Radecker wasn’t finished. He instituted an insidious new paperwork regime. Crate after crate of new equipment had begun to arrive for work on the retrofitting project. Under the new system, every piece of every shipment had to be cataloged in triplicate before it could be used. This meant separate forms to fill out for each bolt, each O-ring, each spool of wire. Then there was another piece of administrative sadism—the daily work proposal. The first hour of every morning was spent filling in these tedious forms.
Things improved slightly over the next two weeks. Cibatutto rigged up a discarded telex machine to help them get around some of the new paperwork, and Dworkin introduced a new card game—bridge—which the old men quickly mastered. One Friday night, Radecker came into the kitchen and found them playing a rowdy game of cards while Okun watched. Just when the wounds Okun had caused began to heal, Radecker tore them open again. He realized Okun had gotten away with humiliating him without suffering a scratch. Something must have snapped, because the next day he dug his claws into Okun the only way he knew how. If he couldn’t punish the boy genius directly, he would hit below the belt. He had Freiling sent to a nearby Air Force base for psychological testing to determine if he was mentally fit to continue working at the highly classified labs. Freiling returned shaken and confused. The shrinks had ganged up on him, he said, deliberately done things to confuse him. The old man was terrified at the prospect of being sent to a retirement home-prison like the one Okun had described in San Mateo.
The whole group of them marched off immediately to Radecker’s office, but he wouldn’t talk to them. “I thought we had a deal, Mr. Radecker,” Dworkin called as politely as he could through the closed door.
“Don’t talk to me about it; go ask Okun. And think about this the next time one of you decides to cross me.” They spent the rest of that Saturday taking care of Freiling, assuring him they wouldn’t let him be sent away. When he finally relaxed and fell asleep, it was late at night.
Okun came into the kitchen and found Dworkin sitting there in the dark.
“What’s goin’ on, can’t sleep?”
“A case of indigestion,” Dworkin said. When Okun switched on a light, he saw a glass of water and a bottle of pills on the table. “It’s probably just heartburn caused by a stressful day.”
“You sure you’re all right? Should we call somebody?”
The old man laughed. It wasn’t that serious. He invited Okun to sit down, and asked him about his visit with Wells. He wanted to know all about the place he was being held and what he had said. After listening for a while, he asked Okun for his opinion. “Do you think he’s right? Are we criminals for not telling the world?”
“Maybe. Especially when you look around here and consider the kind of manpower the government is devoting to this research. There ought to be hundreds of people down here, and what have we got? Four men over seventy years old and one doofus who doesn’t even have a Ph.D. They aren’t taking this project seriously at all. I think Wells is right about one thing. We need to get lots of people working on this. If word got out, people would have to take it seriously and band together to get ready.”
“Possibly,” Dworkin mused, “but I’m not convinced people would band together. I think it more likely that society would disintegrate. The way you reacted to learning about the ship and seeing the alien bodies was far from typical. When people really begin to believe we are facing annihilation, as Wells does, they tend to withdraw into themselves. I can imagine groups of frightened people abandoning their normal lives and retreating deeper into private misery, or forming private armies and taking to the hills. But that’s all speculation,” he said, finishing off his glass of water, “and it begs the question, because people are not going to be told. Even if one of us succeeded in putting ourselves on the evening news and telling the whole thing, no one would believe us. You know what happened at Roswell. They’re quite skilled at making intelligent persons seem crazy.”
“So what’s the answer? Just continue going through the motions down here?”
Dworkin stared into his empty glass for a few moments. “I’ve spent most of my adult life in these rooms, and I’m not sure I have anything to show for it. I was married, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that. Any kids?”
“No, thank heavens. But if there had been, I still would have left them. Dr. Wells and I had our differences over the years, but we always agreed the work being done here was important enough to justify our personal sacrifices. The work has been everything, and now I’m afraid it’s over.”
Okun knew what he must be talking about. “Because you’re getting too old?”
