by Tom Clancy
“Never hurts to get a second opinion, Ding. My lads are well trained, but we haven’t had all that much practical experience. And we need some new hardware. Those new radios that E-Systems make, and that Global Security got for us, they’re bloody marvelous. What other magic tools might you have?”
“Noonan’s got something that’ll knock your eyes out, Frank. I hardly believe it myself, but I don’t think it’ll be worth a damn down here. Too many people around. But you’ll find it interesting. I promise you that.”
“What’s that?”
“Tim calls it the ‘Tricorder’—you know the gadget Mr. Spock used all the time in Star Trek. It finds people like radar finds airplanes.”
“How’s it do that?”
“He’ll tell you. Something about the electrical field around a human heart.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s new,” Chavez explained. “Little company in the States called DKL, I think. That little fucker is magic, the way it works. Little Willie at Fort Bragg’s in love with it.”
“Colonel Byron?”
“He’s the man. You said you’ve worked with him recently?”
“Oh, yes, splendid chap.”
Chavez had a chuckle at that one. “He doesn’t like Rainbow all that much. We stole some of his best people, you see.”
“And gave them practical work to do.”
“True,” Chavez agreed, sipping his coffee. The rest of the team appeared then, dressed as their commander was, in semimilitary casual clothes. Sauntering into the coffee shop, they spotted their boss and came over.
It was about four in the afternoon in Kansas. The morning ride had left Popov sore in unusual places. His hips especially protested the way they’d been used earlier in the day, his upper legs held out at an unusual angle. But it was a pleasant memory for all that.
There was nothing for Popov to do here. He had no assigned work, and by lunch he’d run out of things he could conveniently explore. That left television as a diversion, but TV was not one of his favorite things. A bright man, he was easily bored, and he hated boredom. CNN kept repeating the same stories on the Olympics, and while he’d always enjoyed watching that international competition, it hadn’t started yet. So, he wandered the corridors of the hotel, and looked out the huge window-wall at the surrounding countryside. Another ride tomorrow morning, he thought, at least it got him outside into pleasant surroundings. After over an hour’s wandering, he headed down to the cafeteria.
“Oh, hello, Dmitriy,” Kirk Maclean said, just ahead of him in the line. Maclean wasn’t a vegan either, the Russian saw. His plate had a large slice of ham on it. Popov remarked on that.
“Like I said this morning, we’re not designed to be vegetarians,” Maclean pointed out with a grin.
“How do you know that is true?”
“Teeth mainly,” Maclean replied. “Herbivores chew grass and stuff, and there’s a lot of dirt and grit in that kind of food, and that wears the teeth down like sandpaper. So they need teeth with very thick enamel so they won’t wear out in a few years. The enamel on human teeth is a lot thinner than what you find on a cow. So either we’re adapted to washing the dirt off our food first, or we’re designed to eat meat for most of our protein intake. I don’t think we adapted that fast to running water in the kitchen, y’know?” Kirk asked with a grin. The two men headed off to the same table. “What do you do for John?” he asked after they’d sat down.
“Dr. Brightling, you mean?”
“Yeah, you said you work directly for him.”
“I used to be KGB.” Might as well try it on him, too.
“Oh, you spy for us, then?” Maclean asked, cutting up his ham slice.
Popov shook his head. “Not exactly. I established contact with people in whom Dr. Brightling had interest and asked them to perform certain functions which he wished them to do.”
“Oh? For what?” Maclean asked.
“I am not sure that I am allowed to say.”
“Secret stuff, eh? Well, there’s a lot of that here, man. Have you been briefed in on the Project?”
“Not exactly. Perhaps I am part of it, but I haven’t been told exactly what the purpose of all this is. Do you know?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve been in it almost from the beginning. It’s really something, man. It’s got some real nasty parts, but,” he added with a cold look in his eyes, “you don’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs, right?”
