All the Wrong Moves (10 page)

“We had an arson investigation team out here for most of the day. They said it’ll take at least a week for lab tests to confirm their findings, but they’re 99.9 percent sure the fire was deliberately set.”

“Any indications who might have set it, or why?”

I thought about mentioning my list of disgruntled inventors but stuck to the facts, such as they were.

“The lead investigator thinks he spotted a signature element. He says the arsonist may be a pro. A rogue agent who targets high-profile government agencies.”

Dr. J went fish-eyed. “FST-3? High profile?”

I decided not to mention I’d had exactly the same reaction.

“I’m only telling you what the investigator said, sir. In any case, the fire settled the question of proprietary rights. Every bit of data we extracted from Harrison Robotics’s Ergonomic Exoskeletal Extension went up with the lab.”

“What about the exoskeleton itself?” he asked, obviously worried about another report, this time for the loss of expensive private sector property assigned to the government for testing. Neither of us wanted to
think
about the paperwork that might generate.

“We had it stored in a safe location. It didn’t sustain any damage.”

“And the other evaluations FST-3 had scheduled?”

“We’d completed all but one. The remaining item we intended to test hadn’t arrived on-site yet, so we’re okay there.”

I hesitated a few seconds before broaching the sensitive issue of money. DARPA pours millions into research that could prove vital to the military’s war-fighting capabilities. That’s its sole purpose in life. But after 9/11 the huge cost of conducting the war on terror had done a number on DARPA’s internal operating budget, as it had on every other government agency’s.

“If we’re to continue on-site testing, we’ll need to replace both the CHU and our equipment.”

“Yes, well . . .” Dr. J cleared his throat and tried to look supervisor-ish. “Send me your report and I’ll check into funding for replacements.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hung up and spent the next few moments waffling between the nasty wish he wouldn’t come up with the funding and the reluctant hope that he would. It was that damned inner conflict again. The one where I really, really wanted out of the responsibilities that came with my uniform but . . .

I spent the rest of the evening struggling with the loss/ damage report while my team continued to sift through the remains of our lab. If you’ve ever had occasion to deal with the Department of Defense, you’ll know why my jaw soon settled into a permanent lock.

DOD Directive 7200.11 referred me to DOD Regulation 7000.14. This is a multi-volume tome that provides how-to instructions for everything from requesting reimbursement for a missed meal to lobbying Congress for a new supersonic space transport.

The how-to’s I needed were embodied in Volume Twelve, Chapter Seven. This sported the daunting title of
Financial Liability for Government Property Lost, Damaged or Destroyed
. The word “liability” sent up an immediate red flag. So did the paragraphs dealing with negligence, willful misconduct and unauthorized use of said property.

And I thought the Uniform Code of Military Justice was scary!

Wondering if it was too late to a) resign my commission and scuttle back to Vegas or b) purchase several million dollars in personal liability insurance, I plowed through Chapter Seven. I had to remind myself repeatedly that my task was simply to submit the initial loss/damage report. Once Dr. J appointed an inquiry officer, he would answer the required follow-on questions. Like . . .

Would a reasonable and prudent individual have acted in this manner?

What were the circumstances that existed when the loss occurred?

Was the individual on the job when the loss occurred?

I almost choked over “reasonable and prudent.” As far as I knew, no one had
ever
hung either label on me. The bit about being on the job didn’t do much for my nerves, either. I had to hope that brief detour to my apartment didn’t come back to bite me.

My eyes were blurred and my head aching when I finally called it quits for the night. As I exited the D-fac and headed for the mini-trailer I shared with Pen, I spotted Sergeant Cassidy’s brawny form silhouetted against a fat, round moon.

I paused, totally exhausted but suddenly feeling guilty. A program analyst doesn’t get a lot of experience in mounting a perimeter defense. Yet even I recognized one man couldn’t do it alone.

Feet dragging, I crossed the hard-baked earth. Sergeant Cassidy spun around, steel rod at the ready.

“It’s me, Noel.”

“We should establish an IFF signal,” he said as I approached. “We need to identify friend or foe without giving away our position.”

