“That isn’t up to me, sir,” Colonel Stock said. “Like I told you, this is the preserve of the Frank-Einsteins.”
“As I told you on the plane, sir,” Dice told Bliss, “I have been given authority by General Rapf, chair of the combined services oversight committee for Great James, to investigate recent shortcomings in security in any manner I see fit.”
“And as I informed Colonel Dice, Colonel Stock,” Bliss said, his voice a bass purr, “General Rapf will soon be relieved of his responsibility for Great James.”
“And then we can all go home,” Dice said. “I’m already looking forward to it. But until then, I have a job to do.”
“Your typical army hack,” Bliss told Stock and his daughter. “Loyal to a fault, the fault being a certain stubbornness. I bet if they told him to paint coal white, he’d give it two coats.”
Rose-of-Mary giggled dutifully.
“That’s the army way, sir,” Colonel Stock agreed.
Senator Bliss said, “Regardless of your status and your duties, Colonel Dice, this is to be a private briefing. So if you don’t mind…”
Aides took a step forward.
“I’ll need to talk to you again, so don’t leave town,” Dice told the two scientists.
He was no wiser about who had gained access to the POTA along with Chris Montori, or how they had got in, but despite Susal’s spot of crude torture, his glimpse of the big blue beast at the heart of the mystery had left him feeling both elated and oddly soothed. As he pushed between the aides toward the exit, Rose-of-Mary was saying, “Colonel, I have a vial of water from the holy river Jordan. I would greatly appreciate it if your scientists would study its effect on that monstrous thing…”
Lieutenant Shane was waiting outside the entrance to the brig like a fan hoping for a glimpse of her idol, her face lighting up when Dice climbed out of the Jeep.
“Sergeant Haines will let you know if anyone is in need of you,” Dice told her.
“I was hoping that we could have a private conference, Colonel.”
She’d undone the top three buttons of her fatigues and was suddenly standing too close. She was wearing one of Rose-of-Mary’s silver virginity armbands, perhaps ironically. Dice remembered the thirteen-year-old younger sister of one of his school buddies who’d started sending him scent-doused billets-douxs during his first semester at college, and took pity on the woman.
“Stand easy, Lieutenant,” he told her. “Until I’ve determined there’s a crime, you don’t have any client.”
Fortunately, Lieutenant Shane didn’t try to follow him into the cell block. The three suspects had been locked in adjoining cells. Dice studied them through the spyholes and turned to Haines.
“Walter Garrett is our man. Turn the other two loose, tell Garrett I’ll talk to him in the morning, and keep him under observation.”
“If that’s what you want, sir.”
Haines was sulking.
“How long have you been in the military police, Sergeant?”
“I’m not in the police, sir. As I told you, I was assigned the position by Colonel Stock after Captain Mac got a full-blown case of Island Fever.”
“What did you do before that?”
“I worked in Colonel Stock’s office, sir. I can type using all ten fingers.”
Dice felt suddenly off balance, realizing that he’d made what could have been a fatal assumption about Haines. From now on, he was going to have to question everything. And he was also going to have to confront Colonel Stanley Stock sooner rather than later.
He said, “I guess your stint in the typing pool didn’t teach you the difference between a guilty and an innocent man. You put one of each in a cell and leave them, the innocent man frets about what might happen, but the guilty man goes to sleep. See, as far as the guilty man is concerned, the worst has already happened. He’s already done the crime, now he’s been brought in because of it. How can things get any worse? So, nothing else to do, he goes to sleep…like Private Walter Garrett.”
Haines smiled. “You know, sir, I had my suspicions about Garrett.”
“Because he’s a bunky of Montori.”
“No, sir. Because he’s from New Orleans.”
“City of jazz and voodoo. No, they don’t call it that there, do they? They call it hoodoo. Wake Garrett up and tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow. He’ll probably squeal for a lawyer. If he does, give him Shane. There’s nothing she can do for him that will affect my interrogation. Talking of Shane, is there a back way out of this place? I have the feeling that when she sees me again she’s liable to try something foolish.”
