Starman (6 page)

In the communications compartment the radioman was seated at his position, listening to KWFJ out of Milwaukee and wishing he had enough range to pick up Detroit. But it was better than that station they’d hit on earlier, the one that played polka music twenty-four hours ’round the clock. The radioman would rather listen to the music of the Gulag, and unlike Gamble, he didn’t pull enough rank to rate bringing his personal music box on board.

“What’s up?” he asked the copilot.

“We’re getting close. Time for all good passengers to start earning their keep, I guess. Or whatever it is this dude’s supposed to do out here.” He nodded toward the rumpled figure sprawled out on the nearby cot. “Wonder who he is to rate this kind of service?”

The radioman shrugged. “Beats me, man.” He returned to his monitoring.

The copilot moved past him, put a hand on the sleeper’s shoulder and shook firmly. He didn’t know much about their passenger and sole cargo, but he was willing to give anyone who could climb aboard an S-76 and instantly fall asleep the benefit of the doubt.

“About that time, Mister Shermin.” When no response was forthcoming he gave the shoulder another nudge.

Mark Shermin blinked, rubbed at his eyes as he sat up. “Oh. Okay.” He tried to see past the radioman and out the side window. “We there already?”

“Already? We’ve been in the air for almost an hour, Mister Shermin.” The radioman felt a twinge of sympathy for the civilian. Poor guy. No telling when was the last chance he had to sleep in his own bed. “My name’s Lemon.” He reached down and picked up a thermos, scrounged until he’d located an almost clean cup. “Coffee?”

“Thanks,” said Gamble, reaching for it.

“Not you, disco-brain. Get back forward where you belong.” The copilot grinned at him and made his way back to the forward compartment.

“Thanks.” Shermin accepted thermos and cup and poured himself six ounces of black liquid. A couple of swallows and his brain began to function again. Colombia’s legal narcotic. He found himself considering the complex of communications equipment as he sipped.

“Listen sergeant, I know you can handle all kinds of exotic transmissions and high-speed signals with that, but what about more commonplace stuff? Can you pick up the regular police bands on that thing?”

“No problem. Why? You bored already?”

“It’s not that. Kind of has to do with what I’m out here for. I’m interested in anything really freaky that’s been going on around here. You know: far out, weird, bizarre. It’s all related to what I do.”

Lemon smiled. “I know a lady you’d like.”

Shermin grinned back at him, finished the rest of the coffee and set the cup aside. “Better start getting ready, I guess. What’s it like, where we’re going?”

The radioman was fiddling with his instrumentation. “Like most of Wisconsin: trees, lakes, nice country. You want weird and far out? Man, you’re going to get weird and far out. Just promise me one thing, okay?”

“What’s that?”

“After you get through doing your studies or digging or photographing or whatever it is you’re out here to do, you let me know what the hell’s going on.”

“If I can.” Shermin got off the cot, took his contamination suit off the wall rack and started struggling into it. Lemon watched the procedure thoughtfully while continuing to monitor his instruments.

“Hey, what’s that for? They didn’t give us nothing like that when they sent us out here to recon.”

“You’ve been to the site already, then?” Shermin pulled the sleeves of the suit up his arm, made sure the elastic at the wrists was secure and started slipping on the gloves.

“Yeah, once.”

“Did you set down in the area?”

Lemon shook his head. “Just circled and took pictures.”

“Then you wouldn’t need something like this.” He zipped up the front of the suit and checked to make sure the gloves were secured to the sleeves at the wrists. “What do you think?”

“Flashy. You look like the baked potato that ate Chicago. Seriously, you think you’re going to need it, down there?”

“I hope not, but I wouldn’t want to guess wrong and find myself without it. I might like to have kids some day, you know?”

The last vestige of the radioman’s smile vanished. “I hear you.”

By the time the S-76 rumbled into the impact area the chopper’s crew was all business. Smoke still rose from blackened trees. The forest fire had burned briefly but intensely, helped along by a gusting breeze. It was out now only because the forestry service and local fire brigades had jumped on it hard and fast.

