by Mich Moore
for employment on Archangel. The legitimate government of these United States thanks you for your invaluable service. Good-bye."
Before he had a chance to react, Walters was unceremoniously hauled away, cursing and spitting.
Fields straightened his tie and addressed the others. "I'll have Grace set up a meeting with Legal sometime next week. Please have your attorneys contact her for the exact dates and times."
Broussard raised his hand. "Are you selling the DATs?"
"I can't discuss it. But I'm advising you to have your lawyers contact Grace."
"You sold us out," Bautista said.
"Time will either prove us right or wrong," Fields added. "People, the important thing is that the Saint Louis event gives us enough hard data to take back to Washington. And in all likelihood they will give us the funding to graduate the DAT to Archangel. That is the goal. If no one has anything else to say, then I'd like to close the meeting." He looked in Broussard and Powell's direction. "If you have the time, I'd like the two of you to stop by my office."
"Now?" Powell asked.
"Please," Fields replied.
"Sure," Powell said. Broussard nodded his assent.
Fields rose. "All right. I thank you all for your time. Keep up the good work. This meeting is adjourned."
Powell and Broussard waited outside of Fields's office for a full three hours before his assistant ushered them in.
Two chairs were parked in front of the NSA's desk. A thick, cream-colored envelope bearing the presidential seal lay atop each of them.
Fields motioned towards the men. "Have a seat." The Englishman's eyes were shot through with red lines, and he suddenly looked uncharacteristically disheveled.
Powell and Broussard picked up the envelopes, each man noting his name typed across the front.
Fields sat down in his own massive chair. "Those arrived yesterday. Open them."
Broussard and Powell complied. For a minute or two they said nothing. Then ...
"Is this for real?" Broussard asked.
"Yes. It's a pardon from the president. That signature at the bottom is his own."
Powell let out a loud whistle. "I don't believe it."
Fields pulled out a bottle of cognac and three shot glasses. The ex-prisoners sat in stunned silence while he poured two fingers each for the three of them.
When he was finished, Fields gestured towards the glasses. "Please."
Both Powell and Broussard took a glass.
"As of this moment you are free men."
Broussard began to cry.
Fields lifted his glass. "To the president. Perhaps a very wise man."
The three men clinked glasses.
Then Powell let out a cynical snicker and shot a look at Broussard. "I would have called him 'wise' three hours ago."
Broussard said nothing.
Freddy Fields failed to show up for work the next day. And the day after that. Forty-eight hours later he was officially declared missing.
Eugene Palladino was dreaming. Or at least he believed so. Either he was dreaming or having the granddaddy of all out-of-body experiences. He remembered returning to their hotel suite because he had not been feeling well. He had suspected that it was something he had eaten at the restaurant. France: great architecture, lousy food. He had been saying over and over to Helen that they should have just stayed in Tuscany for the rest of their vacation. They cook with love there. But she had always dreamed of visiting France, and he would not deny her that treat. Besides, this was on Redstone's dime, not his. If she had wanted to go to the moon, he would have gone there, too. No skins out of his wallet.
A wide expanse of white sand stretched out before him from left to right. It was bright but he could discern no sun. He saw his legs and nothing else. That was most strange but he felt at peace, calmed, as he always did when he was at the beach. In the distance he saw Helen, Pete, and Vernon splashing playfully in shallow waters, more green than blue. Helen held up a starfish with rhinestone eyes for the two DATs to see. They both stared and stared.
"Di-no." The voice came from somewhere behind him. It was deep and ... ancient was the right word. So ancient that primordial barnacles were surely encrusting the vocal chords that were creating it. "I have been waiting for this. The universe has been waiting for this." The voice was very slow, as if it had all the time in the world to think and speak. The dream keyed in on Helen, Vernon, and Peter again. The starfish was gone and there was a disco ball twirling high above their heads. "This special place in time. It has a cost. Too high, yeh?" The voice had turned menacing. The pains from his still healing wounds skyrocketed in intensity. Palladino tried to speak but was unable to do so. The pain vanished.