Dice, thirty-six hours in transit and several time zones away from where he felt he should be, was running on nerves and army coffee. Worried that he might slip up again, he planned to catch some sleep and roust Private Garrett in the wee small hours. Have an intense little conversation with him, then talk to Colonel Stock. What else? Jesus, talk to Captain McAndrews’s doctors. And try to talk to McAndrews, too; a dollar to a doughnut, his Island Fever wasn’t genuine.
First, a short, refreshing catnap. But when Dice reached his chill little room, he discovered a handwritten note propped on top of the drum-tight blanket of his cot. In a neat, slanting hand it read:
Colonel Stanley X. Stock requests the pleasure of the company of Colonel Franklin Clay Dice at a reception and dinner in honor of Senator Jubilee and Rose-of-Mary Bliss. Officers’ Mess, 6 for 6:30. PS. Please be prompt. PPS. Sidearms to be surrendered at the door.
Dice groaned. It was six ten. He didn’t even have enough time for a cup of coffee.
In the officers’ mess, a single long table had been laid with white linen, sparkling crystal and silverware, and arrangements of orchids and ferns that must have flown in on the same plane as Dice. Or perhaps there was a garden hidden somewhere on the island. After only a few hours here, he was beginning to believe anything was possible.
He was seated at the other end of the long table from Colonel Stock and the Bliss Pack. It suited him just fine. He was too tired for small talk, and on the final part of his long journey he’d heard enough from Jubilee Bliss to last him the rest of his life. From the snatches he could hear now, Bliss was still giving Colonel Stock the full benefit of his views about the commercial potential of the POTAs—he was campaigning to privatize the base, bring in civilian research-and-development staff from his brother-in-law’s aerospace company, expose them to the POTAs, and exploit the hell out of the products of their Island Fever dreams. It would be, he’d told Dice several times during the flight, a Factory of Ideas where the Future Would Be Forged.
To judge by his grim little smile and stiff nods, Colonel Stock appeared to like Bliss’s ideas about the commercial potential of the POTAs as much as Dice had.
At last, Bliss rose and at some length thanked the Good Lord for the bounty they were about to receive. Dice was afraid his daughter would get up and sing, but they were spared that. Rose-of-Mary’s girl-rock gospel songs tended to revisit and revise Bible stories—she once told Oprah that if the woman caught in adultery had instead been caught coming out of an abortion clinic, Jesus would have cast the first stone Himself. What made it worse was that she had a bell-clear, water-stirring voice and set editorial messages fresh from Klan bed-sheets to tunes that infected the mind for weeks, like a bad case of brain flu.
Privates with starched white aprons over their pressed fatigues spooned chowder into the bowls of the diners. Dice had just taken his first mouthful when someone slipped into the empty seat to his right. It was the Brit, complete with watch cap, tattered uniform, wild beard, and funky jungle-survivor odor.
“WC Peter Redcliffe Brown, at your service, sah!” he stage-whispered. “WC, that’s Wing Commander, not Water Closet. Wing Co Brown, RAF. RAF as in Royal Air Force, not raff as associated with riff. Some advice, man-to-man. I wouldn’t touch the soup.”
Dice thought of the radioactive coconuts. “Is it made from local fish?”
“Spiced w
ith urine, sah! The good colonel’s men tend to express their disapproval at their posting in, hem hem, basic fashion.”
Dice set down his spoon. “Stock is that popular, huh?”
“These, on the other hand, are absolutely delicious.” Wing Co Brown plucked an orchid from an arrangement, bit it in half, and said around the mouthful, “You’re not wearing your hat.”
“I’m not a hat kind of guy.”
“Think of your brainbox, old chum. Defenseless against the polluting onslaught of the evil blue peril…I hear on the old grapevine that you’ve met our Madonna of the pits, Queen of the POTAs. What do you think of her? Did she tell you anything interesting?”
“That’s classified, Wing Commander.”
Brown popped the rest of the orchid into his mouth and chewed with noisy relish. “And what about Susal and Wing? Who do you think is nuttier? Susal puts on quite a minstrel show, but when it comes to craziness I think Wing may have the edge.”
He smiled when Dice looked at him, showing snaggled teeth stained with purple plant juice.