Shermin tucked his helmet under an arm. Local monitors already on the scene would inform him if it was necessary. He peered out the side window as they hovered above the devastated area. It was immediately apparent that something more than a simple forest fire had damaged this part of southern Wisconsin.

In addition to the trees incinerated in the fire there was a long black swath that ran through otherwise untouched forest from west to east. Something had cut through the woods with irresistible force. The path of destruction ended near the center of the fire and was centered on a shallow but still impressive impact crater. Around the crater trees hadn’t been burned as much as they’d been flattened, their needles and leaves and smaller branches blasted off.

“Jesus,” Shermin muttered.

“Looks like somebody set off a big one, huh?” Lemon commented without looking up from his equipment.

“Something like that,” was Shermin’s noncommittal reply. He knew full well that no bomb had caused this havoc, but his employers would crucify him if he started volunteering his professional opinion to the uniformed help. So he kept his thoughts to himself. Lemon took the hint and didn’t ask a second time.

Two more helicopters were in view, flying circles around the crater, as the S-76 settled down in the impact area. They were smaller Hueys, flying patrol. Farther off Shermin saw a fully armed Apache keeping watch on the lake. Woe to any curious pilots of private aircraft who unwisely strayed into this off-limits chunk of airspace.

“Watch yourself out there, man,” said Lemon as Shermin stepped out, still cradling his helmet under one arm.

“Yeah, sure.” Useless warning, nice thought. There was nothing here to watch out for. Or was there?

That was one of the things he’d been sent to find out.

Air-force insignia decorated the shoulders of several men working around the edge of the crater. They wore suits similar to Shermin’s and went at their assignments with single-minded dedication and in complete silence. The Geiger counters and similar paraphernalia they were using looked right up to date, Shermin decided.

He was wondering whether or not he should match their attire by donning his own helmet when an air-force major climbed out of the crater in front of him. The officer also wore a suit, but like Shermin, carried his helmet. Shermin breathed a sigh of relief. He suffered from slight claustrophobia. Not having to wear the helmet was the nicest thing that had happened to him in two days.

The officer saw him standing there and swerved to meet him. That wasn’t surprising. Shermin knew he was expected.

They shook hands. “I’m Major Bell, Cletus Bell.”

“Mark Shermin.” The major didn’t ask what he was doing there. No one got within five miles of the impact crater unless they’d already been cleared at a much higher level than the major usually dealt with.

Shermin started toward the ridge of earth that ringed the excavation. “It’s clean?”

“No radioactivity, if that’s what you mean. You’d get more rads standing next to a microwave. No bacteria readings, either.”

“That’s no surprise.” Shermin nodded toward the crater. “Even assuming there were any they would’ve been vaporized in the first flash of heat during impact.”

Bell went silent for a moment, finally asked, “You’re attached to National Security?”

“Not very.” He considered. Bell had a right to know more. He wasn’t a chopper radioman. “I just work for them occasionally. On loan, like a library book. Didn’t you know that we consultants really run the country? Actually, my full time interests lie with SETI.”

Bell frowned. “You’re a whale expert?”

Shermin smiled. “No, that’s CETI. SETI is the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.”

The major’s eyebrows rose. “Things must be kind of slow between Spielberg films. So they’re sending you guys out on meteorites now, huh? I thought they’d send a geologist.” He nodded distastefully toward the crater. “I can tell you now there’s no diamonds.”

“Diamonds?” Now it was Shermin’s turn to frown.

“These guys think it’s a meteorite, everybody starts looking for diamonds. Heat and pressure, carbon, and slow wits.” He shook his head. “So you’re looking at meteorites now? I wouldn’t think someone with your interests would find them worth checking out.”

“Only the ones that change course.”

That brought Bell up short. “Change course? Can they do that?”

“This one did. Or else some airhead at NORAD misread a glitch on his instrumentation.”

Bell indicated the activity around the crater, the men busy in their decontamination suits, the circling helicopters, the others searching methodically through the woods for they knew not what but searching diligently nonetheless.

“If so I’ll bet he’s sweating now. I didn’t think they could move troops this fast anymore. Something’s got somebody excited.” He stared straight at Shermin. “Do they have reason to be?”

