Unmanned (9780385351263) (26 page)

“Good. But do you think Cole is still with them?”

“There is always the chance that they’ve parted ways. But the coincidence of Merritt’s location with rental cars in both locations where Cole was present suggests that he is likely to be continuing to provide transportation for him. I think it’s a safe bet they’re still traveling in tandem.”

“But for what purpose?”

“Some sort of journalistic exposé would be my guess.”

“Mine, too, and that’s a serious problem. Most of Cole’s work—hell,
pretty much all of it—was classified. If he’s telling all, then he’s become a danger to national security.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That means we need more than what we’ve got, and we need it now. You’ve done good work, Captain, but it’s not sufficient.”

“I agree, sir. And that prompts me to inquire about the possible availability of another tool.”

“Yes?”

“UAVs, sir.”

“In civilian air space? Over Maryland?”

“It’s already done routinely, sir, especially on the Eastern Shore. Training flights from Air Force bases and the like. We’d just be expanding our range a bit. As long as we notified local Civil Air authorities I doubt it would be a problem, or would even attract much notice. And our cover would be easy—a training exercise.”

“The notification alone would attract unwanted attention.”

“Possibly, sir. But not nearly as much as that Global Hawk drone that crashed near Salisbury, Maryland, just a few months ago. That was also a training flight. Or that was the official version, anyway.”

“Are you doubting the official version, Captain?”

“No, sir.”

“Too risky. Even if we got approval, we’d be looking for what, a needle in a haystack?”

“You’d be surprised what sort of filtering and ID capabilities you can wring out of state-of-the-art cameras and the newest image recognition software, especially if you can program in image data for a car’s specific make, model, and color. These are the same tools scientists are using to pick out endangered seals from all the other black dots on the Arctic ice cap, sir.”

This at least made Hagan pause. But only for a second or two. Then he shook his head.

“No. I’m not ready to go there. Especially when we’re not even sure they’re still on the Eastern Shore.”

“Yes, sir. Although one other piece of evidence suggests that they are still there, sir.”

“Yes?”

“It concerns Steve Merritt. In searching various records and databases I uncovered a tenuous connection to the DOD contractor IntelPro. Probably a little unconventional, for a journalist, but I guess it wasn’t all that surprising because he’s done several past stories referencing them, or some of their people, one of them as recently as six months ago. But it was intriguing to me for two reasons.”

Hagan didn’t look particularly pleased, but he remained silent, so Riggleman kept going.

“For one thing, the company’s training facility is on the Maryland Eastern Shore. They sometimes host journalists for various dog and pony shows, so that could be a potential destination, at least for the journalists. Find them, and we probably find Cole. Secondly, as I’m sure you’re already aware, sir, IntelPro has connections to several aspects of the Air Force UAV program, particularly in overseas theaters. That would be another reason that Captain Cole might seek them out.”

“That’s a dead end.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Had Riggleman heard him correctly?

“I said that’s a dead end. It’s not worth pursuing.” Hagan looked down at his desk, pushing some stray papers into a pile. “I’m …” He paused, searching for a word. “I’m acquainted with some of their people. Or with some of their methods, to put it more accurately. And if Captain Cole or, well,
anyone
from the Air Force attempted to establish any sort of unauthorized contact with them, they’d let us know. Immediately. So you can consider that base covered.”

“Yes, sir. But if he’s using an alias—”

“Besides, Captain. You already have an additional tool at your disposal. The one I gave you last time.”

Riggleman was pretty sure he knew what the general was referring to, but it wasn’t a topic he was eager to pursue, especially not when he was already feeling rattled. Never before had Hagan told him that an avenue of inquiry was off-limits. It was yet another first for this strange investigation, and now he was about to be asked to telephone a source who, try as he might, he knew virtually nothing about.

Riggleman had spent two hours the previous day searching for any information at all about the name and number that the general
had given him at their initial consultation. He had come up empty. Completely. That, too, had never happened before, and he was not at all comfortable with the idea of seeking help from someone who was practically invisible.

“Well, come on, Captain, surely you know what I’m talking about?”

“Harry Walsh, you mean.”