Dice said, “I’m trying to work out if either of them is screwier than you. What do you think?”
“I think you should wear your hat.”
“I think you and me should have a discreet talk.”
Brown shot to his feet and said loudly, “You should remember that I’m an officer and a gentleman, sah! I serve Queen and Country, sah, and will never never never kowtow to some colonial upstart!” He thrust his face toward Dice and added in a whisper, “I wouldn’t touch the rest of the nosh, either. You don’t have to be mad to work here, but if you don’t start wearing that hat, you will be!”
Sergeant Haines came into the mess just as Wing Commander Brown was leaving, the two men tangling in a brief and awkward waltz. After Haines managed to disentangle himself, he crossed the room, face a study of mortification, and requested a private word.
It was a good point to leave. At the other end of the table, Rose-of-Mary was asking an officer—Dice realized he was the base padre—if she could lead a special service to give thanks for the incarceration of the POTAs and to ask God to lay bare their mysteries.
“With His help, we will discover their evil empire and mount a crusade against it. Isn’t that right, Daddy?”
“Absolutely, my dear. And from that victory we’ll forge miraculous new technologies that will help America bring an age of peace and prosperity to the whole world.”
“Christian age of peace and harmony,” his daughter said.
Dice wondered whether Rose-of-Mary had been allowed to try out her own brand of voodoo on the POTA in Pit Three. She was a much scarier proposition than her dear daddy.
Bliss’s motivation for exploiting the POTAs was no more than the usual greed for power and riches that infected most people on Capitol Hill, but Rose-of-Mary had a Joan-of-Arc fixation, and was clearly ready to destroy the whole world if it failed to live up to her own ideals.
Once they were outside, Haines told Dice, “We’re a prisoner down.”
Dice thought of Chris Montori’s knitting needles and said, “Suicide?”
“Much worse than that, sir. Jailbreak.”
As they drove toward the brig, Haines explained that Walter Garrett had requested an interview with his lawyer. When Private Garrett and Lieutenant Shane had been left alone, the private had overpowered her, gagged her with her panties, and tied her wrists with her bra.
Dice said, “Why wasn’t he cuffed?”
“He was, sir. To the table of the interview room.”
“He overpowered her with just one hand?”
“Yes, sir. Then he used wire from her bra to unpick the cuff, knocked on the door, squirted her perfume in the eye of the MP who opened it, and made his escape.”
“Did he take the MP’s sidearm?”
“No, sir. Sir, I am willing to tender my resignation…”
“You’ll have to talk to Colonel Stock about that, Sergeant, but I doubt that he’ll allow you to get out of your new job so easily. What about Montori?”
“Still in her cell. Knitting what might be a hat. Four hundred and fifty-eight stitches when I saw her.”
Dice tried to work out the angles of this latest development, but his jet lag seemed to be getting worse. His thoughts kept sliding away from one another. Beyond a range of flat-topped bunkers, across a blazing expanse of ocean, beneath thin bands of pink and orange cloud, the last sliver of the sun slipped below the horizon. A brief flash of green light embraced half the world, and off around the long curve of the conjoined islets a giant cross appeared, a phantom of golden light that had to be more than three hundred feet high, slowly rotating, the crucified figure blinking on and off.
It wasn’t Jesus Christ up there. It was the three blue spheres of a POTA.
Dice laughed, remembering an urban myth about a Japanese store display that celebrated Christmas with a crucified Santa.
Haines said, “Lieutenant Glass’s work, sir. He lashed it up from a flash memory card, some broken glass, the laser from a CD player, and a couple of Duracell batteries.”
“The sunset was prettier. How’s the book, by the way? Where are you at?”
“Page one forty-one line eight, sir.”
“James Lee Burke is good on sunsets, isn’t he?”
“All kinds of weather, sir.”
There was a cautious note in Haines’s voice.
“A New Orleans writer, I believe.”
“Are you a fan, sir?”
“I’m not much of a reader of mysteries. They’re too much like my work, and they unhelpfully raise your expectations. At the end, they all make sense.”
