by Paul Clark
*****
On the road again, Ripley and Allen road silently for a while in the silver vehicle at the tail end of the convoy, which was making a hundred miles an hour again along any piece of highway that would bear it. They struck the Tapline road about where they figured the Colonel predicted, and after the big turn to the left, with the SUV settled at 160 kph and the driver fixed just two lengths behind the rig in front of him, Allen turned to Ripley and asked.
“So, I’ve been wondering-this Colonel is really something, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, he is a piece of work,” Ripley said in return.
“What can you tell me?” Allen looked as curious as a schoolboy, Ripley had the most fleeting of thoughts that somehow that didn’t fit with the cold, efficient killer he’d seen in Paris—what, two days ago? Three?
He shook his head, then gave up trying to figure that last part out. Instead he thought a moment about what he did know about Cameron, then he decided. “I know enough. Interesting guy.” He told some of the history of the Phoenix program, the connection to the Big Boss, the long period of quiet, and then this summons a month ago that brought the whole action into play. Allen listened attentively, saying nothing.
“ . . .so then by utter coincidence, someone found out he was an aikido student, and they sent me out to take a look at him at this seminar a few years ago. The only time I met him before this week, and I didn’t make the connection myself until I saw him in Paris the other night. He was good back then, although a fairly new aikido guy, but learning fast, good power, good speed, excellent control—lacked a little polish was all. Unusual progress for his amount of training time at that point. Then after we met, whatever night that was, I asked for a bit more background on him. He’s a real live Colonel in the Air Force, the commander of something-or-other at this base in Ohio, the unit’s supposed to be the equivalent of an Army brigade command, so if you’re ex-Army you have that for comparison—he’s a player, I mean. It’s not a flying unit, but he spent his first 13 years or so as a fighter pilot flying F-15’s. Works for a 3-star at this place in Ohio, is well liked, respected. Word is he’s a good guy to have as a friend, fiercely loyal to his people and unit, but a nasty guy to cross if you’re a bureaucrat and get in the way of his mission or try to screw with his people.” Ripley looked at Allen--he knew nothing about this guy’s background, either—hoping for some clues in the face, but there was nothing. He resumed, “so again, if you’re ex-Army or any kind of ex-military, he sounds like he’s the kind of commander you like to have—kicking down doors that piss you off, riding the staff weenies hard to do their jobs and letting the troops do theirs without too much hassle. ‘Course, that sort of checks with what I’ve seen of him the last few days: easy going, good guy to hang with, but a hard guy when he has to be.”
“Hmph,” was all Allen said, but he nodded perceptibly, which gave nothing away at all. As an apparent afterthought, though, he said, “Well, that checks from what I see, too. Took down that guy on a London street in short order, quick thinking and gutsy move—he doesn’t lack guts, for sure. And the arrival act in Jordan was as good as I’d have expected from one of our guys. No training at all, you said?”
“None, zip,” Ripley said.
Allen pursed his lips as if to whistle, and shook his head. Without a further word, he produced a paperback novel from the large side pocket of his pants, and settled down to read in the light filtering through the tinted window.
Ripley turned to his own thoughts, rolling the small GPS unit around between his hands, and staring out the window. Outside the highway was two lanes each direction, and endless ribbon of blacktop that stretched ahead over the occasional low hill to a horizon that disappeared in a brown-ish haze. Between there and the SUV, the world was a monotonous, tan, flinty wasteland. No dunes here, no windblown patterns or waves in the sand, not a scrap of vegetation to be seen anywhere in any direction. He imagined this would be what the world must look like several thousand years or more after a nuclear explosion wiped everything out—nothing left but blank flatness, not even big rocks, just splinters of loose stone, the powdered sand, and nothing. There was the stray thought that Lot may not have been far from here when Soddom and Gomorrah went up, so to speak, and he wondered if that was your nuclear event and this the aftermath. He tried to calculate the number of years, wondered if a body could become a pillar of salt if it was burned instantly by the flash but was far enough away not to be obliterated by the shock wave a few seconds later . . .and with that last thought he was well and truly asleep.