“No need to say the name aloud. We’re both aware of it. But I believe the time has come to put his services to use.”

“Unless—”

“Unless what, Captain?”

“Well, I do have a few other possibilities. A couple of eggs I’ve been sitting on that are just about due to hatch.”

Actually, he had nothing of the sort. He’d briefed the general on everything he’d learned and every stratagem he’d employed to find out more. But maybe with a little extra time he could come up with a new lead. Anything seemed preferable to seeking help by calling into a void, an abyss, a deep shadow in which almost anything might be hiding.

Hagan thought it over for a second, folding his hands on the desk. Then he nodded.

“All right then. I’ll give you the weekend, Captain. But you’d better have some results for me by first thing Monday morning, preferably conclusive results. Otherwise, you’d better have already contacted the source we, uh, previously discussed. And I don’t want you waiting until the last minute before you see me to do so. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get moving, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

He left, feeling more pressure than ever.

WITH THE RETURN
of sobriety, Cole had begun dreaming every night—vivid replays of the world he’d inhabited before the crack-up. Carol and the kids were there. So were Zach and Sturdy. The reenactments seemed to last for hours, and were so uncannily accurate that he was exhausted upon awakening, as if he had begun living two lives at once.

The dreams’ only variance from archival accuracy was the regular appearance of the girl with one arm, although for whatever reason, the sleeping Cole was never the least bit surprised to see her. The dream version of the girl wore Western clothes and a placid demeanor, unbloody and very much alive in her various poses—watching from the corner of the ground control station while Zach and he piloted a Predator, peeking over the shoulders of Danny and Karen as they hammered away at PlayStation consoles, sitting at the kitchen table while Carol chatted on the phone.

Once she nodded to him from the doorway of a convenience store while Cole pumped gas into his truck before driving out to Creech. She was drinking from a can of Coke. He nodded back. It all felt comfortably routine, almost conspiratorial, as if they were cooking up some plan together. She always turned up in places where she wasn’t supposed to be, and each time it made him wonder later, after he woke up, why she had been in that house at Sandar Khosh. It, too, was the wrong place for her, although he still didn’t know how he knew this.

That night in the pool house his dreams revisited a moment from the aftermath of the missile attack which had occurred about eight
hours after he’d arrived home in Summerlin. The dream began with Cole seated in a vinyl lawn chair, his mind a blank. A voice called out to him urgently.

“Darwin!
Darwin!
Did you see it?”

Cole clenched his fist to throw a punch, then realized the voice was Carol’s, not Wade Castle’s.

“What?” he croaked. “See what?”

“You
missed
it? Oh, Darwin. Karen
scored.
Her first goal ever!”

Cole stood slowly. Looking around he found himself at the edge of a soccer field, surrounded by other parents in similar poses. Everything smelled of mown grass, sprinkler water, and sweating children. A sunny day in a green schoolyard. He felt like an old grump trying to awaken from a twelve-hour snooze, knees creaky, butt sore. To get into the spirit of the moment, he clapped. His hands tingled as if they’d gone numb, and something foreign and unwelcome rose up in the back of his throat. He coughed and spat, landing the gob between his feet. Looking down, he was mildly surprised to see he no longer wore military boots or a green flight suit. Nikes and blue jeans. Now when had that happened?

He looked up just in time to see Carol shaking her head, then he turned back toward the field, where Karen was being mobbed by her teammates near the mouth of the goal, a squirming bundle of nine-year-old girls in white shorts and bright red jerseys, all smiles and screams and ponytails.

“Atta girl, Karen!”

His voice felt tender, barely used, the tone of command gone now that he was out in the open, standing in his own bright afternoon beneath a watchful sky. Then his glance snagged on a kid standing in profile on the opposite sideline. She wore the colors of the opposing team, but then he saw that she had only one arm, and he knew.

“Why bother?” Carol said.

“What?” Cole looked away from the girl.

“If you can’t even watch, why not just stay home and get the burgers going?”

He glanced back across the field, but the girl was now dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, heading for the concession stand. On the
field, Karen’s team was back in action, the speckled ball pinging as someone kicked it toward the opposite end. He clapped again.

“Let’s go, Karen!”