Lieutenant Shane was waiting for them in the brig’s office. She jumped up and flung herself at Dice, wrapping her arms around his neck and curling one leg up around his thigh. He registered that she definitely wasn’t wearing a bra, and told Haines to give him and the lieutenant a few minutes. Haines discreetly withdrew and Shane burbled into Dice’s neck about the horror of her experience, how frightened she’d been, how glad she was to see him…When she had run down, was simply breathing hot and heavy in his ear, he gently disengaged her and pushed her back at arm’s length, met her swoony gaze.
“Just one question,” he said.
“Anything.”
“I think you’d better give me the handcuff key.”
Shane went for Dice with nails and teeth, trying to knee him in the groin and snatch his Beretta. But he was braced for her attack, and caught one of her wrists, flipped her around, dumped her in a typist’s chair, and cuffed her right wrist to the backrest.
She glared at him, puffed a strand of hair from her eyes.
He gave her his best smile. “Ever been to New Orleans, Lieutenant?”
“I want a lawyer,” she said, suddenly serious.
“I’m sure you can see the problem there. One of those who-watches-the-watchmen, who-shaves-the-barber things. You are the lawyer, so when you need a lawyer, we have to send out.”
“You’ll get nothin’ from me, coppa!” she said, snarling like Cagney, and ripped off her silver armband and snapped it at him like a whip.
Haines came into the room, a couple of MPs at his back and—uh-oh—Colonel Stock behind the MPs, leaning in the doorway and staring at Dice with a cold smile.
“He raped me,” said Lieutenant Shane, holding up her ruined armband. “The bastard.”
“Sergeant Haines,” said Dice. “Fetch the base doctor immediately to administer the proper tests and evidentiary swabs.”
“He tried to rape me,” revised Shane and sat back, artfully arranging her torn uniform, showing off her recent bruises. Haines looked at Stock and Stock smiled at Dice, who only now noticed the nail marks on his hands.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, exasperated.
Stock moved in for the kill, his voice calm and controlled and as cold as his smile. “Colonel Dice, you’re under arrest. Surrender your sidearm to Sergeant Haines.”
This was a good deal older than the Flavors Lock, and probably as difficult to escape from. Dice pulled his gun and put it on the table.
“Please yourself.”
Haines took it. One MP uncuffed Lieutenant Shane; the other moved toward Dice, bracelets at the ready.
Dice ignored him and told Stock, “I’ll come quietly.”
The MP paused. Colonel Stock nodded and said, “Take the rapist son of a bitch to the cells.”
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Colonel darlin’,” Lieutenant Shane twinkled. “I’d offer my services as a lawyer but, la-di-da, conflict of interest.”
Dice tried to think of a devastating retort but came up empty. He was suddenly so goddamn tired—shock, jet lag—that a spell in a nice quiet, cozy cell seemed welcoming. He let Haines and the MPs walk him down the corridor, through the barred door to the cell block. Two new guards were on duty outside Montori’s cell. The chalk design had spread to the ceiling.
As one of the MPs unlocked the door of the cell opposite Montori’s, Dice said, “Was this Stock’s idea or the senator’s? Or maybe doctors Wing and Susal set this up.”
“A serious charge has been brought,” Haines said stiffly. “It is my duty to see things done by the book. After what recently happened, we can’t be seen to get sloppy about this sort of business. I’m sure you understand.”
One of the MPs asked him for his belt, tie, and bootlaces, and Dice held out his arms as the man stripped him of possible aids to suicide, looking at Haines, saying, “Couldn’t I have knitting needles? I’ll let you count the stitches.”
Haines’s lips twitched, and a tiny giggle escaped.
“Good night, sir.”
The cell was only a little smaller than his room back in the officers’ quarters, and every bit as cold. The door slammed shut. The lock thumped.
The cot seemed child-size. When Dice put his head on the pillow, his knees dangled over the end, and he realized he hadn’t taken off his boots. He sat up, trying to reach his feet, then fell back, dazed. He was starved, too, and his last thought before unconsciousness was that he should have had more than a spoonful of soup for dinner—an orchid would have made a nice amuse-bouche.
The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy Page 37