The Stickmen (13 page)

“Shit,” Garrett sputtered, lighting another
cigarette. “Well, looks like we’re never going to know what he
looks like, but at least we know who he is now.”

“So what’s the big deal with him anyway?”
Lynn inquired.

“His name’s John Sanders,” Garrett began.
“He was a field operative for the Army’s Counter-Intelligence
Corp—among other things, an assassin. This guy was pulling jobs all
over the world—stuff even the CIA wouldn’t sanction. Laos, Burma,
Guatemala. In 1970, this guy went deep cover all the way up to Dong
Hoi in North Vietnam, staked out a command post for a week, barely
moving a muscle, and assassinated Ho Chi Minh’s
second-highest-ranking ground-forces commander. In ‘72 he
car-bombed the East German MfS liaison for KGB’s Joint Reports and
Research Unit. Sanders was the guy next in line to try to kill
Castro before the NSC threw in the towel.”

“That stuff was ages ago,” Lynn pointed out.
“The guy’s got to be pretty old by now.”

“His D.O.B.’s redacted too, but based on the
mission dates in some of these files, he’s probably in his
late-fifties. He may be the most successful assassin the good old
U.S. of A. has ever produced, and he’s obviously not over-the-hill
yet because he’s already scratched two people just this week.”

“All right,” Lynn said. “Go on.”

“When CIC was disbanded by the Carter
Administration, Sanders flew the coop, to work on his own. He was a
hire-out, or a “K” as your people call it. Now he’s killing again,
and it all relates to the Nellis Crash. It all has something to do
with the Edgewood Arsenal. Someone stole an old defensive nuclear
device from Edgewood last week, and for some reason that theft was
a warning sign to—”

“General Norton Swenson, the same man who
slapped you with the bad conduct discharge from the Air Force.”

Garrett nodded. “That’s right. He ran the
Air Force Aerial Intelligence Command for nearly thirty years. He
reported directly to the President about any sighting or crash that
was deemed to be authentic. And there are some other people who fit
into the mix.

A former FBI agent named Urslig, a former
Army officer named Farrell who used to work with the Judge Advocate
General’s office and went on to be an influential federal judge.
Both Urslig and Farrell have been murdered within the past few
days. Those names were on a list in the suitcase.”

“And you’re sure this runaway spook named
Sanders made the hits?”

“Of course. That’s the sole reason Swenson
warned me about him.”

Lynn frowned sharply when she took another
look at Garrett’s computer screen. “Harlan, how on earth did you
get access to these databanks? This is super-sensitive stuff.”

“Let’s just say a little bird gave me the
passwords.” Garrett smiled cunningly. “This is incredible, Lynn. I
can get into
anything
with these. DOD, Justice, CIA, and
every classified data warehouse in the military. You’d need a TS/SI
clearance with an SAR access plus the full load of
compartmentalized National Security suffixes to get into these
banks. There probably aren’t twenty people in the country with
these passwords.”

“Great, Harlan. And you can brag all about
it to your buddies on the cell block, when they put you in federal
prison for a hundred years. They could even execute you for this if
they wanted to.”

Garrett sluffed it off with a wave of hand.
“They change the primary password every forty-eight hours, and it’s
blinded. There’s no way I can get caught.”

“That’s what the Walker spies said,” Lynn
reminded him “And, anyway, what possible connection can there be
between the Nellis Case and Edgewood Arsenal? The Nellis Case is
strictly Air Force, but Edgewood is an
Army
facility.”

“I don’t know the connection, but I think I
found some clues. There’s one more name on the list, Kenneth Ubel.
He’s an Army redeposition officer. I can’t imagine what he’d have
to do with this, but…care to guess where he works?”

“The Edgewood Arsenal?”

“Right. And I found something else.” Garrett
raised a finger. “Watch.”

Garrett tapped rapidly on his keyboard while
Lynn continued to watch raptly over his shoulder.

“Check this one out.”

Lynn squinted at the next block that popped
up on the screen.

