“What were we supposed to do?” Joe complained. “Start a war because Stephanie Park had a wild hair up her ass? We were trying to stay within the rules of engagement.”
“Damn your rules and damn you, Joe. You betrayed your own people.”
“Forrest, you have no idea what’s been going on! You think I like any of this? I’ve been doped up on my back for days, out of touch, while you goddamn cowboys run roughshod over everything we’ve accomplished since Reggie died! And before you accuse me of things I couldn’t control, you damn well better not forget that your arrogance got Adam killed.”
James nodded. “Okay. You’re right. We’re both bastards.”
“Damn straight,” Joe replied. He shook his head, tired now. “I’ve tried so hard, Forrest. I really have. I’ve tried to turn this organization into something that would work, something that could survive and maybe even triumph someday. But you cowboys always screw it up.”
“Jesus, Joe. What do you expect? You recruit a bunch of people, doomed romantics, cynical idealists, people who are willing to fight authority, break the law, shred the Constitution, all for the sake of some higher purpose, and then you act surprised when they don’t play by your rules? What part of selling your soul to the devil do you not understand?”
Joe laughed. “You’re right, Forrest. We’re both bastards.”
James sighed and looked away. “I need your help, Joe. I need to get to Puerto Rico.”
“That won’t be easy. You don’t know what Alzis has done to you, do you?”
James looked worried. “What do you mean?”
“He’s tarred you with your own brush. Informants have told the FBI that you’re a leader in the Aryan Brotherhood, that Bounds was your punk in Leavenworth, that he rolled over so your men could free you in Georgia. They found the bodies of those poor girls, but they weren’t on the artillery range. They were on a little farm near McRae. They found a damn arsenal there, too, illegal munitions, bunkers, I don’t know what all. They’re saying it was a militia HQ for the Aryans.”
James was pale. “Oh, Christ.”
“Yes, I thought as much. It’s your farm, isn’t it? Some little bolthole you set up years ago?” James nodded. “They’ll link you to it. They’ll charge you with Adam’s murder. They’ll implicate you in the killings of those girls. You’ll probably be on the ten-most-wanted list by this time next week.”
James steadied himself on the railing of Joe’s bed. “I can’t believe it. That smug fuck. He set all this up to trap me.”
“Yes, he did. We can’t get you out of this, but he could. Alzis owns you now. The only question is, why?”
“I’m not sure. I asked him what he wanted and he said he just wanted me to go to Puerto Rico, to get Cell T and David.”
“Really?” Joe said, sitting up gingerly in bed, his mind working. “How very interesting. I just assumed he wanted you for some other stratagem. My goodness. If Alzis is involved with whatever OUTLOOK wants David for . . . oh, my.” He looked thoughtful.
“What is it?”
“Do you know how David’s father died?”
“No.”
“David’s father was CIA, a pilot for Civil Air Transport in Taiwan after the war. He was a friend of mine. I used him for a few DG jobs. In 1964 his plane went down over the Yellow Sea during one of my ops.” He thought to himself for a moment. “Stephen Alzis was on that plane. I put two men on board to kill him—foolish, of course, but we didn’t really know him then. Anyway, Alzis turned up three months later in Brussels, none the worse for wear. The plane was never found.”
“What does it mean?”
Joe shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me. But under the circumstances, I think you’re right to go to Puerto Rico. If Alzis is involved, this is bigger than OUTLOOK and Lepus.”
“I need help. Money, ID, gear.”
“What you need is Agent Nancy. I’ll call her and tell her you’re on the way.”
“I appreciate it, Joe. And I’m sorry.”
“We’re fighting a very ugly war, Forrest. There are no clear choices, no pure motives. Good people die. Sometimes it’s our fault. But follow your heart and I’ll trust you’ll make it right.”
“I’ll do my best, Joe.”
They shook hands.
“Goodbye, Forrest. I hope I see you again.”
James smiled. “Count on it.”