Lenin said that, Popov remembered. In the 1920s, when asked about the destructive violence being done in the name of Soviet Revolution. The observation had become famous, especially in KGB, when occasionally someone objected to particularly cruel field operations—like what Popov had done, interfacing with terrorists, who typically acted in the most grossly inhuman manner and . . . recently, under his guidance. But what sort of omelet was this man helping to make?
“We’re gonna change the world, Dmitriy,” Maclean said.
“How so, Kirk?”
“Wait and see, man. Remember how it was this morning out riding?”
“Yes, it was very pleasant.”
“Imagine the whole world like that” was as far as Maclean was willing to go.
“But how would you make that happen . . . where would all the farmers go?” Popov asked, truly puzzled.
“Just think of ’em as eggs, man,” Maclean answered, with a smile, and Dmitriy’s blood suddenly turned cold, though he didn’t understand why. His mind couldn’t make the jump, much as he wanted it to do so. It was like being a field officer again, trying to discern enemy intentions on an important field assignment, and knowing some, perhaps much, of the necessary information, but not enough to paint the entire picture in his own mind. But the frightening part was that these Project people spoke of human life as the German fascists had once done. But they’re only Jews. He looked up at the noise and saw another aircraft landing on the approach road. Behind it in the distance, a number of automobiles were halted off the road/runway, waiting to drive to the building. There were more people in the cafeteria now, he saw, nearly double the number from the previous day. So, Horizon Corporation was bringing its people here. Why? Was this part of the Project? Was it merely the activation of this expensive research facility? The pieces of the puzzle were all before him, Popov knew, but the manner in which they fit was as mysterious as ever.
“Hey, Dmitriy!” Killgore said, as he joined them. “A little sore, maybe?”
“Somewhat,” Popov admitted, “but I do not regret it. Could we do it again?”
“Sure. It’s part of my morning routine here. Want to join me that way?”
“Yes, thank you, that is very kind.”
“Seven A.M., right here, pal,” Killgore responded with a smile. “You, too, Kirk?”
“You bet. Tomorrow I have to drive out and get some new boots. Is there a good store around here for outdoors stuff?”
“Half an hour away, U.S. Cavalry outlet. You go east two exits on the interstate,” Dr. Killgore advised.
“Great. I want to get ’em before all the new arrivals strip the stores of the good outdoors stuff.”
“Makes sense,” Killgore thought, then turned. “So, Dmitriy, what’s it like being a spy?”
“It is often very frustrating work,” Popov replied truthfully.
“Wow, this is some facility,” Ding observed. The stadium was huge, easily large enough to seat a hundred thousand people. But it would be hot here, damned hot, like being inside a huge concrete wok. Well, there were plenty of concessions in the concourses, and surely there’d be people circulating with Cokes and other cold drinks. And just off the stadium grounds were all manner of pubs for those who preferred beer. The lush grass floor of the stadium bowl was nearly empty at the moment, with just a few groundskeepers manicuring a few parts. Most of the track-and-field events would be here. The oval Tartan track was marked for the various distance and hurdle races, and there were the pits for the jumping events. A mons
ter scoreboard and Jumbotron sat on the far end so that people could see instant replays of the important events, and Ding felt himself getting a little excited. He’d never been present for an Olympic competition, and he was himself enough of an athlete to appreciate the degree of dedication and skill that went into this sort of thing. The crazy part was that as good as his own people were, they were not the equal of the athletes—most of them little kids, to Ding’s way of thinking—who’d be marching in here tomorrow. Even his shooters probably wouldn’t win the pistol or rifle events. His men were generalists, trained to do many things, and the Olympic athletes were the ultimate specialists, trained to do a single thing supremely well. It had about as much relevance to life in the real world as a professional baseball game, but it would be a beautiful thing to watch for all that.
“Yes, we’ve spent a good deal of money to make it so,” Frank Wilkerson agreed.
“Where do you keep your reaction force?” Chavez asked. His host gestured and turned.
