Although Hawkins was technically senior to Blake, the Sentinel officer was part of the SRPA leadership team, which was responsible for the SAR aspect of the operation. So no one thought it strange when Blake spoke approvingly. “I think all of you will agree that it’s a good plan,” he said, “and one that’s likely to catch the stinks by surprise.
“However, as important as the conventional part of the operation may be,” Blake added tactfully, “the primary reason for pulling the enemy forces south is so that Dr. Barrie and Lieutenant Hale will be able to successfully penetrate the Chimera base near Hot Springs. And more than that, to find a fuel cell, and bring it out. Dr. Barrie?”
Hale was startled to discover that the civilian would accompany the SAR team, and the announcement set off alarm bells he needed to squelch. Having accompanied Captain Nash to the crash site on Bear Butte, he knew why Barrie was being sent. Still, the prospect of entering a heavily defended Chimeran complex with a female civilian in tow didn’t sit well.
Barrie was on her feet, glasses back in place, standing next to the montage of aerial photos. “This is the complex where the fuel is stored,” she said evenly, and pointed her pen at a cluster of cylindrical constructs, all viewed from above. “These pictures were taken by the pilot of a specially equipped Sabre Jet on a clear day before we made the find on Bear Butte. So things may have changed a bit since then. The complex was built to exploit energy from a geothermal tap. It’s fed to a standard tower over here—and from that location to a hub tower located near Rapid City.”
Having dealt with the system of Chimeran towers in England, Hale knew that they were often located near sources of geothermal energy, and were used to funnel the power to larger hub towers via physical conduits. Where, if scientists were correct, the energy was used to cool the Earth’s atmosphere, and for some other purpose that was still being studied.
“The tower complex near Hot Springs has another function as well,” she said. “The structure next to the geothermal tap, and adjacent to a building about which we have very little information, is almost certainly used to store nuclear fuel. Because only thirty feet of the facility extends aboveground, we assume that most of the fuel cores are located deep below, where they are safe from air attacks.” Then she paused. “Any questions so far?”
There was a brief moment of silence before Hale raised his hand. “Yes, ma’am… I notice that there appear to be four small structures positioned on those roofs. What are they?”
“You have a good eye,” Barrie said, as she touched each of the tiny blocks with the tip of her pen. “Those are antiaircraft weapons. Some fire missiles, others fire explosive projectiles, and all of them are dangerous.”
Hale didn’t like the sound of that. Not if he and his team were slated to arrive in a VTOL. But rather than voice his misgivings then and there, he decided to hold back and give the matter some thought.
The meeting—which was to be the first of many—came to an end shortly thereafter. Lieutenant Colonel Hawkins, Major Murphy, and Sergeant Major Guthrie left the room in order of rank. And as Hale rose to follow them, Barrie appeared at his side. The glasses had disappeared again. “Lieutenant Hale, do you have a moment?”
“Sure,” Hale replied. “What can I do for you?”
“You frowned when Blake announced that I’ll be coming with you,” Barrie said seriously. “You’re unhappy with that decision, aren’t you?”
Hale shrugged.
“No offense, Doctor, but it would help if you were a soldier.”
Barrie’s brown eyes locked with Hale’s yellow ones. “Like Captain Nash?”
“Yes,” Hale answered honestly. “Like Captain Nash.”
“You were with him when he was killed?”
“Yes,” Hale replied soberly. “I was there.”
“And he died bravely?”
It was a strange question, or so it seemed to Hale, and his eyebrows rose.
“Yes, very bravely.”
“That would have pleased him,” Barrie said evenly.
“I suppose it would,” Hale agreed. “Why do you ask?”
“We were engaged,” Barrie answered simply. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant… I may be female, and I may be a civilian, but I’m not helpless.”
And with that she was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Familiar Face
Denver, Colorado
Monday, November 26, 1951
After three days of on-again, off-again snow, the clouds had finally been blown away by a wind out of the west, and bright sunlight was streaming through the top portion of the tall narrow window on the east side of Cassie Aklin’s bedroom.
The sun hit Cassie in the face, and when she tried to open her eyes, it forced her to close them again. She brought one hand up to block the light as the other fumbled for the alarm clock. A quick peek confirmed what Cassie suspected. It was only 7:10, and she wasn’t due to get up until 7:30.
But there wasn’t any point in going back to sleep for such a short period of time, and the prospect of feeling the sun on her face as she walked to work made her want to get up. So Cassie turned off the alarm, swung her feet over the side of the bed, and began the process of getting ready for another day.
Cassie shared the tiny one-bedroom apartment with a woman two years older, who was in charge of the clerks working the night shift at the Denver Federal Center. So the twin bed next to hers was empty as Cassie showered, put on her makeup, and got dressed. As a psychologist employed by the Army and assigned to support SRPA, it was important to look professional.
So even though Cassie would have preferred to wear something more casual, she chose a dark blue suit from the three hanging in the closet. The jacket ended at her waist, and the long, slightly flared skirt fell below her knees. A crisp white blouse, plus some hard-to-find hose, completed the outfit. A pair of black high heels went into her leather briefcase and would replace her galoshes once she arrived in the office.