Shermin shrugged. “Beats me. I just got here.” He nodded toward the crater. “Let’s have a look.”

“Sure. Not a whole lot to see.”

They climbed the earthen berm and looked down into the hole. Lying at the bottom of the crater was a black, irregularly shaped object about the size of a dead Cadillac. A couple of silver-suited airmen stood atop it. One of them was hefting something but Shermin’s view was blocked by his companion. Hoses and thick cables coiled around the feet of both men and ran up the crater wall, then down the outside and off to parts unseen.

They started down, Shermin moving carefully and studying the carbonized soil as he descended. A loud noise suddenly filled the excavation. Shermin identified it instantly. Now he knew what the first airman was holding. It was a drill, and a big one.

He gaped at the airmen, then turned angrily to Bell. “What’s going on here? What the hell are they doing?”

“I told you: diamonds. Besides, nobody’s told us what not to do, and I’ve been getting damn tired standing around watching my men picking dead birds and squirrels out of the underbrush.” He nodded toward the two men. “They’re trying to see what’s in there.”

“No one authorized that.”

“Like I said, no one forbade it. Besides, we checked it out with probe poles and the damn thing sounded hollow to me. We walked all over it when we started checking it for radiation. I’m not the only one who thought it sounded hollow.”

“That’s idiotic, major. There’s no such thing as a hollow . . .”

His words were washed out by the noise of the drill as they began to approach the object. Suddenly one of the men stumbled forward, nearly fell. His buddy steadied him as the drill broke through the object’s exterior. A thin jet of nearly colorless vapor hissed skyward. The volume diminished rapidly and there was no noticeable odor.

Shermin froze, his eyes wide. Bell broke out in a shit-eating grin but forebore from saying anything—for about ten seconds.

“You were about to say?”

“Jesus H. Christ.” Shermin looked paralyzed, finally shook himself. “Nothing. I wasn’t going to say anything.” He was staring in fascination at the object lying at the bottom of the crater. His thoughts were going eighty miles a minute. The two airmen had put the drill aside and were bending over, peering intently at the spot on the surface where they’d been working. They were muttering to one another but not loudly enough for Shermin to hear what they were saying.

A couple of raindrops pelted his face. They were followed by a deluge. The storm seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. Moments earlier the sky had been clear and bright, with only a few isolated cumulus in sight. Now it was like the monsoon season. Shermin and Bell tried to shield themselves from the torrential and unseasonable downpour with their helmets.

“What now?” Bell asked him.

Shermin nodded toward the object. “Let’s get this thing out of here.”

The music helped. The man didn’t seem to object to her listening, or to her changing the stations whenever the mood suited her. Each time the news came on she quickly switched to fresh music, and he didn’t seem to mind that either.

What had been a lovely morning turned suddenly sour with the appearance of raindrops on the windshield. It matched her mood.

“Rain,” she said conversationally. It produced the usual response from her passenger, which was to say, nothing at all. He just stared blankly at her as if waiting to see what she might say next. He wasn’t completely indifferent to her, however. He still kept one hand securely on the handle of the automatic.

“Windshield wipers.” She indicated the rain, which was beginning to streak the glass and blur the view ahead. “I have to turn on the windshield wipers.”

“Windshield wipers,” he repeated. He said it perfectly. He only had to say something once to get it right.

She reached down and flipped them on. The road ahead reemerged from the moisture. The steady swish-swish of the blades was relaxing, like the music. Another sign of normalcy in a world that had suddenly gone topsy-turvy on her. Another sign of sanity.

They were coming to a small town, one of hundreds of identical little communities dotting central and southern Wisconsin. It was large enough to rate a signal in the center of town, at the main intersection. As they approached, the light shifted from green to yellow.

“Stoplight,” she told him.

“Stoplight.” Another echo. She decided on an experiment.

Instead of slowing down, she floored the accelerator. Her passenger didn’t react, didn’t yell for her to stop, didn’t so much as blink. Just sat quietly and stared as she raced the light. It went to red before she reached the intersection. She held her breath as the Mustang ran the signal, but theirs was the only vehicle in sight.