“Precisely. It’s been a few years since we’ve lost anyone, and I’ve allowed myself to forget what it feels like. If he sends Dr. Freiling away, we’ll be reduced to four. Soon we’ll all be gone, and I worry about what will happen then. I don’t know if you are prepared to carry on here by yourself.”
They let that idea hover in the air for a while. Brackish considered the possibility of following in Dworkin’s footsteps, trading in all his possible futures for the lonely life of a lab rat. He thought briefly of Brinelle, her gangly limbs and wide smile. He knew he’d probably never see her again, but for the moment he let her represent everyone he might meet. Did keeping the labs open mean he would never again have a crush on a girl? Or decide at the last minute to go catch a movie with some friends?
“If these creatures ever did turn hostile,” Dworkin pointed out, “you may be the only person in the world who could have us prepared. So far your sponsors in Washington, whoever they are, have denied you nothing. It might be time to petition them for some new personnel. I doubt whether we old fellows are going to be around here much longer.”
Okun waved him off. “It’s nothing we have to decide tonight. I’ve still got three years on my contract, and you four guys are going to outlive me by a decade. Now, come on, you should try to get some sleep.”
“You’re right.” He sighed. “I’m feeling awfully tired.”
*
In the morning, Dworkin didn’t join them at breakfast. When they went in to check on him, they discovered he’d died in his sleep. One day after learning that Freiling’s neck was on the chopping block, they had lost their leader. While Cibatutto got on the phone and began making burial arrangements, the others retreated to their rooms and their personal despair.
“Six down and three to go,” Lenel whispered as the minister delivered a brief eulogy over the body. The ceremony was the same one given to the men who had died before Okun arrived. It was all part of a package plan offered to them through their bank. Parducci Mortuary offered embalming, makeup, coffin, a catered open-casket viewing period, transportation to the cemetery, flowers, and interment services all for one low price. The only thing not included was a police escort to the cemetery. The Parducci family was not friendly with the police. When the minister was finished, he announced there would be a few minutes for those assembled to wish Dr. Dworkin their final farewells. There were more people in attendance than Okun had expected. Two of Dworkin’s sisters were there and brought their families with them. There were four or five scientists who had worked with him earlier in his career, Ellsworth, accompanied by two other officers, and Dr. Insolo of the Science and Technology Directorate. Everyone formed a line and filed past the open casket, pausing to say a few words or lay a flower on Dworkin’s chest. When Okun approached the pine box, he hardly recognized the figure inside. The cheeks were too rosy and the hair was fluffed up in a way Dworkin had never worn it. When someone behind him uttered the word “lifelike,” Brackish felt his heart drop halfway to his knees and quickly headed outside to get some air.
He dumped himself onto a bench next to the chauffeur of the hearse, who was reading a newspaper. “How’s it going in there?”
“Tough. Very tough.” Okun’s voice broke.
“Were you related?”
“Kinda.”
The man nodded as if he
knew what that meant. The two of them sat there for a few minutes watching the traffic on the street until the driver returned to his reading. Okun was thinking about what Dworkin had said about not knowing if he was prepared to continue the work. He felt a sudden urge to run away, to disappear into the city and hide, to start a normal life like the one the man next to him had. He turned to ask a question, but something caught his eye before he could. A headline on the newspaper read “Chihuahua Quake Darkens Parts of Texas” and then in smaller print, “Electromagnetic Mystery Hampers Construction Efforts.” He leaned in closer and started reading the story off the back of the man’s paper. The farther down the page he read, the more he nodded. At the end of the column, it said “continued on A6.”
Under the watchful gaze of a security agent posted in the parking lot, Brackish went to the van and retrieved his journal notebook. He quickly looked over the notes he’d made after his conversation with Wells. ‘This is it, this is the real enchilada,” he said to himself. He strode back to the ceremony. As he passed the chauffeur he snagged the paper out of the surprised man’s hands and carried it inside.
