Shattered Sky (4 page)

The general chuckled, showing a set of perfect teeth. “ ‘Verbal briefing?' ” He stepped up to her. “Where did you spend the night after arriving in Michigan, Lieutenant Haas?”

The question caught her off guard. “I . . . uh . . . The Grand Rapids Marriott, sir.”

“Good. Consider yourself briefed.” Then he stepped deeper into the vault and flicked on a light switch.

If the cube was incongruous with its surroundings, the cube's interior was stranger still. It was, in fact, a hotel room. A queen-sized bed, a desk, a chair. The only difference was the absence of windows.

“We like to keep our guest comfortable,” said Bussard. He walked around the room like a bellhop, pointing out the room's features. “TV with DVD library. Extra linens. Bathroom with shower.” Then he got down to business. “Your assignment is very specific. It is your job to deliver three meals at seven hundred, thirteen hundred, and nineteen hundred hours precisely. You will have no contact with our guest, as he has therapy sessions at those times, and will not return until after you are gone. With each meal you bring, you will remove the tray from the previous meal. With the morning meal you will change the linens. With lunch you will clean the bathroom. With dinner . . .”

Bussard went on and on, but Maddy found herself unable to listen. Rage was rising in her. She had come through officer's training with commendations from everyone that mattered, and now the military saw fit to turn her into a chambermaid?

Bussard droned on as if reading her Miranda rights. “You will wear gloves at all times in this room, and dispose of them immediately after each use. You will find a detailed description of your duties in your quarters. Is there any part of your assignment you do not understand?”

“No, sir. Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“Permission denied.” He escorted her out of the chamber, and once they were back in the expansive void of the dead plant, he turned to her again. “There are only six people in the world with security clearance to be in that room—including the two of us. Consider yourself honored.”

“I'll remember that, sir, while I'm cleaning the toilet.”

“I
'VE BEEN HERE SINCE
the beginning, and Bussard hasn't seen fit to tell me anything,” Lt. Gerritson told Maddy over a cafeteria pot roast filled with more salt than meat. The cafeteria, like the plant itself, was a dinosaur that never saw the light of day. It was designed to seat about 100 employees of Michigan Power, but now there were never more than ten military personnel at peak hours. By Maddy's second week, a meal with Lt. Vince Gerritson was a welcome relief to the oppressiveness of a large table and a solitary dinner. Maddy was quick to discover that Gerritson was the only person bold enough to discuss what little he knew about their shadowy purpose there.

“It's the lack of oversight that scares me,” Gerritson said. “They let Bussard run this place any way he sees fit. Tessic's the only one Bussard doesn't control.”

“They let civilians from Tessitech in this place?”

“No,” Gerritson said. “I mean Tessic, himself.”

“Really!”

“He had something to do with the design of the vault. But
now I think he pops in every once in a while just to piss off Bussard.”

Tessic was a name well known in the military ever since Tessitech beat out every competitor for a dozen military contracts over the past five years. His name was synonymous with cutting-edge technology; a former wunderkind who, now in his fifties, was on his way to being the richest man in the world. Maddy judged that his presence here was an exception to protocol and not to be taken lightly.

“When did this whole operation start?” Maddy asked.

Before answering, Gerritson glanced around to scan their present company. A few tables away were three men in lab coats discussing sports scores. Maddy didn't know them, but had seen them at meals. The plant had a contingent of about ten Coats, as Gerritson had called them. Scientists, or technicians, or physicians—no one seemed to have a clue what their profession actually was. They didn't associate with military personnel, undoubtedly by Bussard's order.

“The plant was retrofitted for Project Lockdown about eight months ago,” Gerritson told her. “I was about to get a disability discharge, but instead they assigned me here.”

“Disability?”

“Long story.” Gerritson shoved a piece of grizzly meat in his mouth, and worked his jaws like it was an oversized piece of chewing gum. Maddy hoped he might elaborate, but no dice. Whatever the story, he wasn't telling it.