Breakfast consisted of tea, made from a bag that had been used twice before, and two pieces of toast smeared with a tiny bit of butter and some strawberry jam. Due to persistent food shortages the scrambled eggs and bacon she had once enjoyed almost every morning were a special treat now, and would constitute a good dinner if she could afford them. All of which seemed to run counter to what Secretary of Agriculture Seymore had said on the radio the day before.
He had referred to the shortages as “temporary allocation problems,” then “seasonal commodity anomalies,” and finally “transitory market fluctuations.” Not that it mattered much since the result was the same.
Cassie finished her second piece of toast and chased it down with the last of the weak tea, before washing the dishes and putting them in the rack to dry. Then it was time to put on her overcoat, slip her feet into a pair of galoshes, and pick up her purse and briefcase as she passed the table in the hall.
Locking the door behind her she made her way down two flights of stairs, through the small lobby and out the front door. It was only a few blocks from the apartment house located on Virginia Avenue to the sprawling Denver Federal Center where she worked. There was still a lot of snow on the ground, but stretches had been shoveled, making it easier to walk.
Even though it was a residential neighborhood, subtle signs of the war and its effects could be seen all around. Both sides of the street were lined with cars because, as people had been displaced from the northern states, many came south to stay with family or friends, filling Denver to the bursting point. Renters like herself added to the pressure, which left thousands with no choice but to enter one of the hastily constructed Protection Camps, or make a place for themselves in the shack-lands in and around Aurora to the east.
Reports from the shacklands painted the picture of a slum where people built shelters out of anything they could buy, salvage, or steal, and raw sewage ran through open ditches while people were forced to burn anything they could find for heat. Food was scarce, and medical care was no
nexistent. The situation had led to a restriction intended to force as many people as possible into the Protection Camps.
Other signs of the war’s impact could be seen in the snow-covered vegetable gardens that had been planted on the parking strip, the gold stars displayed in the windows of families that had lost a father, son, or brother in the fighting, and the American flags that hung limply from porches, drooped from poles, and were tied banner-like between houses.
In order to reach the Center, as employees referred to it, Cassie had to cross Alameda Avenue. It was busy as usual—and she had to wait for a fifteen-vehicle military convoy to pass before she could hurry over. The two-and-a-half-ton six-by-six trucks threw waves of slush to both sides as they rolled by. The last five were open, with warmly dressed soldiers sitting in back, and some of them whistled.
Cassie waved as the convoy pulled away.
There was a great deal of construction going on beyond the center’s twelve-foot-high, six-foot-thick outer walls. Defensive towers had been erected at the corners and midpoint along each stretch of wall. They bristled with weapons, and at night there were high-powered rotating spotlights that the civilian neighbors hated.
Dozens of buildings made up the Federal Center, and she had even heard that a top secret facility was under construction at the very heart of the complex. There were lots of theories about what the new building would be used for, but those who knew weren’t talking, and guards had been posted to keep the curious away.
Regardless of the reason, hammering, sawing, and other construction-related din could be heard around the clock.
There were a number of gates, and because all the guards knew her, Cassie was permitted to enter with little more than a wave of her ID card. The Center employed hundreds of women, but they were outnumbered ten to one by the men, so Cassie drew some admiring looks as she made her way to what was called Central Hospital. It was much more than that, however, since it also housed the medical facilities required to support the burgeoning Sentinel program.
She belonged to a team of civilian psychologists who were paid to make sure all the Sentinels remained mentally stable—a task made all the more difficult by the fact that the soldiers were prone to medical issues associated with the inhibitor shots. Most were struggling to cope with combat-related stress, and were entirely cut off from their families—all of whom believed them to be dead.
Having passed all the checkpoints, Cassie approached her building. The brick and masonry structure had an art deco sensibility about it. Metal-clad doors opened into a large lobby with mural-covered walls and a wraparound reception desk with a stern-faced matron behind it. She sat under three clocks, each of which was associated with a different city. It was 12:00 in New York, 10:00 in Denver, and 9:00 in San Francisco.
Cassie breezed past the desk, followed a hallway to a bank of sleek-looking elevators, and was in her cozy third-floor office five minutes later. It was barely large enough for two people, but it was all hers, and a haven of privacy.
Her first client was already seated in her guest chair, and his name was Sergeant Marvin Kawecki.
Hale hated the Denver Federal Center, the hospital, and everything that went with it. Especially since the trip to Denver required him to leave the base where the preparations for Operation Iron Fist were well underway. But, as Major Blake pointed out, it was a good idea to get an inhibitor shot prior to going out on a major mission, and sitting down with one of the shrinks was part of the process.
The spinal injection was old hat by that time, and given the number of Sentinels in town to receive it, the procedure was rather impersonal as well. Just like everything else the military did. One by one the soldiers were taken into an operating room where they were ordered to strip to the waist. They sat on a metal stool while a nurse painted a wide swath of cold antibacterial solution over the injection site.