Agent Nancy lived in a large, secluded house in Brookmont, just across the river from the CIA. The house was screened by tall hedges on all sides, and the shutters were always kept closed. Inside, she tried her best to live something resembling a normal life. In her old identity as Debra Constance, she’d worked in the field on big cases all over the country for the FBI’s Psychological Crimes Unit. Now, as Jean Qualls, she was just a telecommuting PCU paper-pusher, a consultant who reviewed files and commented on the work of others. It wasn’t very satisfying, but it paid the bills; Delta Green had supplied the house for security reasons, but she didn’t expect or want them to give her a free ride. Her yogurt was her own.
Around the house, she dropped her illusion of humanity. The blond woman vanished, replaced by a grotesque humanoid with distended canine jaws and the grubby, dusky skin of a corpse. Agents Nick and Nolan, her handlers, had slowly gotten acclimated to the surreal sight of a nightmare being watching Star Trek in a Temple University sweatshirt and shorts; they’d seen a lot of weird things with Delta Green over the years, and at least Agent Nancy had developed a slight sense of humor about her condition. She still had bad days and worse nights, and the task of bringing her a steady stream of human body parts to feed her alien cravings was unpleasant to say the least, but the trio had come to accept that no matter how terrible and crazy things were at times, life just went inexorably on. You adapted, you found answers to your problems, and every day you got up and decided to live. That was the human—or inhuman—condition.
Alphonse called around seven to say that Agent Darren was on his way over and they should assist him any way they could. Nolan took the call, and he hung up the phone puzzled. Last he’d heard, Darren was in prison for a dime. No word of his escape or the tragedy in Georgia had leaked to the public, and Cell A—or what was left of it—was keeping Adam’s death a secret from the ranks for the time being.
“Nancy!” Nolan called out from the bottom of the staircase. She was upstairs, tinkering on her computer. Agent Terry’s cat Clotho listened from the couch; Cell N had retrieved her at Alphonse’s suggestion, and the cat had taken an immediate liking to Nancy, much to her surprise.
“Yeah?”
“Put your makeup on. Company’s coming.”
Agent Darren showed up at the door half an hour later. Georgetown was just a few miles from Brookmont. He looked grubby and worn out. On the street, a taxi pulled away and drove off.
“Nolan,” he said as they shook hands. “Good to see you, bro.”
“Likewise. What the hell you doing outta jail?”
Darren shook his head. “It’s a long and shitty story. Where’s Nancy?”
Nolan looked around just as Nancy came down the steps. She was in her human guise again, wearing a dark green dress and sneakers. “Darren?” she said, her eyes surprised behind her thick glasses.
“In the flesh,” Nolan said. “Can you believe it?”
“What’s up?”
Darren stepped inside and closed the door. “I’m going to Puerto Rico. I need your help.”
Nancy stopped suddenly on the next-to-last step. “Thank God,” she said. “I thought Cell A was writing them off.”
“Not anymore. Will you come?”
“Hell yes,” she said, reaching the floor and walking towards them.
“Nolan?”
“You kidding? I hafta keep you kids outta trouble.”
“I’ll call Nick and see if he’s free,” Nancy said, hurrying to the phone. “Nolan, start packing.”
David Foster Nells lay unconscious in a hospital bed within the base
ment laboratories of OUTLOOK Group’s Facility B on Vieques Island. A rat’s nest of wires and tubes ran from his head and arms to a variety of equipment on wheeled carts next to the bed. Drs. Yrjo, Baker, and Strysik stood outside the door, watching him through a window.
“The dampers are working,” Strysik said quietly. “His brain activity is normal. We’ve got him under control.”
Yrjo nodded thoughtfully. “Of a sort. Nothing in the other subjects?”
Baker shook his head. “Zip. We duplicated the surgery as close as we could, but they’re not showing any unusual abilities. Whatever powers we’ve unlocked seem unique to Nells.”
“RECOIL was on the phone an hour ago,” Strysik said. “They’re still demanding our data.”
“Keep stalling them,” Yrjo replied gruffly. “Kroft will back me up. This is our project, and it’s far too early to hand anything off to those fools.”
“Is there any word from the Others?” Baker asked.