File allocation command for following
security designations:

TS

SI

SAR

TEKNA

BYMAN

ULTIMA

DINAR

INTERAGENCY GROUP ACTIVITY

BACK-PROCESSING BRANCH

SPECIAL ACCESS REQUIRED

FREE ROAM SEARCH OBJECT

**** [U.S. ARMY MUNITIONS COMMAND/EDGEWOOD
ARSN.] ****

SEARCH OBJECT FOUND

DEPARTMENT 4 SPECIAL CONTINGENCY GROUP

RECORDS AND PROCESSING UNIT, FORT BELVOIR,
VIRGINIA

PRIMARY SEARCH GROUP: “Abductions, Reports
of”

SECONDARY SEARCH GROUP: “MUNCOM, Edgewood
Arsenal, Maryland” TERTIARY SEARCH GROUP: “Vander, Daniel, D.O.B.
25 May 1990.”

Several seconds later, an image box loaded a
picture of a young boy with fox-brown hair, smiling as if for a
class yearbook photo.

“The optical computer pulled this kid’s name
up when I programmed a free-roam search through Aerial Intelligence
Command, using Edgewood as the find topic,” Garrett specified from
his aura of cigarette smoke. “The boy’s name is Danny Vander, eight
years old. Just a typical American elementary school kid like a
million others…or so we might think. You know what this is, Lynn?
It’s a certified abduction report.”

Lynn’s expression drooped through a pause.
“I take it you’re using the word ‘abduction’ in reference to—”

“Yeah, an abduction by an extraterrestrial
species.”

Lynn fell silent, frustrated.

Garrett looked up at her. “But that’s not
all—actually, it’s just the beginning.”

“How so?”

“Danny’s father is Brigadier General Anthony
Vander…who just happens to be the post commander of the Edgewood
Arsenal.”

««—»»

Danny had always liked Dr. Harolds; he was a
nice man, and always seemed to understand. He never looked at him
funny the way Danny’s father did. It was just everything else that
Danny
didn’t
 like. This building, this place. This
stuffy waiting room and the sign outside that read BASE MENTAL
HYGIENE UNIT. No, Danny had never liked the sound of that. It was
so
Army.

This was a place for people who weren’t
right in the head.

Dr. Harolds was young, like Miss Romesch at
school. He always had a smile and always wore the neat long white
doctor’s coat over his Army shirt, with his captain’s bars on the
lapel.

“Here we go,” Dr. Harolds said. He had his
hand on Danny’s shoulder as he showed him out of the office into
the waiting room. Danny sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs.
Dr. Harolds got down on one knee and smiled at him.

“So what do you think, Danny?” the doctor
asked. “I’d say we had a pretty good session today, didn’t we?”

“Yes, Dr. Harolds.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll try some new medication for the
headaches. I know you didn’t like that last stuff, but you’ll like
this new stuff a lot better. It won’t upset your stomach or make
you tired. It’ll be ready later this afternoon; they’ll deliver it
out to the house, okay?”

Danny nodded dejectedly.

“And I’ll see you next week.” Dr. Harolds
looked at his watch. “Looks like your father’s a little late—”

“He’s always late,” Danny said.

Dr. Harolds nodded. “Yeah, I know, but
that’s because he’s the base commander. That’s a pretty important
job, and it means he’s got lots of stuff to do. But I’m sure he’ll
be around any minute to pick you up. And remember, any time you’re
not feeling good or want to talk, just tell your mom or dad to call
me, okay?”

“Yes, Dr. Harolds.”

“Good.” The doctor patted Danny on the back.
“See you next time.”

“‘Bye…”

When Dr. Harolds went back to his office,
Danny looked uncomfortably around. The same magazines seemed to
always be sitting in the wicker basket, and the glare of the sun
through the windows always seemed to shine in his eyes at the same
angle. And there was always that same poster on the wall: MEET THE
CHALLENGE…
BE
THE ARMY!

At least he was alone this time. Most times
when he had to wait for his father to pick him up, the were other
people in the room, waiting to see Dr. Harolds. Mostly men in their
fatigues. They always looked unhappy or mad about something. Or
sometimes there’d by other kids here waiting with their mothers,
and some of these kids looked pretty messed up.

Danny supposed he had a lot to be grateful
for, even if—

Suddenly his face twisted up and his head
hurt so bad he doubled over in the seat. It was another headache
coming on, and it felt like a real bad one. He hated the pain, but
what he hated even more than that were the things he saw.

It was the Stickmen.

