Mecrats

by C J Klinger

  He gratefully opened the door and asked her, “You’re not going to shoot me and drop my body in the desert some place, are you?”

  In spite of her simmering anger, she had to smile. “I want to, but I won’t.”

  They rode the first half mile in silence.

  “I apologize for my actions, Captain Donavan. It was uncalled for.”

  Greg looked over at Cathy who was staring straight ahead. “No apologies necessary, Doctor Williamson. I think I understand. I walked in here unannounced and took your boys and girls away from you. I’d be pissed too.”

  Cathy didn’t say anything until they pulled up in front of the lab. She put the van in park and sat for a second, staring straight ahead. “It’s not that, Captain Donavan. I knew this day was coming. What upset me was how easily you took command, how quickly they left me to follow you. I think I was hurt and maybe a little bit jealous.”

  Greg spoke softly, almost for his own ears as much as for Cathy’s. “Doctor Williamson, they never belonged to you. You saved their lives and they’re grateful beyond description. Hell, who wouldn’t be, but from the moment they left boot camp, they belonged to the military. When the bugle sounded they responded exactly like they were trained to do, put on their gear, picked up their rifle, and got ready to move out.”

  Cathy turned to look at Greg for the first time since she picked him up. “Is that why you stay in the military?”

  Greg smiled broadly, transforming his soldier face to a “that-was-funny” look. “The military is an insidious mistress, Doctor Williamson.”

  Without thinking she said, “And no other woman can compete.”

  “Depends on the woman,” he answered, still smiling.

  Cathy covered her embarrassment by saying, “I think you had better get checked into our luxury hotel before it gets too late.”

  “Not a problem. I’m going to stay down at the hanger with the troops. I saw a room there with a bunk I can use. I’d appreciate it if you could give me a ride back after I pick up my gear.”

  Thirty minutes later, after a stop at the commissary for some groceries, Greg unloaded his duffle bag from the back of the van and watched as Doctor Williamson drove away. “Interesting woman,” he thought, “A little uptight, but definitely interesting.”

  Cathy’s thoughts on the other hand were a jumble of unconnected image, some of them racy. She finally lashed out at herself and said aloud, “Get a grip, Cathy; you don’t have time for that crap.” It was the same admonition she had been telling herself since she had been a junior in high school. She wondered briefly what she had been missing.

  Chapter 23

  Raymond was excited to see his brother. It had been five years since he had watched Marshall escorted out of the court room in handcuffs after he had been found guilty of burglary. As a first offender with a clean record, he would normally have received a lesser sentence, maybe even probation, but Maryland had been in the middle of a general backlash against crime and Marshall had been caught up in the harsher sentence reaction by a judge up for reelection. As an eighteen year old offender, Marshall was treated as an adult and sent to the infamous Baltimore detention center, an archaic monstrosity built in the late nineteenth century.

  Raymond knew his brother had broken into the store only because the family was desperate for some relief from the grinding poverty they were experiencing. When their father had walked out, Marshall had dropped out of school to get a job to support his mother and younger brother, but jobs for black, high school drops-outs are menial at best and his pay reflected that fact. The burglary had been an act of desperation.

  Raymond’s mother had been fortunate enough to find a good job after Marshall was sentenced and was able to keep what was left of her family together. Melissa Washington felt responsible for her oldest son’s imprisonment and she did everything she could to keep Raymond from falling into the same situation.

  To Marshall’s credit he had used the five years to get his high school diploma and to better educate himself about the world around him. The world, which in his opinion had failed his family. Early on he had come to the attention of a radical group of black Muslims serving long term sentences. They single him out because he was “Lilly white.” He had no record except for an amateur burglary stunt, which in Marshall’s opinion had been justified because the government had failed to help his mother when she desperately needed help. They knew Marshall would be paroled within five years and he would be an ideal candidate to become their conduit to their operations in the outside world.

  At first Marshall had resisted their advances, but the pressure from other prison gangs, especially the BGF, the Black Guerilla Family pushed him to seek protection within the MB, The Muslim Brotherhood, which was not involved in drugs or prostitution. Their purpose was political, to establish a state ruled by the law of the Qur’an. After four years of living under their protection and influence, Marshall became a believer, a full blown member of the Brotherhood.

  “Mom told me you already got a job, Marshall. That’s great,” Raymond said as they sat down for their first meal together in five years.

  Marshall looked at his younger brother and smiled at his enthusiasm. His younger brother was no longer the bushy haired, preteen he had left behind. He was tall, taller than Marshall and wore his hair in a buzz cut. His glasses gave him a scholarly look and his flawless speech back up that impression.

  “I did, Ray. It was through a company that works with model prisoners to give them a good start out of prison.”

  Mellissa Washington beamed with pride. The world was right again; her two boys were sitting at her table and discussing their future, a future that seemed bright with promise.

  Raymond was more thrilled than his mother at the news. He had read the statistics on parolees going back to prison because they couldn’t find a good job. It would have been a repeat of the very thing that sent his older brother to prison in the first place. “What kind of job did you get?” he asked, hoping for the best.