I searched my tired mind and came up with a suggestion.

“We’ve still got EEEK. We could uncrate him, power him up and put him on alert. God knows, he can see and hear in the dark better than either one of us.”

“Good thinking, Lieutenant. Let’s get him out of his box. Then you need to hit the rack,” he said with a hint of gruffness. “You’ve had a pretty rough time of it the past few nights.”

“So have you.”

“I snatched a power nap this afternoon.”

“That’s not enough to last you through an all-night stint on patrol.”

“Not to worry. O’Reilly and I worked out a rotation schedule.”

My jaw dropped. Our pudgy, nearsighted software guru pulling guard duty? With only the night critters and EEEK for company? The mind boggled.

I could come up with only one rationale for O’Reilly’s unnatural act. He no doubt figured—as did I—that the arsonist had accomplished his objective last night and wouldn’t make a return visit. Nevertheless, I insisted on taking the four-to-six A.M. shift.

So EEEK and I greeted another dawn together. I kept Sergeant Cassidy’s weight rod and my radio in hand while EEEK’s computers bleeped quietly in concert with a chorus of desert night sounds.

WITH the morning light, FST-3 prepared to pack up and depart CHU-ville.

We’d established a routine over the months the team had been together. Using individual checklists, we divided our labor and made quick work of shutting down the site. The damage to the lab altered the sequence somewhat, but we got everything done.

Rocky, Pen and I loaded the equipment we thought might be salvageable into our team’s van. Dennis emptied the fridge in the D-fac, bundled up our trash and hauled all disposables to the Dumpster. Noel shut down power to the CHUs, then drove the ATVs into the storage shed. The spare gasoline cans went into the back of his pickup to be refilled for our next deployment to Dry Springs.

Whenever that might be.

Our last act was to padlock the storage shed and CHUs. Although no lock would keep out anyone who wanted into the charred lab, I didn’t want to be accused of not properly safeguarding its barbecued remains.

Our personal gear, briefcases and laptops filled the remaining space in our vehicles to near capacity. Dennis rode with Noel in his truck. Pen and Rocky took the loaded van.

That left my trusty old Bronc as the only means of transporting EEEK. I wasn’t about to strap him into a passenger seat, as Mitch and I had after my close encounter with the dead guys. I could just imagine the double takes and wheel jerks if I cruised I-10 with a grinning cyborg beside me.

Instead, we left him in his crate and slid him into the back of my Bronc. I made a mental note to contact Harrison Robotics to advise them of EEEK’s status as I stopped by Pancho’s to tell him we’d shut down.

“I’ll drive by the site once in a while to check on things,” he promised, as he always did.

“Thanks.”

“Want a cool one before you hit the road?”

I was tempted but shook my head and leaned over the bar to give him a kiss on the cheek. All I craved after the past few days was the quiet, messy solitude of my own apartment.

UNTIL I joined the air force, I’d always thought of myself as a relatively neat and orderly person. I didn’t go to ridiculous lengths—like aligning my cupped bras at precise angles to my tightly rolled panty hose or folding my panties into three-inch squares. But I did cram the aforementioned undergarments into various drawers. Most of the time. I even transferred my dirty dishes from the sink to the dishwasher on a more or less regular basis.

Officer Training School showed me the error of my ways. For those hellish months everything I owned, and I mean
everything
, had to be cupped or rolled or squared.

After OTS I suffered a severe allergic reaction to precise and orderly. So I unlocked my front door that hot August afternoon and hauled my gear into a comfortable jumble of old newspapers, scattered magazines, dusty plants and discarded flip-flops.

It’saasmall apartment, half the size of the one Charlie and I had rented in Vegas, but close to Fort Bliss. It’s also the most I can afford on a second lieutenant’s pay. Lest you think I’m overdramatizing, Google up the U.S. military pay scale sometime. You’ll be shocked at our paltry remuneration. I certainly was.

That bit of editorializing aside, I’m actually pretty comfy with one bedroom, bath, kitchen and the tiny eating area I’ve set up as an office of sorts. The kitchen has new appliances and the floors throughout the apartment are tile. Best of all, the sliding glass doors in the living room open right onto the pool and barbeque pit.