Then a balding doctor plopped himself down on a stool and injected small amounts of a local anesthetic into the area around the site. Moments later, having checked to make sure that the area was numb, he removed a 10cc syringe from a Mayo stand and positioned the needle between the L-4 and the L-5 vertebrae. As the needle went in, a fluoroscope allowed the doctor to monitor his progress via a black-and-white screen.
“Hold still,” the doctor admonished gruffly as he depressed the plunger, “or you’ll be sorry.”
Hale felt the pressure as the inhibitor was injected into his body, and was glad when the needle was removed. A nurse gave him a list of possible side effects, which the Sentinel wadded up into a ball and threw into a trash can on the way out. He’d experienced many of the symptoms in the past, and survived them. That was all he needed to know.
With the shot out of the way it was time to head up to the third floor for his interview with Dr. Alan McKenzie, an elflike man who was forever peppering Hale with questions about his childhood, interpersonal relationships, and sexual fantasies. Much of which Hale made up as he went along, thereby causing McKenzie to emit puffs of cherry-flavored smoke from his pipe, as he scribbled notes in a spiral-bound notebook.
The elevator doors parted and Hale stepped out into the hall, only to see someone he knew standing among those waiting to board. It had been a long time since Project Abraham and the first experimental inoculations, but the sight of Cassie Aklin’s face brought memories rushing back. The sterile environment, the interviews, and something more. A physical attraction most certainly, but another connection as well, and one he hadn’t experienced before. And certainly missed.
Cassie’s expression brightened.
“Nathan? It is you! I saw Sergeant Kawecki earlier this morning and he said you were here. I was about to go down to the clinic to see if I could find you.”
Hale smiled and reached out to take both of her hands in his.
“Cassie… This is a surprise! And a pleasant one. You look wonderful.”
Hale looked tired, and a bit worn, but Cassie didn’t want to say that, so she lied. “So do you!” she said brightly.
Hale glanced at his watch.
“I’m supposed to see Dr. McKenzie in a few minutes… Is there any chance that you’re free for lunch?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” she replied, “and I am. I’ll meet you at the Alameda Diner… It’s two blocks east of the Center on Alameda.” She looked left and right. No one else was close enough to hear. “And Na than…”
“Yes?”
“I’d rather you didn’t mention our lunch to Dr. McKenzie.”
Hale grinned.
“What lunch?” And then he was gone.
Hale left the Denver Federal Center via the gate that led to Alameda and took a left. A corporal saluted him, he returned the courtesy, and sidestepped a puddle of snowmelt. By keeping his answers short—and thereby giving Dr. McKenzie very little to work with—Hale had managed to escape the hospital in record time. It had been a while since he had spent time with a woman, never mind such an attractive one, and he was looking forward to the lunch with Cassie.
The truth was that Hale had mixed emotions about the psychologist. He was attracted to her, and had been from the beginning, but he had never been sure of how she felt about him. She had been decidedly cool toward him during Project Abraham. But had that been a matter of professionalism? Or a signal for him to back off?
He had never been sure.
Then there was the fact that she had a Ph.D. in psychology, while he merely had a high school diploma, which raised the question of whether he would be biting off more than he could chew where Cassie was concerned. Still, she had clearly been eager to see him, and that was worth something. Wasn’t it?
Hale spotted the diner up ahead. It looked like what it was—a railroad dining car that had been taken out of service, refurbished for use as a small restaurant, and plopped down next to Alameda Avenue. Judging from the number of cars in the parking lot, the eatery was quite popular.
Hale followed a man wearing a business suit inside, where he looked for Ca
ssie, but didn’t see her. So as a couple got up to leave, Hale took possession of their window booth and a harried-looking waitress arrived to bus the dishes. “Sorry, soldier,” she said. “I’ll clear this stuff away and come back for your order.”
About five minutes passed, and Hale was beginning to wonder if he’d been stood up when he looked out the window and saw Cassie hurrying up the street. She saw him, waved, and entered the restaurant a minute later. She was pretty, so lots of men took notice, but once they’d seen her most turned back to their meals.
“I’m sorry,” Cassie said apologetically, as she allowed him to take her overcoat. “My boss walked into my office just as I was trying to leave.”
“I understand,” Hale assured her. “You’re a busy lady.”
They chatted for a few minutes, Hale about life with his fellow Sentinels, Cassie about her tiny apartment and roommate, and the waitress brought their menus. When she walked away, Hale turned to face Cassie and asked something he had been wondering about. “So did they send you to Denver? Or did you request it?”
“The latter,” she replied. “I have trouble staying in one place for very long—and I was tired of Alaska.”
“Maybe you should see a psychologist about that,” he suggested dryly.
She had short blond hair, direct eyes, and full lips that broke into a wry smile. When she laughed it had a full-throated sound.
“If you’re suggesting that I have a problem with commitment, you’re probably correct…” She paused, then said, “They make a really good chocolate shake here if you’re interested.”
Hale was, and when the waitress returned both of them ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. All of which cost 30 percent more than six months earlier.
“You’re a lieutenant now,” Cassie said brightly as their orders went in. “Congratulations.”
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