“And exactly how do you fit into all of this? What's your job here?”

Gerritson smirked. “Now, come on, Lieutenant Haas. That kind of information is on a need-to-know basis.”

Maddy volleyed back that smirk. “I need to know.”

“Well, why didn't you say so?” Gerritson glanced around
again. It was almost a tick. A habit developed from being too long under Bussard's scrutiny. He leaned over his plate, confidingly. “Security detail,” he whispered. “Right wing of team zero.”

“Okay. Now in English.”

“There are three of us who escort our ‘guest' to his so-called ‘therapy' sessions. Three times a day; before breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The rest of our time is spent on facility maintenance.”

“And our guest is . . . ?”

Gerritson grinned. “Didn't quite hear that. You'll have to ask me some other time.”

“You heard me perfectly,” Maddy whispered, both irritated and appreciative of their little game of intrigue. Gerritson said nothing more, just grinned away. Maddy found herself taking a mental snapshot of that grin. His smile—his face—was worth remembering. Unfortunately her shutter speed was too slow. He knew he had just been scanned into her long-term memory, and he held the grin a moment too long, as if posing for her Kodak moment. There was, she knew, a danger couched in this sustained moment. Danger and opportunity.

“You hang around long enough,” Gerritson said, “and you won't need me to give you ideas about our guest. You'll have plenty of your own.”

“Well, can you tell me what he looks like?”

“Can't.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Can't,” he told her. “Ever read
The Man in the Iron Mask
?”

Maddy took a moment to let the casters click. “Oh.” Maddy nodded. “I see.”

“No, that's the point. Nobody sees. Bussard makes sure of that.”

That was true enough. Maggie wasn't even allowed into the containment dome until their guest was removed, and, true to Bussard's word, he never returned until long after Maggie completed her room service detail. Whoever it was, he ate all his meals cold.

The cafeteria door banged open. Another member of “team zero,” Gerritson told her. He grabbed a cellophane-wrapped sandwich from the counter, then left.

“So would Bussard rupture a sphincter if he knew we were talking like this?”

Gerritson laughed. “The man's been holding it in since his diaper days. I don't want to be there when he blows.”

Maggie shrugged it off, feigning indifference. “I'm a military brat—I've been around men like him all my life. I suppose it wouldn't be so bad if he ran this place with more than just a skeleton crew. Then maybe he'd spread his good will a little thinner.”

“Bussard's a minimalist,” Gerritson explained. “He figures the fewer the bodies—”

“—the fewer the graves?”

“The smaller the staff, the easier it is to control. The fewer chances for leaks, and snafus.” Gerritson looked down, and plowed a spoon around his mashed potatoes before giving up on them entirely. “Does it bother you that you're the only woman in this place?”

“No,” she told him. “Why? Would you prefer it if I had a penis?”

Gerritson laughed. “Well, shut my mouth,” he said, slipping into a stagey southern drawl. “Guess you don't got the plumbing, but I reckon you've got yourself a nice set of balls.”

Maddy laughed. “You're wrong, you know—about me being the only woman. There are at least three Coats.”

“The Coats don't count. They might be here with us, but they're not on the same deep dive.”

Maddy looked Gerritson over, not quite catching his meaning. “Deep dive?”

Then Gerritson got serious. Too serious for Maddy's taste. “This place is a submarine, Lieutenant Haas. And whether you like it or not, your reputation precedes you.”

M
ADDY SCRUBBED THE TOILET
with a vengeance, and washed down the shower in the armored guest room that never even had a hint of soap scum. Still, she couldn't strip away the filthy feeling she had taken with her from the cafeteria. She had stormed away from Gerritson, without giving him the satisfaction of a second glance before she banged her way through the double doors. What had he meant? She had never thought of herself as having a “reputation” among her social circle at West Point. She was attractive, she liked men, and that left her in quite a power position. She could pick and choose her liaisons, always the one to decide the length of any lover's tenure. But a rep that followed her halfway across the country cast everything in a new light. It made her wonder if her sense of control had been nothing more than a convenient delusion.