This was how they reminded him—

—of what they want, what they need. He still
doesn’t understand, but somehow that doesn’t seem important—

—and he’s standing on the hill again,
standing in front of the churning red and yellow light from the
window—

—then the light turns bright white in less
than a second, and he hears that funny ticking sound, and then a
thread-thin line of white light begins to form along the ship’s
black hull right next to the trapezoidal window—

—the line draws down from top to bottom, and
that’s when the doorway opens, and the Stickman inside comes out
and waves at him with his weird long two-fingered hand—

—and—

Just as he thought his head would break
open, the pain—and the visions—stop. Puff-faced, sweating, Danny
sat back upright in the waiting room seat and let out a long
breath. He had just enough time to wipe the tears from his eyes
when the door clicked open and his father walked in.

General Vander seemed to be repressing a
frown from the opened doorway.

“Come on, Danny,” he said. “Time to go
home.”

««—»»

“Am I going to get brain damage from all
those metal-detectors and x-ray machines?” Garrett asked.

“Don’t worry about it, Harlan,” Lynn
replied. “You already
are
brain damaged, so what difference
does it make?”

Lynn dressed smartly as usual, a nice
business dress, conservative high heels. Garrett dressed sloppily.
As usual. Threadbare jeans, beaten sneakers, and a black t-shirt
that read IT WAS THE 2ND FLOOR OF THE DAL-TEX BUILDING.

“Or maybe
I’m
the brain-damaged one,”
Lynn continued. “I must be out of my mind bringing you here.”

“Here” was the West-Southwest Spoke of an
infamous fifty-six year old building in Arlington County called the
Pentagon. Garrett had always dreamed of getting a gander inside
this five-sided, five-story nexus of global military supremacy but,
until today, such an opportunity seemed as likely as Manson getting
invited to Roman Polanski’s house for dinner.

“Wow, this is great!” Garrett exclaimed,
toting along the suitcase he’d retrieved from the storage unit. He
looked to and fro down the long concourse, a gleam in his eyes like
a kid in Toys-R-Us. Garrett eyeballed each passing door sign in
wonderment: NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE COUNCIL, OFFICE OF IMAGERY
ANALYSIS, SPECIAL ASSISTANT FOR CONGRESSIONAL AFFAIRS

“Oh, man, this is so
cool…
” He shot
an enthused gaze at her. “Hey, is there really a giant shopping
mall here?”

“Yes,” Lynn groaned.

“Can we go, can we go?”

“It’s for employees only.”

Garrett seemed disappointed. “Is there
really a hot-dog stand in the center court called Ground Zero?”

“Yes,” Lynn groaned.

“Can we go, please? Can we go?” Garrett was
nearly jumping up and down.

“This is the Pentagon, Harlan,” Lynn
snapped. “Not Disneyland. We’re not here for lunch. And I still
can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

Garrett calmed down, let the excitement of
being here lower back to reality. “Well
I
still can’t
believe you let me talk you into spending the night at my
apartment. It’s a start.”

“Yeah, it’s a start , all right. And by the
way, how was the couch?”

“Lonely.”

“Good. And just because I’m a pushover
doesn’t mean Myers is.”

Garrett shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’d
never
ask him to spend the night—”

Lynn’s annoyance couldn’t be more obvious.
“Would you be serious for just one minute? Myers is a good man and
a good friend, but he’s also a senior case director and a former
chief-of-outpost. He’s got field guidelines, Harlan, and I don’t
have to mention that he’s not exactly your greatest fan.”

“I agree,” Garrett admitted. “He won’t
believe
me.
But I’ll bet my subscription to
Conspiracy
Illustrated
that he believes
you.
”

“You better hope he does,” Lynn warned.
“Because if Myers loses his professional respect for me because of
you…
”

“Relax,” Garrett insisted. “Women. Jesus.”
Just then a large window display caught his eye, and the fancy
stenciled lettering: THE MAXWELL TAYLOR GIFT SHOP. Garrett stopped
in his tracks. “Lynn, Lynn! Can we go in? I want that Pentagon
ashtray! Pleeeeease?”

Lynn offered him the bleakest of stares.
“Harlan, you’re
damn
lucky I had to check my gun in at the
admissions desk.”

««—»»

Garrett’s faddist wonder did not abate as
his very stolid ex-wife took him up the personnel elevator to the
fifth floor. Next she took him into a rather drab office whose
rather drab door read: