The Stickmen (16 page)

She also knew that the world wasn’t fair
quite a bit of the time, and maybe—just maybe—Harlan had spend a
little more time at the bad end of the stick than was
reasonable.

And thinking about it now, she had to
consider that perhaps their marriage hadn’t worked because of that.
Harlan Garrett was arrogant, opinionated, and…arrogant. He firmly
believed in some of the most ludicrous things, and did not respond
well to disagreement.

But he was also a pretty decent guy when one
got down to it.

And not a bad lover,
she
admitted.

But no man could have confidence in a
marriage and in love if he didn’t have confidence in himself. Bad
luck had batted Harlan out of the park too many times—mostly
through his own doing, yes—but in truth, he was always doing what
he believed was right.

Perhaps that’s why the marriage had soured
all too quickly. Deep down Harlan couldn’t be the man he really was
because ill fortune wouldn’t allow it. Hence he never felt good
enough about himself to be the kind of man Lynn needed to spend the
rest of her life with.

Poor Harlan
.

And now…this.

She took the elevator to the hospital’s
basement, then found herself staring at a badly placed
directory.

PHLEBOTOMY, HISTOLOGY, ONCOLOGY, ENDOSCOPY,
KARIOLOGY, the incomprehensible signs read. CYTOPLASMOLOGIC
STEREOTERIC-AURISCOPY.

Jesus!
she thought.

Then, finally, she found it: PATHOLOGY.

The long corridor extended, seeming much
longer than it could have been. Her high heels echoed to the point
that it began to get on her nerves. At last she found the door that
Harlan directed her to: OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA MEDICAL
EXAMINER. Lynn opened the door

In the anteroom, she felt hemmed in by file
cabinets, bookshelves, and computers. On a cork bulletin board,
ragged notes were pinned: SEND BENSON-CASE BRAIN SLICES TO HOPKINS
ASAP. FED-EX FLECTHERSON SKIN TO McCRONE LABS. LUNCH AT PETE’S
PASTA PALACE FOR CONROY’S RETIREMENT ON WEDNESDAY.

Upon noticing no staff in the anteroom, Lynn
proceeded further, through another door, and soon found herself
standing in something that more resembled a high school biology
lab: long black-topped counters, sinks, Bunsen burners, shelving
full of bottled chemicals and preparations. A periodic chart hung
on the wall; mounted on the wall opposite was a light-case for
pinning up and reading x-rays. Noise from a commercial burbled from
a small television set on a shelf of reference books, and then Lynn
noticed a thirtyish woman with red hair and a white lab coat
jotting down notes at a cluttered desk.

Lynn opened up her ID wallet. “Excuse me.
I’m Agent Darnell of the Defense Intelligence Agency. I’m looking
for the deputy M.E., a Dr. Truini.”

The attractive red-head swiveled around on
her chair and looked up. “I’m Dr. Truini.” She eyed Lynn’s
identification, confounded. “The Defense Intelligence Agency? This
is the D.C. morgue. What on earth could the Defense Intelligence
Agency want with me?”

“Um, a man named Harlan Garrett sent me, he
said that you were a friend of his and that you might—”

“Harlan!” The doctor groaned, her face
crimping up at the mere name. “That crackpot no-account
chain-smoking government-conspiracy hippie-looking eight ball?
He
sent you here?”

Lynn paused, to stifle the impulse to laugh.
She’s definitely got him down right,
 she thought. “He
doesn’t look like a hippie anymore; he cut his hair, and yes,
doctor, he’s the person who gave me your name and told me to get in
touch with you.”

Suddenly the woman was peering, her lips
parted in thought. “Wait a minute. What did you say your name
was?”

“Agent Darnell?”

“And your first name is…
Lynn?
”

“That’s right.”

The doctor, at once, slapped her knees hard.
“Oh my God this is too funny! You’re Harlan’s wife!”

“
Ex-wife,
” Lynn hastily
corrected.

“I’m Jessica!” the woman exclaimed, still
practically having a fit over the coincidence.

That’s when Lynn got it. “You’re—oh! And
you’re his girlfriend, right?”

“
Ex-
girlfriend,” Jessica hastily
corrected. “I dumped the poor son of a bitch a few days ago. Just
couldn’t put up with the you-know-what.”

“I definitely know where you’re coming from,
believe me.”

