent tray in a trash bin. He took a look out onto the tarmac area. It was the Army again, only there were four big trucks this time, and a lot more people. A hell of a lot more people. Two of the trucks had big generators going, and there were some portable light stands blazing out on the tarmac.

Gotta get out of here, he thought, but not this way. The good news was that this warehouse had a back entrance. He got his clothes back hi order as he lurched toward the back of the warehouse. The even better news was that he was safely out of the demil building. He tried not to think about being trapped on that conveyor belt, pinned like a bug by that wholly uncaring web of industrial machinery. Almost like Lambry, only conscious, he reminded himself.

He got to the back door and stopped. There was an alleyway behind this row of warehouses, big enough for forklifts but not for trucks, and then a high chain-link fence beyond that. Once into that alley, he could go either way around the back of the whole complex and get back to his truck. He checked the door. It was a fire door, with a horizontal handle allowing someone to get out but not back in. He checked to see that it was not alarmed, then pushed the handle, opened the door, and entered the dark alley.

Once outside, he could hear all the noise from the other side of the building, which was good because it had probably masked the sound of the conveyor belt starting up. He went right, limping a little as he hugged the back wall of the warehouse. When he got to the end of the building, he peeked around the edge, toward the tarmac. Two huge figures dressed out in what looked like space suits were looking right back at him from about six feet away. One of them crooked his gloved hand at Carson.

Dave Stafford banged his left elbow on the steering wheel when he was startled awake by something. He rubbed his elbow on his thigh, then rubbed his eyes as he tried to figure out what had awakened him. He looked at his watch, realizing as he did so that there were some very bright lights on behind the admin building, in what had to be the tarmac area. He looked at his watch again: two-thirty in the morning. He could hear the sound of portable generators running, and there were also lights on in the admin building, across the tracks from where he was parked. As he stared into the lighted windows, he saw two figures in I full chemical warfare protection gear come out of one office and enter another.

What the hell is this? he wondered, sitting up in his seat. And then he quickly ducked down as an MP patrol car came by, this time very definitely going slowly enough to take a look at everything going on at the DRMO. The first car was followed by a second one, and then a third. Stafford waited until he was pretty sure all three cars had passed before peering over the edge of the door window. From the sounds of it, that chemical response team was back, this time in larger force, at two-thirty a. m on a Sunday, with the apparent full cooperation of the Fort Gillem military police. One more point. He took another look at the admin building and confirmed that the people moving around inside were in full protective suits. They’ve lost something all right, and it isn’t ajar of Grandma’s applesauce. Then he saw Carson’s truck.

Whoa, what’s this? That truck hadn’t been there when he fell asleep.

So the Army was back, and they’d called the DRMO manager hi to do — what, gain access to the warehouses? Should he just get out of the car and go over there, ask for the guy in charge, and tell him what he knew? He shook his head. He could just see himself trying to convince some soldier in a space suit that, according to his very own psychic adviser, there was a cylinder of something bad hidden in the DRMO and that Brothercarson there knew where it was. Right. Plus, even if the Army did believe him, they might not necessarily be nice to the messenger.

He ducked down as another vehicle came around the corner from the tarmac area. Looking just over the rim of the dashboard, he could see that it was a large olive drab Suburban with police lights mounted on top. As it passed in front of the lighted admin office, he caught a glimpse of two military policemen in the front seat, and one individual in the backseat. He sat up straighten The guy hi the backseat looked as if he was wearing a motorcycle helmet. Weird. Then there was sudden flare of brake lights on the Suburban, and all the doors were opening. Here they came, right toward his car.

His heart sank. Goggles. The guy in the backseat had been wearing night-vision goggles. Bastards had seen him on infrared. He unlocked the door and got out of the car.