“Darwin, she’s out of the game. Score and you sub out, remember?”

“Right. League rule.”

Danny, his youngest, banged into his right thigh and tugged at his trousers.

“Can I get a Coke, Dad?”

“Sure, Dan-O.” Cole fumbled for his wallet.

“No, Danny,” Carol said. “You know better, not before dinner.”

“Sorry, sport. Your mom’s right.”

He caught the last of Carol’s frown—an expression of worry, not disapproval. He knew the look well. She’d be on the phone tonight for at least an hour with Deirdre in Michigan, the key words leaking from the bedroom as he watched a ballgame down the hall.
Distant. Remote. Preoccupied.

The dream stuttered forward in time to later that night, three in the morning. He was sitting up in bed, suddenly awake in the dark. Carol was also up, sitting with her knees pulled up to her chin.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“It’s Deirdre. They’re broke. The bank’s after them and Mark lost his job.”

Pretty much the life of half their neighbors. The signs of economic calamity were everywhere: lawns going brown for lack of watering, empty windows without curtains, auction placards on signposts.

“What about you?” she asked. “What’s keeping you up?”

“We killed some children today. With a missile.”

She looked up abruptly, rustling the sheets.

“Oh, Darwin. That’s horrible.” She eased closer and stroked his face with her hand. Over her shoulder, Cole saw the one-armed girl in pajamas, standing in the deep shadows by the window. “And here I am talking about money.”

“We didn’t see them until it was too late. The girl was not much older than Karen. She lost an arm.” He looked over at the girl, but she didn’t move a muscle.

“You can
see
all that? Oh my God.”

Cole had said too much. Carol’s eyes glittered in the dark. Maybe she’d already been crying.

“You can’t tell anyone. Not even Deirdre.”

“Okay,” in a small voice. “I won’t.”

They held their positions on the bed, as if each was waiting for the other to speak, and after a few seconds he sensed she was making an effort not to sigh. She slid her knees down and rolled onto her side, and soon afterward he knew from her breathing that she was asleep. The girl sat between them now, her back turned to Cole as she appeared to make some sort of comforting gesture toward Carol. He looked away, staring toward the window.

Then he jolted awake, sitting up in bed in the pool house after hearing what had sounded like the cry of a child. Now, only silence. He blinked, sweating heavily. The darkness was so overwhelming that he sought refuge in the bathroom beneath the buzzing fluorescent tube above the sink, his feet icy on the linoleum. He heard the cry again. Not a child, though. A cat.

Returning to the bedroom he heard the brush of a branch against the window, followed by another cry, weaker this time. He pulled back the blinds and saw Cheryl, slumped against the panes, balanced precariously on the sill, her fur matted and bleeding.

Cole opened the door and called her name. Nothing. He walked barefoot around the corner on the frosted grass and found her still huddled on the sill, too broken and weary even to drop to the ground. He gently picked her up, worried she’d lash out, but she was docile and quivering, a mess.

“Easy, girl. Easy. What’ve you been tangling with, a fox? A possum? Did an owl come after you?”

There were plenty of critters who would overmatch her out here, and as he carried her inside he thought of the tale of the city mouse and the country mouse. Poor Cheryl, not ready for all the challenges out here. An owl hooted twice as he shut the door.

In the light he saw that her blood was already smeared on his T-shirt. He cleaned her off in the bathroom as best he could, but it was soon clear he needed more supplies than the pool house offered, so he slipped on his pants, shoes, and a jacket and carried her toward
the main house by the light of the moon and stars, hearing the wind hiss in the pines.

Halfway there he stopped, something chilly touching his spine. It wasn’t a noise, exactly. More of a presence, a sense of movement off in the deeper shadows of the trees to his left. The cat stiffened in his arms, sensing it as well, or maybe just reacting to him. Cole turned slowly and scanned the line of trees, half expecting to see a pair of luminous eyes, some animal preparing to pounce. Cheryl fidgeted and nearly squirmed free, so he held on tight and set out for the front door. The house was dark and locked, but he had his key. He locked the door behind him, still holding the cat, unable to shake the strong sense that something was still out there, observing in silence, lying in wait.