“This way.”
“Hey, that feels good,” Chavez said, entering the fine water fog.
“Yes, it does. It reduces the apparent temperature about fifteen degrees. I expect a lot of people will be coming here during the competition to cool down, and as you see, we have televisions to allow them to keep current on the goings-on.”
“That’ll come in handy, Frank. What about the athletes?”
“We have a similar arrangement in their access tunnels, and also the main tunnel they will use to march in, but out on the field, they’ll just have to sweat.”
“God help the marathon runners,” Chavez said.
“Quite,” Wilkerson agreed. “We will have medical people out there at various points. The extended weather forecast is for clear and hot weather, I’m afraid. But we have ample first-aid kiosks spotted about the various stadia. The velodrome will be another place where it’s sorely needed.”
“Gatorade,” Chavez observed after a second.
“What?”
“It’s a sports drink, water and lots of electrolytes to keep you from getting heatstroke.”
“Ah, yes, we have something similar here. Salt tablets as well. Buckets of the things.”
A few minutes later, they were in the security area. Chavez saw the Australian SAS troops lounging in air-conditioned comfort, their own TVs handy so that they could watch the games—and other sets to keep an eye on choke points. Wilkerson handled the introductions, after which most of the troops came over for a handshake and a “G’day,” all delivered with the open friendliness that all Aussies seemed to have. His sergeants started chatting with the Aussie ones, and respect was soon flowing back and forth. The trained men saw themselves in the others, and their international fraternity was an elite one.
The facility was filling rapidly. He’d been alone on the fourth floor the first day, Popov reflected, but not now. At least six of the nearby rooms were occupied, and looking outside he could see that the parking lot was filling up with private cars that had been driven in that day. He figured it was a two- or three-day drive from New York, and so the order to bring people out had been given recently—but where were the moving vans? Did the people intend to live here indefinitely? The hotel building was comfortable—for a hotel, but that was not the same as comfort in a place of permanent residence. Those people with small children might quickly go mad with their little ones in such close proximity all the time. He saw a young couple talking with another, and caught part of the conversation as he walked past. They were evidently excited about the wild game they’d seen driving in. Yes, deer and such animals were pretty, Popov thought in mute agreement, but hardly worth so animated a conversation on the subject. Weren’t these trained scientists who worked for Horizon Corporation? They spoke like Young Pioneers out of Moscow for the first time, goggling at the wonders of a state farm. Better to see the grand opera house in Vienna or Paris, the former KGB officer thought, as he entered his room. But then he had another thought. These people were all lovers of nature. Perhaps he would examine their interests himself. Weren’t there videotapes in his room? . . . Yes, he found them and slipped one into his VCR, hitting the PLAY button and switching on his TV.
Ah, he saw, the ozone layer, something people in the West seemed remarkably exercised about. Popov thought he would begin to show concern when the Antarctic penguins who lived under the ozone hole started dying of sunburn. But he watched and listened anyway. It turned out that the tape had been produced by some group called Earth First, and the content, he soon saw, was as polemic in content as anything ever produced by the USSR’s state-run film companies. These people were indeed very exercised about the subject, calling for the end of various industrial chemicals—and how would air-conditioning work without them? Give up air-conditioning to save penguins from too much ultraviolet radiation? What was this rubbish?
That tape lasted fifty-two minutes by his watch. The next one he selected, produced by the same group, was concerned with dams. It started off by castigating the “environmental criminals” who’d commissioned and built Hoover Dam on the Colorado River. But that was a power dam, wasn’t it? Didn’t people need electricity? Wasn’t the electricity generated by power dams the cleanest there was? Wasn’t this very videotape produced in Hollywood using the very electricity that this dam produced? Who were these people—
—and why were their tapes here in his hotel room? Popov wondered. Druids? The word came to him again. Sacrificers of virgins, worshipers of trees—if that, then they’d come to a strange place. There were precious few trees to be seen on the wheat-covered plains of western Kansas.
