Paul Theroux - O-Zone

That was a fleeting thought over Indiana, but the rest of the time it seemed to Hardy that nothing had changed at all.

Toward the end of the week, Sluter said, "How do we know the kid got out of the Red Zone? We don't have any corroboration. That message doesn't prove anything — he could have sent it from O-Zone or anywhere, if he's such a brain. I think we're wasting our time. We should go to the Red Zone Perimeter and make inquiries."

"Fizzy specifically said not to alert Red Zone Rescue," Hardy said. "We should try Missouri State Security or the local police."

"The security people in the Red Zone will know if someone broke through," Sluter said. "We don't have to mention names."

"Do you have a right to go there?"

"Godseye! Snake-Eaters!"

They could seem clumsy and unsure of themselves, and rather dangerous because of that; but it was when they were arrogant and flashing their weapons that Hardy remembered just now dangerous they were, and that Godseye — in spite of all its pretensions about justice and brotherhood — was a death squad.

They lumbered around for most of the day in the gunship, looking for a fuel depot. By the time they found one and set off for the Red Zone it was growing dark. They put down and secured themselves for the night, and they grumbled: they were running low on air, food, and water, and so the next day they made that their excuse to stop where they did.

"You can keep Winslow and Booneville and Cincinnati," Sluter said, gloating at the ground-screen. "Just give me garrisons like this. The command post of the Red Zone Perimeter!"

"It used to be called Winterton," Meesle said, "Before the shit-storm."

It was a Federal flight garrison at the edge of the defoliated ribbon of land that ran around O-Zone. Hardy thought of it as a glorified sentry post, but the Godseye troopers were clearly impressed with the technology and the fortresslike aspect of the garrison that gave it a forbidding appearance. It was a control center and its purpose was to prevent anyone from crossing the red line and entering O-Zone. That anyone might want to leave O-Zone was unthinkable, since officially no one lived in O-Zone — too dangerous. That's what Hardy had thought until very recently. Now he knew that Fizzy had been kidnapped there by aliens who had probably been dumped into O-Zone by one of the Godseye squads.

"You're responsible for Fizzy's abduction," said Hardy. "Your people put those aliens in O-Zone."

"What was this kid doing in a Prohibited Area?" Meesle said, and laughter rang in his helmet as Hardy turned away.

They were making their final approach to the garrison.

"Just don't mention Fizzy by name," Hardy said.

It was always said that Godseye, and organizations like it — paramilitary groups, security patrols, task forces — were partly funded by the Federal government. That was what Hardy had heard. This landing was like proof of it: the control tower immediately granted permission for the gunship to land, and when they were on the ground they were given access to the provision warehouse. Two Red Zone commandos went aboard the gunship on the pretext of examining the flight recorder and logbook, but they hardly seemed to care about that. Their real interest was in the Godseye weapons and search system.

"You sure are ready for action!" one commando said, looking at the Godseye troopers.

The troopers wore helmets and masks and their sturdiest suits. They had tough ground boots over the liners they tramped around in on board. They wore their weapons, and communicated through headsets.

"Lovely boots, too!"

Hardy wondered whether any of the Godseye crew would give the real reason for wearing battle gear: the smell on board the gunship.

"We're on a mission," Sluter said.

Murdick described the features of his suit and the holding and traction capabilities of his boots, and then he took out his weapons and showed them off. The commandos were so eager to see the particle beam in action they escorted their visitors to the garrison firing range to try it out. Even on a low charge it melted the steel target frame and turned a bag of sand into a pillow of solid glass.

"It shoots around corners," Murdick said eagerly.

"I wish we'd had this a week ago," one of the commandos said. "Hey, why do you private task forces have the best weapons!"

"What would you have done with that weapon a week ago?" Meesle asked.

"We had an incident."

Hardy said, "You mean someone penetrated the perimeter?"

"Suspected violation."

Sluter said, "Aliens?"

"Absolutely. But they had high tech." The commando was still holding Murdick's weapon. "This would have taken care of them."

Hardy said, "Was anyone killed?"

"That's classified."

"Have you issued a description of the violators?"

"You don't know what an alien looks like?"

"How can we help?" Sluter asked.

"Look for aliens," the commando said. "And shoot on sight."

It was remarkable how just that short conversation with the commandos at the Red Zone had bucked up the Godseye troopers. Hardy noticed a new resolve in the men and a determination and a sense of mission that had not existed even at the beginning. They started to call themselves by their nickname "Snake-Eaters" and they resumed their mutters of "I don't like the look of this."

But this new spirit in the mission worried Hardy. He saw them firing at anything that moved, shooting on sight, as the chummy vengeful commando had suggested. He feared that Godseye was a greater risk to Fizzy than the aliens, but how was it possible to neutralize them?

"I have an idea," Hardy said, after they were back in the air. "We head for Winslow. That's our best hope. We've got the exact coordinates."

"The kid wasn't there when we looked," Meesle said.

"We should stay there and await further orders," Hardy said, believing that they were likely to do less damage on the ground.

"Orders!" Sluter said. "From a kid!"

"Wait till you see this kid," Murdick said.

They all laughed, except Hardy. He had become convinced of Fizzy's versatility, and he was now ashamed of the many times in the past when he had complained about the boy. Fizzy was special — there was no doubt of that; and Hardy wanted him back.

"We'll look at Winslow," Sluter said. "It's not far."

But he took the gunship to a high altitude so that they could drop quickly into the farm complex without being seen or heard.

"There's lights," someone muttered. "There's a rotor down there!"

They were examining the ground-screen, the blip on the scanner — there was definitely a hot spot near those buildings.

Murdick said, "Where would he have picked up a rotor?"

"That wouldn't be too difficult for Fizzy," Hardy said. His mind was still on the boy's excellence.

"Except he can't fly."

Meesle was crowding the ground-screen and saying, "They're in the house. I'd like to drop a wipeout on them."

They cut the engines and drifted down silently, landing three clicks from the farm. Too far, Murdick said: they'd have to walk in the darkness, wearing their heavy battle gear — helmets, masks, armored suits, ribbed-sole boots, and two weapons apiece.

"This is ridiculous," Murdick said.

Their labored breathing came over the headphones, and soon they did not have the wind to complain. Hardy saw them in the starlight, and sometimes trudging against the sky. They were like big swollen dolls, with thick soft bodies and bulbous heads. They groaned and stumbled, cursing each other, blaming Fizzy, becoming grumpier. They were walking across the margin of a cornfield, past the papery flutter of the leaves. Hardy hoped they would not be seen by any of the local people — these leathery-faced farmers in dungarees would surely mistake them for the vanguard of an invasion from space, and they might be quicker with their old irons than Godseye with their beams.