“He’s not a bad guy really, but he’s just
so—well, I don’t need to tell you. You were married to him for five
years.”

“Five years too many,” Lynn said.

“This is unreal, isn’t it?” But then
Jessica’s eyes reverted back to their original puzzlement. “What’s
this about? I don’t understand.”

“Well, let me put it this way,” Lynn
answered. “Something rather peculiar has come up.”

“Something that has to do with Harlan?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, God,” Jessica bloomed. “I’ll bet this
is going to be a doozy. Let me guess. He got himself into trouble
with you guys, and you need me to testify against him.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Oh…so then he’s not in jail again.”

“Uh, no.” Lynn stalled. “Let’s just say that
I have some…urgent business of a…classified nature that someone of
your technical expertise could probably help us with. But it’s
completely off-the-record, you understand. It’s more along the
lines of a favor.”

“Well, I dumped the dopy bastard pretty
hard; I guess it won’t kill me to do him a favor.”

“It’s not just for Harlan,” Lynn added.
“You’ll also be doing your government a favor.”

Jessica pinched her chin. “Wow. Peculiar is
right. Okay, I’ll do whatever I can. What have you got?”

“First, this.” Lynn placed a piece of paper
on the desk. “Before I show it to you, uh, I need you to sign this
form.”

What
is
it?”

“It’s no big deal, really. It’s a Federal
Secrecy Oath. It means that you’re swearing under the provisions of
the National Security Classified Secrets Act that you won’t tell
anyone about what I’m going to show you or tell you, under penalty
of law, provided by the United States Code. Violation of the oath
constitutes a serious federal crime that carries a maximum sentence
of life imprisonment and a $1,000,000 fine.”

Jessica’s mouth fell open. “Oh, is
that
all?”

««—»»

God, what a long-ass drive through the
boonies,
Harlan thought when he finally discovered the Post
entrance. And the sign made no bones about the kind of post this
was.

WELCOME TO THE EDGEWOOD ARSENAL

HOME OF THE U.S. ARMY MUNITIONS COMMAND

WARNING: THIS IS A RESTRICTED MILITARY
RESERVATION

TRESPASSERS WILL BE FIRED UPON VIA U.C.M.J.
USE-OF-DEADLY-FORCE GUIDELINES

Oh yeah, that’s what I call some
welcome.
Garrett pulled the Malibu up the ‘40s-style gatehouse.
The giant STOP sign made it quite clear what he should do.

A buzz-cut young MP in khakis came out of
the gatehouse, his hand on his holstered sidearm.

“Hi, Sarge,” Garrett said.

“Identify yourself and state your
business.”

Friendly chap.
Garrett passed him his
badge and ID, which the MP scrutinized. “I’ve got an appointment to
see a Major Shaw,” he explained. Along with the ID, Myers had used
his own “official” channels to make the appointment and had a cover
crew standing by in case any verification calls were made.

“Wait here,” the MP ordered. He went back to
the gatehouse where another solider manned a set of video screens.
Garrett could see the first MP on the phone; after a few moments he
came back out.

“Step out of the car,” he ordered.

Garrett’s gut sunk.
Stay cool!
“Look,
sergeant, if there’s some problem…”

The MP opened Garrett’s door. “Un-cleared
vehicles aren’t allowed on the base,” he informed as stonily as
possible.

This made sense to Garrett: even an
authorized visitor could have had explosives planted in his car
without his knowledge. But—

Garrett got out, frowning. “What, I have to
walk? It’s ninety degrees and ninety-percent humidity!” But just as
he’d voiced the complaint, another MP pulled up in a brand-new
dresden-blue Buick Skylark. “Here’s a vehicle at your
disposal.”

All right! It’s my lucky day!
Garrett
celebrated.
A car with air-conditioning!

“Your appointment with Major Shaw is
confirmed. “54th Battalion HQ, Building 4128.” Only now did the MP
show any trace of human emotion at all. He glanced at Garrett’s
ancient rust-flecked Malibu sitting next to the shiny new
Buick.

“I guess the FBI doesn’t pay much,” the MP
observed.

“No, they don’t,” Garrett said, sliding
happily into the Buick. “Have a good day…Smiley.”

Then Garrett was driving through the
check-point, onto the biggest ammo dump in the U.S. military.