Druids? Worshipers of nature? He let the tape rewind and checked out some of the periodicals and found one published by this Earth First group.
What sort of name was that? Earth First—ahead of what? Its articles screamed in outrage over various insults to the planet. Well, strip mining was an ugly thing, he had to admit. The planet was supposed to be beautiful and appreciated. He enjoyed the sight of a green forest as much as the next man, and the same was true of the purple rock of treeless mountains. If there were a God, then He was a fine artist, but . . . what was this?
Humankind, the second article said, was a parasitic species on the surface of the planet, destroying rather than nurturing. People had killed off numerous species of animals and plants, and in doing so, people had forfeited their right to be here . . . he read on into the polemic.
This was errant rubbish, Popov thought. Did a gazelle faced with an attacking lion call for the police or a lawyer to plead his right to be alive? Did a salmon swimming upstream to spawn protest against the jaws of the bear that plucked it from the water and then stripped it apart to feed its own needs? Was a cow the equal of a man? In whose eyes?
It had been a matter of almost religious faith in the Soviet Union that as formidable and as rich as Americans were, they were mad, cultureless, unpredictable people. They were greedy, they stole wealth from others, and they exploited such people for their own selfish gain. He’d learned the falsehood of that propaganda on his first field assignment abroad, but he’d also learned that the Western Europeans, as well, thought Americans to be slightly mad—and if this Earth First group were representative of America, then surely they were right. But Britain had people who spray-painted those who wore fur coats. Mink had a right to live, they said. A mink? It was a well-insulated rodent, a tubular rat with a fine coat of fur. This rodent had a right to be alive? Under whose law?
That very morning they’d objected to his suggestion to kill the—what was it? Prairie dogs, yet another tubular rat, and one whose holes could break the legs of the horses they rode—but what was it they’d said? They belonged there, and the horses and people did not? Why such solicitude for a rat? The noble animals, the hawks and bears, the deer, and those strange-looking antelope, they were pretty, but rats? He’d had similar talks with Brightling and Henriksen, who also seemed unusually loving of the things that lived and crawled outside. H
e wondered how they felt about mosquitoes and fire ants.
Was this druidic rubbish the key to his large question? Popov thought about it, and decided that he needed an education, if only to assure himself that he hadn’t entered the employ of a madman . . . not a madman, only a mass murderer? . . . That was not a comforting thought at the moment.
“So how was the flight?”
“About what you’d expect, a whole fucking day trapped in a 747,” Ding groused over the phone.
“Well, at least it was first class,” Clark observed.
“Great, next time you can have the pleasure, John. How’re Patsy and JC?” Chavez asked, getting on to the important stuff.
“They’re just fine. The grandpa stuff isn’t all that bad.” Clark could have said that he hadn’t changed a single diaper yet. Sandy had seized on the ancillary baby-in-the-house duties with utter ruthlessness, allowing her husband to only hold the little guy. He supposed that such instincts were strong in women, and didn’t want to interfere with her self-assumed rice bowl. “He’s a cute little guy, Domingo. You done good, kid.”
“Gee, thanks, Dad” was the ironic reply from ten thousand miles away. “Patsy?”
“She’s doing fine, but not getting a hell of a lot of sleep. JC only sleeps about three hours at a stretch at the moment. But that’ll change by the time you get back. Want to talk to her?” John asked next.
“What do you think, Mr. C?”
“Okay, hold on. Patsy!” he called. “It’s Domingo.”
“Hey, baby,” Chavez said in his hotel room.
“How are you, Ding? How was the flight out?”
“Long, but no big deal,” he lied. One doesn’t show weakness before one’s own wife. “They’re treating us pretty nice, but it’s hot here. I forgot what hot weather is like.”
“Will you be there for the opening?”
“Oh, yeah, Pats, we all have security passes, courtesy of the Aussies. How’s JC?”