As mentioned above, the apartment complex is close to Fort Bliss, which has a large transient population, so most of the residents are young couples or singles. Consequently, both the pool and the pit get a real workout on weekends. Depending on the amount of beer consumed, bathing suits may or may not become optional.

This early in the afternoon, however, a suit was required. Craving a cool dip after the drive in from the site, I changed into my skimpy little two-piece and dived in. I did three lengths of the pool—my nod to physical fitness—then floated on a foam raft until thirst drove me back inside.

As I showered and shampooed off the chlorine, I couldn’t help remembering my last shower in the same stall. I had yet to shake my residual guilt over those stolen hours at home while an unseen arsonist stalked my site. Despite the guilt, it felt wonderful to be squeaky clean and boot-free for the rest of the weekend.

I pulled on a pair of gray jersey shorts with a drawstring waist and a T-shirt I’d cut off to leave my midriff open and cool. Barefoot, I padded into the kitchen. If I hadn’t had that blasted report hanging over my head, I would have poured a glass of wine and settled in to peruse the magazines that had piled up during my absence.

I subscribe to a number of glossies. They’re my one vice. Okay, one of my vices. My favorites are
People
,
Cosmo
,
allure
and
Elle
. What can I say? I’m a girl.

I also love
21
. If you’re not familiar with the title, it’s a slick amalgamation of luxury lifestyles, travel, fashion and global gaming. My lifestyle is a
long
way from luxurious and I doubt I’ll stroll into the glittering casinos in Baden-Baden or Monte Carlo anytime soon. But
21
was more or less compulsory reading for anyone who lived or worked in Vegas. Now I’m hooked.

By the way, I’m sure you noted that none of the above magazines contain a hint of anything remotely resembling science or research. Both Pen and Rocky have offered to supplement my reading material on numerous occasions. So has O’Reilly, for that matter, but my recreational taste differs substantially from his so I’ve graciously declined all offers.

I gave the pile of magazines a look of intense longing as I popped an individual-size frozen lasagna in the microwave. I’d made a quick stop at Panera’s on the way home so I had low-fat black bean soup, a Greek salad and a crusty baguette to round out my meal.

I ate it at the table that doubled as my desk, savoring every bite as long as I could before I dumped the dishes in the sink. There they would sit for the rest of the weekend, my declaration of independence from neat and orderly.

I heard noises outside and had to battle the urge to join the Friday night crowd. Instead, I dragged out my briefcase and set up my laptop. Didn’t take long until I was once again up to my ears in property inventories and Chapter Seven reporting requirements. While I was hammering out what I hoped was the final draft of my report, my cell phone pinged.

I recognized O’Reilly’s number and experienced an instant frisson of alarm. Shows you how shell-shocked I was by our recent string of disasters. I’d last seen O’Reilly driving off with Noel and was envisioning both of them caught in tangled wreckage or hijacked by banditos when I flipped my phone open.

“What’s up, Dennis?”

“Are you near a TV?”

“Huh?”

“A television. Are you near one?”

I glanced at the set sitting mute in the living room.

“Yes.”

“Turn on Channel Six. Now!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I hit the remote and tuned into Channel Six. A perky blond reporter holding a microphone in front of her face morphed into view.

“. . . in the death of Patrick James Hooker, the American mercenary accused of selling stolen arms to drug lords. Three U.S. Marines and six Colombian paramilitary officers died in an ambush when those arms were turned against them. Special Agent Paul Donati from the FBI’s El Paso field office provided the details.”

The camera zoomed to a phalanx of uniformed law enforcement types and plainclothes officials standing on the steps of the federal courthouse. Front and center was the trim, wavy-haired FBI agent I’d met in the back room at Pancho’s.

A very familiar Border Patrol agent was next to him. Jeff Mitchell stood at a loose parade rest, his arms clasped behind him and his face unreadable as Donati spoke into a bank of microphones.

“Working from a list of personnel who’d either been stationed with or were friends of the three marines who died in Colombia, FBI agents across the country conducted a series of interviews.”