She dined alone in her quarters, then sought Gerritson out. He, too, was alone—in the expansive complex it was hard not to be. He played pool against himself in the rec room.

“Want me to rack 'em up?” Gerritson asked. “Or did you bring your own?”

Maddy refused to take the bait. “From now on, Lieutenant Gerritson, I suggest we limit our conversations to topics that do not compromise the security of this installation. Any deviation from that mandate, and I'm afraid I'll have to report it immediately to General Bussard.”

Gerritson racked up the balls. “Are you going to break, or shall I?”

Maddy pulled a cue from the wall, refusing to back down from the challenge. She broke, and sank the number one ball. “I graduated fourth in my class at West Point. Did you know that?”

“I do now.”

“With honors, and high commendations. If that's the reputation you were referring to, I'm glad it preceded me.”

“It's not.”

She shot the cue ball, and sunk the number two ball, although she was aiming for the seven. “In that case, I have no idea what you were talking about.” But her lie had neither conviction nor substance, and he knew it. She shot again, nicking the cue ball. It zigged wildly, but managed to find the number three ball, which dropped cleanly into a corner pocket.

“Nice shot.”

It was, of course, luck—but she wasn't about to admit that to him. She made a play at scanning the table for the optimum shot.

“It doesn't matter where you aim,” Gerritson sighed, hands in his pockets. “The pattern won't change. You'll sink the four ball next.”

To spite him, she deliberately aimed at the pesky seven ball, only to have it ricochet away from the corner, sideswiping the fourteen, which careened into the nine, which tapped the four ball just hard enough for it to drop into a side pocket.

“See? No sense playing pool when our guest is still out of his cage,” he said. “The game just doesn't work.” And although Maddy didn't quite catch the meaning, it made her feel that the more balls she sank, the greater Gerritson's victory. So the
next time, she tapped the cue ball just lightly enough to move it a few inches, clattering into a cluster of balls, but without enough momentum to send them anywhere. She stood back, and let him have the table.

“There are twenty-two men sequestered in this tomb,” Gerritson said, taking his time about shooting. “No contact with the outside world, no phone calls or visitors allowed. Morale gets low under those conditions.” He shot, and sank one of her balls. Number five. He sighed, and back away from the table.

“Are you suggesting that I was brought here just to provide you boys with a little recreation?”

“No. You were brought here because of your qualifications. But all it takes is one man who knew you at West Point to spread rumors about your social skills. For all I know Bussard planned it that way.”

She gripped her cue, half believing she would bring it down across the top of his crew-cut head, but she restrained herself.

“And why would he do that?”

Gerritson shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe just to make things interesting around here, maybe to raise morale. Or maybe he's interested in you himself.”

She dropped her cue to the table, decidedly disgusted. She was not a whore, but neither was she a saint. She had chain smoked her way through men like they were a carton of Camels—and apparently that was common knowledge. Had she been a man, her appetite and conquests would have been lauded. But she was a woman.

“If it
is
intentional, I think Bussard's way out of line,” Gerritson said, sauntering close to her. “But the world's not the place it was a year ago. And when things go crazy, there's always men like Bussard who'll take advantage of that.”

Although she was admittedly attracted to Gerritson, she
knew there was more danger in it than opportunity now. She laughed bitterly. “If Bussard plans to put me on poontang duty, he's in for a surprise. There are some parts of me the Army doesn't own.”

“I hope that's true.”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

Only now did she notice how close to her he stood. Had he moved into her space, or had she stepped into his? It troubled her that she didn't know.

She finally pushed away, gathered herself, and headed for the door, but she couldn't make herself leave. And if he stepped up to her again, what would she do? She knew what she would do. She would go to him. She would move into his arms, and if they weren't open, she would force them open to receive her.