The three older scientists were gathered around the open casket, solemnly conversing with their deceased friend. Okun joined them, thwacking down the newspaper on the coffin so he could straighten it out. “You guys,” he said in an excited whisper, “I found it. It’s in Mexico.”
Bad manners were one thing, but this was flagrant boorishness.
“Brackish, this is neither the time nor the place,” Freiling pointed out.
“He’s right,” Cibatutto growled. “For Sam’s sake.”
Okun looked them in the eyes. “Sam told me that he always sacrificed his personal happiness for the sake of the work, and I’m sure he’d want me to read you what’s in this article right this second.”
Somewhat reluctantly, they made room for him and he stepped up to his place at the head of the coffin, where he kept the paper low and read in a whisper.
“A massive earthquake measuring 8.2 on the Richter scale rumbled through the desert state of Chihuahua earlier this week, destroying villages, damaging highways, and toppling dozens of high-voltage power poles that bring electricity to the state as well as the Texas towns of Sierra Blanca and Van Horn.”
“Get to the point.”
He skipped down the column.
“… but attempts to run power through the Nuevo Casas Grandes area have been delayed by severe damage to local roads and the inability to use radio or phones in the area. Indeed, nearly all electrical devices brought to the region known to locals as La Zona del Silencio, or the Silent Zone, experience some sort of disruption.
“‘It’s been this way for a long time,’ said Octavio Juan Marquez, a spokesman for the power company. ‘Our radios don’t work in some of the hills out there. We get a lot of static in some areas, and in others they die out completely. The local people say it’s caused by the chupacabras, furry animals that hunt little children at night,’ he said with a laugh.
“But for residents of the mud-and-thatch villages that surround the area, it is no laughing matter. Speaking through an interpreter, an Indian woman who lives in the area said, ‘What makes it so scary out there is how quiet it is. No plants grow out there anymore, and animals don’t go there, not even insects. That’s why people say the chupacabra live out there.’
“The untraceable atmospheric disturbances have baffled experts since they began in July of 1947. U.S. troops stationed farther south in the town of Guerrero conducted an extensive geological survey of the area during the early 1950s, attributing the phenomenon to the huge amounts of iron ore found in the ground.”
As Okun turned to page A6, he glanced up long enough to see that the scientists realized he was onto something. Any lingering doubts any of them might have had were erased forever when Okun turned the page. There was a small photo of construction crews working on the downed power lines. A long line of giant power poles stretched away into the distance, each one of them shaped like a giant Y.
As far as Okun was concerned, there was no need to read any further. He looked around at his fellow scientists with a look that said, You know what we have to do now.
The four men stepped outside and Okun ran through his theory on how the whole thing worked. “OK. We were right. There was another ship flying with the one at Roswell. They were scouting around or whatever when the missile was fired from Polynesia. The blur that moved across the radar screens before the rocket exploded must have been yet another ship. Maybe that ship was hit, or sent out a retreat signal or perhaps—I haven’t figured that part out yet. But we do know the Roswell ship took off north and another ship flew south. The Army thought it crashed near Guerrero, and they invaded Mexico looking for it, but they were too far south. The Y must have been a signal from the downed ship.”
“Then why didn’t that third ship on the radar screen come and pick them up?” Freiling asked, starting to get it.
“The wires overhead?” Lenel ventured. “Maybe the field of EM waves blocked their signal.”
Four heads nodded.
“But that means,” Cibatutto pointed out, “during their next visit, if the aliens visit again anytime soon, they will be able to receive the signal. It’s probably still being sent if we picked it up last year.
“When’s the next time we’ll get a window of Van Allen activity?”
Cibatutto pulled out a pen and did a few calculations on the newspaper. “Mamma mia. Dio de cane!”
“Translation, please.”
“Three days. The inner belt’s energy peaks in three days.”