««—»»

In the Security Liaison Office, Garrett
found Major Shaw to be quite a bit more congenial that the pit-bull
MP at the gate. Shaw was lean and wiry, with short brown hair and a
mustache, but not the dead-serious hardcore Army face Garrett
expected. He wore a black armband with bold white letters—ASA
CID—which Garrett instantly translated to Army Security Agency,
Criminal Investigations Division. Shaw, in other words, was the
post’s chief law-enforcement officer for any crimes involving
classified material or information, and here, in his plainly
painted office, he was briefing Garrett on the very controlled
device that had been stolen just a few days ago from this very
controlled facility.

“ADM,” the major recited. “Atomic demolition
munition. They were developed in the ‘50s; production ceased in the
late-’60s due to technological advancements. There are three
yield-types of this portable weapon system: Small, Medium, and
Heavy. What was stolen here was a Small. We call them SADMs. It had
a selectable yield of 0.5 to 1.5 kilotons.”

“The so-called ‘back-pack nuke,’” Garrett
acknowledged.

“Yes, sir, but that’s just typical liberal
misinformation. Even a Small ADM weighs 300 lbs. Try carrying
that
in a backpack. The liberal press called them backpack
nukes because the
timer-fuses
and
firing devices
could fit in a field pack. They want people to think that these
things can be toted around like someone’s box lunch, but that’s the
liberal press for you, huh? They want to print garbage in order to
scare the public into voting for candidates who want to cut the
defense budget.”

Gee,
Garrett thought.
I wonder if
this guy’s a Republican.
“How do they work?”

“An ADM is nothing more than a simple
target-driver device. There’s really not that much to them with
regards to moving parts or sophistication. All the weight is in the
lead shielding, to protect the ignition and transport techs from
the radiation output. The

way it works is a conventional PETN charge
explodes and rams a small wedge of uranium into a larger uranium
pit, resulting in a crude nuclear detonation. Just think of
smacking two pieces of a fissionable material together real hard.
Small, cheap, efficient, easy to operate.”

Sounds like he’s talking about a
Veg-A-Matic,
Garrett thought.

Shaw went on, “ADMs were the cheapest way to
take out big bridges, tank parks, and commo centers in NATO, back
when the Soviet threat was still raging.” “In other words, a
‘scorched-earth’ device,” Garrett observed.

“Yes, sir. That’s exactly right. Say there
was a war in Europe, and the Russians overran us. ADMs would be the
quickest and most efficient means to destroy our own material to
keep it out of enemy hands. We moved them all here when the Warsaw
Pact dissolved. And if you ask me, we ought to move them right back
there because it’s only a matter of time before Boris Yeltsin’s
liver pops and he goes down for the dirt nap, and then we’ve got
the Cold War all over again. The same threat only worse.”

Here’s one guy Al Gore
can’t
count
on for a vote.
“And somebody stole one of these things,”
Garrett said.

“Yes, sir. One pit housing and one firing
assembly.”

The works,
Garrett thought. “But this
is a low-yield device. It’s not the kind of thing that could wipe
out a city, is it?”

“No, just a city block. The safe distance
perimeter is a little over a thousand yards. It may not pack much
of a punch as far as modern nuclear weaponry goes, but if you
popped this off during rush hour in New York City, thousands would
die. Pop it off next to the Sears Tower, the Tower comes down. It’s
actually a perfect weapon for—”

“A terrorist group,” Garrett finished.
“They’d love to get their hands on something like this. Or one of
those right-wing militia groups. It would make a hell of a
statement, and they wouldn’t need two tons of fertilizer and diesel
fuel to do it.”

“And they don’t need a conspicuous vehicle,
either,” Shaw added. “An S-A-D-M will fit in the smallest car
trunk, a garbage can, a newspaper vending machine. And detonation
is simple. There aren’t any special codes or permissive-action
links required to set it off. Takes about two minutes to arm, then
you just set the timer and walk away. ASA’s got me full-time on the
theft. Their forensic team from Fort Gillem has been striking out
right and left.”

“Striking out?” Garrett questioned. Fort
Gillem, he knew, was the headquarters for the Army’s CDIC, their
version of the FBI’s forensic unit, and damn near just as skilled.
“You mean with their evidence findings?”

“That’s right, sir. It was raining on the
night in question. The perp somehow managed to get through a
bi-layered, 1500-volt electric fence.”