  Marshall had carefully orchestrated his story before leaving prison. He didn’t want anybody, especially his family questioning him on the kind of work he would be involved in.

  “It’s a special courier’s job, Bro. I will be responsible for delivering and returning investment documents that require signatures.” Marshall saw the brief look of disappointment cross Raymond’s face and felt compelled to reassure him. “It’s not just a go-for job, Raymond. It’s a responsible position with a good opportunity to move up.”

  Raymond was reassured by his brother’s explanation. Winning the internship had further confirmed his early recognition that education and a few lucky breaks was the key to a comfortable future.

  Marshall wanted to end the conversation about his job. He didn’t yet have enough information to lie convincingly. “Tell me about this internship you’re working on, Bro. It sounds exciting.”

  Raymond smiled broadly. His job was indeed interesting and he was anxious to tell his older brother all about it. He spent five minutes telling Marshall what his summer enternship job entailed and what he got to see every day. He described the sub-committee hearing and concluded with, “You should have seen it, Raymond. This little lady doctor tore Senator Webber apart. I know I’m working for him, but all the interns talk and they all agreed the Senator had it coming.”

  Marshall was interested. It was true his new job was that of a courier, but what he carried was not documents, but information, information to help create a state ruled by the laws of the Qur’an. His younger brother was in the heart of the organization dedicated to stopping such a state from ever getting started. He probed deeper.

  “What were they arguing about, Raymond?” he asked casually.

  Raymond’s face changed, His smile disappeared and he said, “I’m not supposed to say, Marshall. It’s a secret project.”

  Now Marshall was really interested. Information was like currency. Any information, especially secret government information w
as valuable to somebody. The trick was trading it for information you needed from a party that was willing to trade. “Come on, Bro, it’s just Mom and I here and we’re not spies.”

  Marshall’s inclusion of his mother removed Raymond’ reluctance to share the information he wanted to share anyway. “They were arguing about the Mecrats.”

  “What the heck is a Mecrat?” his mother asked.

  Raymond had gone too far to stop now. “It’s a program to create big, mechanical fighting machines using wounded soldier’s brains to run them.”

  “That’s horrible,” his mother exclaimed.

  For some reason, Raymond felt compelled to defend the program, “Those soldiers would have died if those scientists had not been able to use their brains.”

  “It just doesn’t seem right, Raymond for our government to be doing that,” Melissa Washington said.

  Marshall agreed with his Mon, but for different reasons. He wasn’t going to express his disapproval to Raymond. He wanted more information. “Well, it is a good thing they were able to save soldiers’ lives. Where are they doing these experiments? Walter Reed?”

  Raymond was slightly mollified by Marshall’s approval. “Out in the desert someplace, a place called Groom Lake in Area 51.”

  Marshall continued to pump Raymond for information, but his brother knew little of the details beyond the scope of the program, its location and the name of the doctor who seemed most responsible for its success. In his estimation, it was a gold mine.

  Chapter 24

  Cathy did not see Captain Donavan during the following week, but she felt his presence on the base. The test data showed a constant series of maneuvers in and around the Papoose Mountains. What the captain did not know, and she was not sure even the Rats knew was that they had been equipped with a tracker beacon. It had no purpose in the early stages, but it was included in the design to help locate them if there was ever a problem during field trials. She spent several nights in the lab tracking their movements as the captain shaped them into the Special Forces unit he desired. Cathy knew nothing about military tactics, but she had to admit the fluidity of the Mecrats movements was very impressive. It always ended the same way, a coordinated attack on an objective.

  A string of army personnel had arrived during the week and set up camp in the south hanger. They had begun interfacing with the science team to start the process of creating a military version of the Mecrats support system. So far no one had approached Cathy or anybody on the neurological staff. She felt slighted and cutoff from her wards. Her temper grew short and she had uncharacteristically snapped at several of her lab assistants, who had looked at her as if she was a total stranger. She had apologized without explanation, but got the impression her assistants had understood what the problem was better than she had.

  Cathy was alone in her lab late one afternoon leafing through a brochure on the requirements for obtaining a doctorate in psychiatric medicine, an idea she had been toying with recently when a knock on her door jamb startled her. She looked up and saw Captain Donovan standing in the door way.

  “Got a minute, Doctor Williamson?” he asked and made a slight move to enter her lab.

  More pleased than she thought she should be, she nodded her head in approval and the captain made his way into her lab, which also served as her office.

  “Well, what brings the military to the lowly neurological labs?” she asked, subconsciously expressing her displeasure at being ignored, personally and professionally.

  He grinned at learning she had missed him. “Sorry about that, Doctor, but I’ve been up to my belt buckle in military paper work and other assorted doo-doo-dah.”

  “So I’ve notice,” she said without an answering smile. “I thought for a while we were being invaded.”

  He sat down on a lab chair across the table from her as if he had just come off of a twenty mile hike. He rubbed his eyes in weariness and explained, “In the regular army it takes three people to support a single fighting soldier. I’m beginning to believe the Mecrats ratio is going to be more like five to one.”

