Ian Slater - Darpa Alpha

Freeman was surprised by her remark. He put it down to fatigue, for wasn’t it obvious what the terrorists were going to do with it? Whatever it was DARPA had been testing at the naval base, the terrorists were sure to use it against the United States. “Damn terrorists didn’t need a navy to attack the USS Cole ,” Freeman said. “Used a rigid inflatable packed with C4.”

“And Douglas?”

“Yes?”

“The Pentagon set up DARPA at Pend Oreille, but apparently not even the Joint Chiefs were told exactly what the scientists were working on. Right now, the Pentagon’s highly pissed with the civilian scientists for not requesting full Defcon 1 security for the lake. The Pentagon says that this is what happens when you don’t insist on military oversight of DARPA contracts — that civilians, scientists, know squat about security. In all fairness, though, the base is at the end of a lake that’s used a lot for recreation and so without moving the base, ironclad security would have been impossible anyhow.”

“Don’t worry,” Freeman assured her. “I’ll try not to get in a brawl between anyone, but I’ll find out exactly what was on that disk and why they needed such deep water.”

“Whatever it is,” Eleanor cautioned him, “keep it to yourself. The Man does not want whatever it is going public. It’s bad enough a research installation was broken into.”

“Of course,” Freeman assured her. “I’ll keep it strictly within the team.”

“Godspeed, Douglas.” He could hear the worry in her tone.

When Margaret returned late from the bridal shower for Linda Rushmein’s niece, she could smell fresh coffee, but Douglas wasn’t there. There was a note:

“Margaret: On SpecFor mission. President’s orders. Will contact you ASAP. Be out of touch for a few days. If you need any further explanation, pls ring Eleanor Prenty, national security adviser, at the White House. Her # is in my Rolodex. She’ll fill you in, as far as security allows. All my love, Douglas.”

Bewildered, she dropped onto the sofa. Unlike her dearly departed sister Catherine, she was not used to coming home to find her husband having left home so abruptly. Where was he? What was he doing? How would she know when he’d call? Questions, she knew, that were being asked daily by the loved ones of thousands of U.S. servicemen and servicewomen. But for Margaret, it was far from the norm. Too far, in fact. Was this what her life was going to be like living with “retired” General Douglas Freeman? Glory be, she had thought they would sail congenially together into the golden twilight of retirement. Instead, he was gone. She knew she shouldn’t be resentful, but she was.

What could she do? She switched on the TV. If it was this DARPA thing he’d mentioned, whatever it was precisely, if it were that important, surely there’d be something on the news by now?

There wasn’t. The lead story was about a jailed Enron executive who had presumably been attacked by a fellow inmate, but all he would say was that he’d accidentally tripped, from the second floor, out a window. CNN reported the phone lines were jammed following the story by calls from people who’d been forced out of retirement by Enron’s collapse back in 2003–2004, suggesting that he should have “tripped” from the Enron tower instead. The remainder of the news consisted of the day’s wrap-ups of the opening barrages in the presidential primaries. A candidate in New Hampshire was running on a platform of getting to the root of the problem of the war on terror by “making friends with the Muslim fundamentalists.” Well, at least, Margaret thought, Douglas wasn’t home to hear that. His blood pressure was okay but it wasn’t that good.

En route to Idaho on one of the East Coast’s Hondas, Aussie Lewis’s recurring dream about a Special Forces op he’d taken part in in Iraq in 2003, near Karbala, made his sleep restless. More than once, years after the op, his wife Alexsandra had to shake him out of a troubled sleep that had been sabotaged by the same dream. Aussie, generally known for his laid-back attitude, was puzzled, both by the persistence and clarity of the dream. He’d been with a recon group assigned to help a marine corps convoy negotiate the Fedayeen minefields. During a stop to regroup the Hummers after they’d passed through a blinding sandstorm, one of the young marines, a twenty-year-old, the name on the headband of his Kevlar helmet “Wain,” had been sent out about twenty yards with his buddy to secure the convoy’s right flank. Wain saw a woman in black chador and veil running away from the remains of an artillery-gutted clay-brick house on the city’s outskirts and toward the convoy. “Qiff!” he shouted. It was the Arabic word for “Halt!” The woman kept coming, one hand frantically waving a dirty white rag, her other hand cradling a baby who could now be heard screaming as the woman, tripping and almost falling in the loose, sandy loam, continued her approach.

“Qiff!” yelled Wain again, his M-16 now shoulder high.

“Give ’er a warning burst,” shouted Wain’s buddy as the marine commander walked just ahead of the convoy for a situation report from Aussie and two other scruffy Special Forces types who were pooling their minefield intel. Aussie was now walking out from the convoy, coming up behind Wain and his marine buddy.

“ Qiff , dammit!” yelled Wain, firing a warning burst, the three rounds kicking up little puffs of dust. The woman stopped, as if only then realizing the American’s order.

The whiplike crack from behind startled Wain, who, spinning around, saw that Aussie had fired. The woman stumbled, then fell backwards, her baby spilling onto the sand.

“Jesus, man!” Wain shouted at Aussie.

“Come with me,” the dirty-faced Lewis had commanded without breaking stride. “C’mon.”

Wain had walked with him toward the body.

“You think that that’s a real baby, mate?” asked Lewis.

Wain, though marine hardened, was still in shock. He couldn’t think straight; the baby was still crying.

“Don’t worry,” Aussie had told him. “It is a real baby. But look at Mommy here. Ever see an Iraqi woman with such big feet?”

“I–I never noticed,” Wain had answered. The baby’s screaming was unnerving.

“No,” said Lewis, kicking the corpse’s shoes. “You weren’t meant to. You were supposed to be looking at the baby — and maybe at Mommy’s eyes but not her feet.” Aussie had bent down and gently pulled the veil aside. “Oh, look, Mommy’s got a beard.” He stood up. “Friggin’ Fedayeen Ba’ath Party thugs.”

Wain, his weapon’s stock in the sand, bent down to pick up the baby.

“No!” Lewis said, hauling him back by the collar.

“Shit,” Wain had objected. “They wouldn’t booby-trap a baby.” But the moment he said it he realized he was asking a question.

“How long you been in this hellhole, mate?” Aussie asked him.

“A week,” Wain had answered.

“They’ll use anything and anyone to get at us,” Aussie told him, the baby’s screaming rattling Wain further as Aussie, seemingly oblivious to the noise, felt carefully about the baby’s clothes, sniffing as he did so like a dog investigating carrion. “Some guys can smell Semtex,” he’d told Wain. “I’m one of ’em.”

“Semtex?” inquired Wain, trying to maintain his equanimity in front of this SpecFor type who was obviously an experienced warrior. The dead Iraqi was staring at the washed-out blue sky, flies already moving across his bearded chin and mouth. “Semtex. You mean C4 plastique?”

“I do,” Aussie had replied, without taking his eyes off the baby whose face by now was crimson, its arms stiff in distress. Gingerly, Aussie ran his fingers down the sides of the infant’s covered legs. “Seems okay. Ten to one Mommy’s dirty, though. That’s why he kept walking.” At this point in the dream, “Wain” could always be seen paying particular attention to Aussie’s hands which, once removed from his SpecFor combat gloves, moved with the steady, confident deftness of a pickpocket as he frisked the dead Iraqi. “A bomber,” Aussie concluded quietly, Wain noting worriedly that the baby’s face was turning purple.