The voice continued. "When you go home tonight, take Peter and Vernon to the roof of the tallest building in town and push them off." A spasm of gut-wrenching fear clutched at Palladino's heart. No! No! No! In the dream tears trickled down his face, although he could not see them. "Please." He finally managed to move his mouth. "They're mine. They're my family."
The voice became benevolent again. Was it laughing at him? "That is what I wanted to hear. Do not harm what belongs to you. I was just messin' with you, Di-no-pal-la-di-no." The voice was reassuring, and there was even a tinge of amusement to its words. "Trust this." Palladino was crying wholeheartedly, and he knew now that he was truly crying.
Somehow he sensed that the presence was moving away from him. "You must love them all," it said. "Trust this." And then it spoke no more.
Palladino jerked awake. A floor lamp across the room cast out warm light. He looked around. His tee-shirt was soaking wet and the bed covers were in disarray. Peter and Vernon were lying on either side of him, their eyes shuttered.
"Helen!" Nothing. "HELEN!"
Helen burst through the door, wild eyed. "What's wrong??? Are you all right???"
"What time is it?"
"Ten o'clock."
"A.m. or p.m.?"
"A.m."
"Get dressed. And wake up the Sleeping Beauties here."
"Okay." She scratched her head. "What's going on?"
"Pack us a picnic basket. And bring that acetylene torch we bought yesterday. I'm taking my family to the beach!"
15
Huntsville, Alabama
Cliff Mason's original intention had been to take a short power nap and then continue with his day. But he had made the mistake of closing his blackout drapes, and the resulting quiet and womb-like darkness had lulled his tired body into thinking that he had packed it in for the day. He slept right through his alarm clock and into the early afternoon. It was only when a strong gust of wind sent a tiny shiver down his building's seventeen-story spine that he finally snapped awake.
He shot out of bed and straight into the shower. It was now four o'clock. He had a Toastmasters meeting in one hour at the downtown Holiday Inn, and with rush-hour traffic, he was never going to make it on time.
He gave himself a haphazard shave and threw on his suit. The building gave another shake, but he did not pay it much attention. He had calculated the next seven days of weather for the station—for sure, nothing but blue skies for the next five. And as the premier TV news meteorologist in Huntsville, his word was as good as gold.
Mason grabbed his briefcase with his papers and notes inside and dashed out the door. He patted down his jacket. His reading glasses were missing. He ran back inside and grabbed the glasses off his desk. Then he dashed back outside again. Mrs. Tupperman, his neighbor across the hall, was coming out of her apartment. She was wearing a rain hat and raincoat, and she was carrying an overnight bag.
"Hello, Mrs. Tupperman!" he said hurriedly.
"Well, hello, Mr. Mason. It's a good thing that I missed your forecast on the news last night or I'd be in a world of trouble right now."
Mason felt his pants pockets and realized that he had forgotten to pick up his wallet. "Sheesh! I'm sorry. Is everything all right?" He tried to think of where his wallet might be.
&nbs
p; Mrs. Tupperman was locking her door. "Well, there's a big storm coming. Downstairs called and asked some of us to get into the basement until it blows over. Didn't they call you?"
He remembered that he'd left his wallet on the couch. "No. I don't know. I turned my phones off. I guess I'll grab my umbrella while I'm at it."
He raced back inside his apartment and was almost knocked sideways as the building shook violently back and forth.
"WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?"
He flew to the large windows and pulled the heavy drapes apart...
And was stunned. The crystal blue sky that he had last seen four hours ago had been replaced by a huge, angry monster. Thick clouds, purplish green with moisture and sediment, were bearing down on Huntsville. As he watched in horrified awe, sixteen serpentine tails dropped from their bottoms towards the earth. The tails began to grow and swell and merge to create one solid storm wall. The tornado then began to gorge itself on the city. He saw entire houses being sucked into the air. His own building began to shake uncontrollably.
He panicked, ran out of his apartment, and made the last big mistake in his life. He caught the elevator going down ... exactly nine seconds before the F6 tornado punched through his building's roof and pulled out its core support column—the elevators still attached to it like chunky earrings—and angrily shot it up into the thundering winds.
16
Redstone Facility
Huntsville, Alabama
The staff lounge was crowded with the employees of the DAT program. It was the last staff meeting for this particular team. The following week, some members