  Her logical mind finished the equation, “But you’re going to get ten times the results.”

  He got mock serious. “Did you ever work in the Pentagon?”

  She mimicked his expression and said, “God forbid. Working for them has been trial enough.” She noticed something different about his uniform. A gold colored insignia had replaced the silver bars on his camo colored uniform. “I see you’ve been promoted to Major. Congratulations.”

  He was pleased that she noticed. “Thank you. I guess they figured out it was too big a job for a captain, so they promoted me instead of looking for another idiot to take this assignment.”

  Cathy was surprised by his statement. She thought it would have been considered a plum job to be given the command of America’s newest secret weapon. Her habit of directness forced her to ask, “Why would you consider anyone in charge of the Mecrats to be an idiot?”

  He looked at her levelly and said, “Short life expectancy.”

  In a flash she understood. The Mecrats were certainly going to be used in situations that were very risky for ordinary soldiers. She had already heard rumors that Greg was looking for ways to keep up with and fight alongside his Mecrats. He would not have the protection the Rats enjoyed and would probably be in grave danger in any mission. She was afraid for him. She had an urge to reach across the lab table and touch him on the arm, but the table was too wide. She said instead, “Be careful, Greg. I know my Rats have become fond of you.”

  He understood her concern, but made light of it by saying, “I hope that includes MomRat.”

  “It does, Major Donavan, now how can I help you? I know you didn’t come over here to dazzle me with your promotion.”

  Greg recognized her desire to get off the subject and decided it was time to get down to business. “The wireless interconnects are not operating like we had anticipated. The Rats tell me they’re getting images, but not enough other information. We need your help.”

  She looked at her watch and knew the Rats would be racked out for another two hours. “I’ll come down to the hanger when the Rats are awake. Maybe they can give me a better idea of the problem.”

  Greg nodded his agreement and added, “That means you have time to buy me dinner.”

  Cathy was momentarily at a loss for what to say. She looked at his grinning face and knew he was enjoying her surprise. Finally she managed to sputter, “Why would I buy you dinner? Because of your promotion?”

  His grin grew wider. “Well that thought had crossed my mind, but the real reason is, it’s my birthday and I would like to celebrate it with you.”

  She was surprisingly pleased he wanted her to celebrate his birthday with him and at the same time torn. Her opinion of the military was not good, yet here was this likeable career soldier who intrigued her. He seemed to tug at her in a way she hadn’t experienced in many years. She hesitated and remembered something an old colleague of hers used to say, “Think long, think wrong.” Shutting down the little voice in her, she said, “Okay, Major Donavan. Pick me up at my quarters in an hour.” She reached for a pad of paper to write down her unit number when Greg stopped her. “I know where you live,” he said and got up to leave. “See you in an hour.”

  At her apartment, Cathy spent the hour in indecision. She finally settled on very casual clothes. She reminded herself she was in Groom Lake in the middle of the desert, not on Fifth Avenue in New York. Besides she didn’t want to start any rumors by showing up at the commissary like she was dressed for a date. Then she reminded herself it was a date, her first one in over eight years. She grinned like a school girl.

  With military punctuality, precisely one hour later Major Donavan knocked on her door. He was dressed in a clean, pressed set of camos. With his Special Forces cap, he looked every bit like a poster child for America’s fighting forces. In spite of her distaste for the military, Cathy was impressed.

  “D
o I salute you?” she asked as she locked the door to her quarters.

  “You do and I’ll start calling you Ma’am,” he retorted.

  “Greg it is then,” she answered.

  “And Cathy for you,” he responded. They both laughed like teenagers.

  Greg opened the van door for her and Cathy let him, deciding it was nice to be treated like something other than a doctor of neurology. What surprised her was it didn’t feel awkward like it had made her feel in her past experiences. In college she had often made fun of the stereotypical roles played by men and women in the courting dance. “Men should just say what they want,” she would say to her fellow female grad students. “And women should be equally candid.” Now, many years later she discovered that was easier said than done.

  “Where are we celebrating your birthday, Major?”

  “It’s Greg, remember?”

  “Sorry, old habits,” she answered. Actually she was trying to tone done the scenes in her mind, which without her consent kept putting up the rather vivid images of a naked Greg on top of her.

  Greg parked in front of the building adjacent to the baseball diamond, which had the only green grass in the Groom lake complex. The building housed the officer’s club and a reasonable restaurant. Cathy had been here several times, but preferred the more commonly used commissary or eating a sandwich in her lab. The place was full of Air Force officers and civilian support personnel, plus many of the test pilots who flew the experimental jets housed at the base. Sometimes Cathy forgot that the primary purpose of Groom Lake was to test new Air Force weapons and equipment. She and her science team were considered to be army intruders by many of the clannish Air Force people who considered the base their private territory.

  They decided to take two open seats at the bar before setting down for diner. Greg’s Special Forces uniform had gathered a lot of attention as they walked in, but his major’s insignia squashed any comments by lower ranked Air Force officers. When they got their drinks, Cathy lifted her glass and said “Happy Birthday, Greg.”