Yrjo frowned. “That bastard Ringwood is stonewalling. He was furious over the Maryland incident, which was hardly our responsibility. He says he’s still in negotiations. From the sound of his voice, I’d say he was lying. I surmise he hasn’t even gotten a response from them.”
Strysik shook his head. “What a mess.”
“I quite agree,” Yrjo concurred. “But if we can replicate Nells’ powers, it will all have been worthwhile.”
Baker sighed. “I’ve been over the red binder a dozen times. Nothing there suggests that the surgery should have had any results like these. I can’t understand it.”
Yrjo snorted. “The Cookbook is hardly reliable. The Others have never been straight with us. Perhaps this is another damned test.”
“If so,” Strysik said, “I think we’re failing.”
David dreamed. He was floating in a sea of dark clouds, bright points of light like stars swirling through the mist. He knew there was something beyond the clouds, something he needed to see, but he felt weak, unable to pierce the veil.
Occasionally he would glimpse a break in the clouds. For a moment the terrible light would shine through, and he’d see the roiling things that lolled and danced in great arcs around the bright chaotic mass at the center. A distant sound of piping, a weird atonal music, would reach him, only to fade as the cloud bank closed around him again. There would be another sound, too, a familiar sound: a pair of Pratt & Whitneys, thrumming powerfully if improbably in the deeps of space. It was a comforting sound, a sound he associated with his father.
David drifted, lost in dreams of China clouds.
Chapter Eight: The World Pursues
Tuesday, March 23–Wednesday, March 24, 1999
The noonday sun was warm and inviting as the airliner touched down in San Juan. On board, James nudged Nancy awake. Nolan was two rows behind them. Nick hadn’t come; he couldn’t get away from his day job in time for the op.
They hadn’t left D.C. until after midnight. James took them on a whirlwind tour of DG’s secondary Green Boxes in the area, securing an impressive array of equipment and firearms. Cell N had never seen these Green Boxes before. “Special gear for special ops,” James explained. Nolan suspected that some of these stashes were only known to James; among other things, they contained a variety of forged ID and passports, all with James’ picture.
Driving at last to the airport, James directed them to a cargo road and they pulled up to a shipping company he’d used before called Tiger Transit. James shook hands with a man he knew there, who had them pull Nolan’s car around into a cargo building. He helped them pack up all of their equipment—including submachineguns, a sniper rifle, explosives, night-vision goggles, and ammunition—into a large cargo crate, which he then topped off with boxes of light bulbs and other innocuous goods. James gave him an address on Vieques Island, and the man began filling out forms. Then they raced to the terminal for the flight south.
At San Juan’s Marin Airport they deplaned and immediately booked passage on an Isla Nena Air shuttle. While they waited for the three o’clock flight, Cell N had lunch and James made a phone call. A few hours later, they were on Vieques.
Emerging from the modest terminal, they came into view of the tropical paradise around them. Vieques was beautiful in the warm afternoon glow. “Blue sky and sunshine,” James said to himself.
In the distance they heard whistles and explosions. Nancy and Nolan looked around, surprised. James laughed. “It’s the Navy. They do shore-bombardment exercises on the coast.”
“Jesus,” Nancy said. “It’s a hell of a welcome.”
James nodded at the street. “Here’s the welcome.”
A Ford Explorer had just pulled up, and two burly fifty-something men with crew cuts piled out. They grinned and hustled over to meet the group.
“Forrest! You son of a bitch!” one called as they shook hands. “How the hell are ya?”
“Lean and mean, Pete.”
The other man slapped James on the stomach. “You been leaner, man!”
James rolled his eyes. “Sure Jason, what’s your mile at these days?”
“Hah! That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“Pete, Jason, I want you to meet Nancy and Nolan.” He nodded at the men. “These two old codgers were on my SEAL team years ago, before they retired to paradise.”
They all shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
“So is this business or pleasure?” Pete asked.
“Business. The less you know, the better.”
Pete and Jason exchanged looks.