Okun, unconsciously fingering the ankh-shaped figurine on his necklace, looked around the group. Trying his best to sound like Dworkin, he said, “Gentlemen, we find ourselves in a rather dramatic predicament. If we return to Area 51 after the funeral, we have little or no hope of finding the second ship before our alien visitors do.”
*
With the ceremony over and Dworkin’s coffin loaded in the hearse, people began getting into cars for the trip to the cemetery. Radecker walked to the front of the line of parked cars, expecting to ride in the hearse. “Have some decency, man,” Lenel snarled at him when he touched the door handle. “You helped put the man in his grave. Let him take this final ride in dignity with his friends.”
The two men traded icy stares until Radecker went farther back and climbed into the van. Lenel opened the passenger side door and wondered how he was going to get inside the vehicle. Okun, Freiling, and Cibatutto were already scrunched in tight next to the driver.
“No, absolutely not,” the chauffeur said. “We can’t have anyone else ride in here. I’ll get a ticket.” But the scientists, some of the Strip’s most experienced con men, could be very persuasive. The driver quickly changed his mind and signaled for Lenel to climb in. With some difficulty, he climbed onto Okun’s lap, and the procession pulled out of the driveway and headed south along famous Las Vegas Boulevard. Before they’d gotten to the first stoplight, Freiling began chattering about the door.
“Did anybody cheek the back door? It wasn’t closed all the way. When we get to the next light I’m going to get out and check it. The last thing we need is for poor old Sam Dworkin to roll out the back door and spill all over the Strip.”
“Don’t worry, sir, the door is closed.”
“You’re awfully kind to say so, and I know you mean well,” Freiling doddered, “and I’m sure you’re very good at your job, but at the next light, I’ll just step out quickly and check.”
It only took three stoplights for Freiling to annoy the man so thoroughly that he screamed, “All right already, I’ll check the darn door.” He got out and stormed to the rear of the hearse, opened the door, and yelled to the passengers in the front seat, “Like I said, the door was closed. Now I am going to close the door again and make sure it is securely sealed.”
But before he could execute his plan, Freiling had slid himself into the driver’s seat and stomped
down on the accelerator pedal. The tires screamed as the vehicle peeled out into the cross traffic moving through the intersection. The sudden momentum caused the coffin to slide out the back and crash, right side up, onto the roadway. Thanks to blind luck and the quick reactions of several drivers, the hearse bolted through the intersection untouched.
While his passengers held on tight, Freiling, who hadn’t driven anything in over twenty years, pushed the Cadillac engine up to seventy miles per hour while Dworkin did his part by holding Radecker and the rest of the procession at bay.
Running over traffic islands, scattering pedestrians, and ignoring his passengers’ pleas for him to slow down, trailing pointed the nose of the machine at the center of the road and roared straight through town. They were headed for the Tropicana, but their driver was so focused on weaving through traffic he didn’t see it until it was nearly too late. What, here already? he asked himself, and pulled the wheel hard to the right, steering toward what looked like a driveway. While several nearby cars swerved, skidded, and crashed into one another, Freiling ran the hearse onto a curb, blowing out the two front tires. Undaunted, he plowed through some of the landscaping, over another curb, and up to the Tropicana’s front doors. While dumb-pounded valets looked on, the three elderly fugitives, assisted by their younger accomplice, jogged through the front doors.
It wasn’t long before Radecker pulled up, but long enough for the old cardsharps, who knew the building well, to make themselves hard to find. Half an hour after they’d disappeared through the front doors, he had forty men scouring the building in a door-to-door search. And just in case they’d somehow managed to slip out, he called in the sheriff’s office and the Highway Patrol to set up a perimeter around the entire city. They were searching every car headed out of town. Radecker asked himself where the old men would go if they had already fled the building and, to his credit, he guessed right. He jumped in the van and tore down the street. A short distance later, he parked the car on the street outside Parducci Savings and ran inside.
Independence Day: Silent Zone Page 16