Twelve Mile Limit

16

It was impossible to sleep after a dream so terribly vivid, so I went outside and took a cold shower, using a double ration of rainwater from my wooden cistern. I dressed, slipped into my sandals, then I went to work in the lab, writing up our report.

It was long before first light, just after 4 A.M. Fish and octopi in their tanks were watching me. Outside, there were stars in a black sky, and familiar, back bay sounds: the distant tapping of a halyard, the sump and whine of bilge pumps, the cornfield rustle of wind through the mangroves.

I wrote all morning. The only breaks I took were to walk to the marina for coffee, as I do almost every morning, then I returned there again around noon to pick up mail. On this particular day, I decided to have lunch at the marina. So I was sitting in the shade near the bait tanks, eating one of Joyce’s excellent fried-conch sandwiches, when Mack stepped out of the office door and called to me, “Hey, Doc! There’s some bloke here says he’s got a package for you. Won’t let me sign, won’t leave it at the desk. It must be important because he says he’s got to put it directly into your hands.”

Which is how I happened to receive the reinforced box from Bernie Yaeger that I now opened.

Inside was a Styrofoam cover, which I removed, then a layer of bubble wrap. Beneath, fitted into another cradle of Styrofoam, was a small, silver video camera not much bigger than my hand. There was a brand name and model designation on the side-Sony DCR-TR-and a typewritten note taped to the camera.

It read: “Doc, these directions are so simple even a lug like you can’t mess it up. Notice the wall bracket. Mount it no more than ten feet from the area you want videotaped. The camera has an infrared component, and it operates just fine at 0 lux, otherwise known to you hermit types as total darkness. The timer has already been programmed, and the memory stick has been inserted. Don’t touch anything! After you have mounted the camera, plug in the 12-volt converter. In the event you have a power outage down there in Hurricane Land, there is a info lithium battery backup. Try to install this beautiful little camera without crushing it in your big paws or dropping the damn thing!”

My attention intensified as I then read, “Also, I enclose several photographs that may be of interest. I’m sorry the series of images is not more complete, but these are the best data available. I wish your lost friend only good things, though I fear the worst. There is no doubt in my mind how you will react, and so I wish you safe travels as well. Ours is a dangerous world. It would be good to have you back working with us again. We need you. Shalom!”

He wished me “safe travels”? What the hell did that mean?

There was a final, short paragraph and no signature: “The container is vacuum-sealed. The proof sheet enclosed has been treated via a process with which you are familiar, and the images will vanish within one hour or less after the seal is broken. They are for your eyes only, and, of course, you must not divulge to anyone that these images exist. Viewing the images requires medium-power magnification capabilities.”

I glanced into the box and saw what appeared to be a heavy, ignition-walled Pyrex test tube that was capped with a black stopper. I held the tube up to the bulb of the goose-necked lamp and saw three, maybe four, tiny strips of paper therein. Each strip was a series of miniature photographs, and each image was no bigger than the head of a nail.

I walked to the middle of the room and pulled the wooden swivel chair into position, then removed the cover from my Wolfe zoom stereomicroscope. Finally, I hunted around for a notebook and pencil before checking my watch, removing my glasses, then sitting down at the microscope.

The Pyrex tube made a suctioning sound when I unscrewed the cap. I used dissecting forceps to mount a strip on the viewing stage-and noticed that my fingers demonstrated a slight tremor. I turned the scope’s revolving nosepiece until I found the most satisfactory objective, and first of several photographs came into sharp focus.

I looked at four different images before I whispered: Oh… my

… God.

What Bernie Yeager had sent me were twelve photographs in three individual strips. Two of the strips contained four photos taken minutes apart. After some confusion, I realized that the third strip contained only one photo, but in various degrees of enlargement. The photo had been reproduced from the second contact sheet.

They were undoubtedly satellite images, although the source numbers and altitude information normally imprinted at the top of each image had been blacked out, as were the GPS coordinates. The date and time line at the bottom, though, had been left.

Each photo was dated November 5, and the time span was 6:15 to