“Well, get in the truck, then,” Pete said. “We’ve got rooms for you at the Sea Gate. Ruth’ll take good care of you.”
“I’ve got a shipment coming in later today. It’ll show up at the Dive Center.”
Jason chuckled. “Lemme guess. Keep it away from open flame.”
“You got it.”
Pete shook his head. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing, Forrest. Last we heard you were up for ten at Leavenworth.”
“Duty called. Let’s go see this roach motel you’ve got for us.”
They piled into the Explorer and headed off.
The Sea Gate Guesthouse was no roach motel. It was a beautiful compound on the bluffs overlooking the port of Isabel Segunda and Fort Conde de Mirasol, an old Spanish fort renovated into a museum of Vieques history and culture. Forrest’s SEAL buddies had scored them a two-bedroom bungalow on the grounds of the Sea Gate, and as they got the trio checked in Pete and Jason joked with the owner’s daughter, Penny, who doubled as the small island’s veterinarian. “Better get some horse tranquilizers,” Pete said with a wink. “This guy’s trouble.”
Pete and Jason ran the Caribbean Blue Dive Center, the finest such facility on the island. James’ SEAL team had spent some time on Vieques years ago, running training exercises on the Naval compound, and he and his buddies had fallen in love with the place. In 1989 Pete and Jason resigned and came here to lead tourist dives, rent equipment, and soak in the rays; Hurricane Hugo had just devastated the island, and property was cheap. They’d spent their lives mostly single, driven men committed to the rigors of combat and discipline, but within a few years of their arrival on Vieques both were married and they now had young children. Island life had agreed with them. James had always said he’d join them someday, and in fact he owned a third of the Dive Center, but someday had never come. Watching his friends now, happy and content in this tropical paradise, he felt like something of a fool for staying away. Then he remembered the Santa Cruz and the things that came out of the deeps to tear his teammates into bloody, bubbling shreds, and he shut his eyes tight. Someday was not today.
The two ex-SEALs stood on the grounds, talking and laughing in the sunshine, while the three DG agents got changed and cleaned up inside the bungalow. When they were ready, Pete and Jason walked them down to Isabel Segunda, the fragrant coastal breezes bringing the smells of salt water and mangrove trees. They settled in at Taverna Espanola for beers and, eventu
ally, dinner. For a while they talked about the island, and about their days together in the Navy. Nancy and Nolan smiled and listened but kept quiet. Eventually there was a lull in the conversation, and Pete glanced around them. They were seated in a corner, and Jason had tipped the staff to keep the nearby tables empty. It was a slow night, and they had this end of the tavern to themselves. Pete’s expression grew serious.
“All right, Forrest. What’s the story?”
James sipped his beer.
“Look man, you know we’re here for you,” Jason said. “Just tell us what we can do.”
James leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s about OUTLOOK.”
Pete closed his eyes for a moment. “Shit. I knew it.”
Jason looked level at Forrest. “You’re not here for more tests, are you?”
“No. We’re here to hit them. They’ve got some friends of ours in there. Medical experiments, MKULTRA stuff. They’re being held against their will and no one’s going to do a damn thing about it if we don’t. OUTLOOK’s out of control.”
“Shit,” Pete said. “You don’t fuck around, do you?”
“Those guys are bad news,” James said. “You know that.”
“How you getting in?” Jason asked.
James glanced at Nancy, who leaned forward and spoke. “I know their security inside and out. We’re going over the wall with Nolan on sniper assist.”
“Then I’m looking at three corpses,” said Pete. “’Cuz there’s no way you’re gonna make it out alive. Believe me.”
“You got any better ideas?” James asked sarcastically.
Pete and Jason exchanged looks again. “We just might,” Pete said.
The three agents leaned forward, all ears.
“See, we’ve gotten active in the island’s environmental movement,” Jason began.
James roared with laughter. “You have got to be shitting me!”
“No shit, man!” Jason replied. “This place is our home now. And much as I hate to say it, the Navy’s screwing it up. All those years of shelling have polluted the water table. I don’t let my kids drink nothing that don’t come outta bottle or through a filter.”
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