Skylock (8 page)

"Here's one ole boy who could sure get usta' this style of living—in a hurry. You and me play our cards right and I believe we just might find ourselves full time management jobs right here in gravy city."

At this Trennt glanced over at Baker, unimpressed.

They passed before the president's trilevel mansion. Its many windows were sun-screened to near-blackness and the lot was patrolled by a select group of casual looking, yet formidable, military police. Considering its obvious importance as the acting White House, a forlorn simplicity still mingled with its grandeur.

Arriving at the admin building, clearance tags were assigned the visitors. The pair were then transferred to a civilian page, who wordlessly led them through priceless air conditioning, beyond numerous office cubicles, to an elevator and an electronically secured VIP meeting room two levels lower.

They passed through a range of comfortable smells: dim hints of cooking from some unseen private cafeteria. Leather, paint. And print. Side glimpses flashed rooms with books. Hundreds of volumes lined thirty-foot runs of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Research and records as well as history, philosophy, and science. Enough material to flood several small town libraries. A sight Dena would have loved.

An anemic administrative type impatiently awaited them in a lower level anteroom. Obviously uncomfortable with such coarse outsiders, he dared to chide their tardiness.

"Where have you been? You should've been here twenty minutes ago. The director is waiting!"

Baker and Trennt exchanged a glance as the aide ushered them into an adjoining meeting room. He swept a hand forward, indicating another man seated directly beyond.

"This is Royce Corealis, director of the American Manna Project."

The man made no effort to rise, and offered only the slightest of cordial nods. It was an exercise all too familiar to Trennt: checking the candidates' reach, setting a quick pecking order—the gambit never changed and whenever the game was played, big stakes were at risk.

Meetings such as this happened only when commoners were thought worthy of some lofty task, one where anonymity was crucial to top management and the agents generally expendable. The key in passing muster was to remain emotionally detached; impassive to the point of denying your very presence.

His genuine lack of concern made Trennt a formidable player. Focusing on a neutral point between them, he freely left himself open to scrutiny, yet peripherally scanned his captor in return. His assessment was unfavorable. The seated man was a whipping storm flag if ever Trennt had seen one.

Scouting his guests like a horse trader, the man's eyes stayed nonbetraying and impenetrable. But when a final try at overpowering Trennt failed, his stone face relaxed a bit. Quick fissures of amusement sliced the far corners of his hard gray eyes and the room's heavy mood thawed.

"I trust you gentlemen have been treated properly during your stay?" inquired Corealis in his rich baritone voice.

"Mister Trennt," he started, not waiting, thus staking his immediate claim to superiority. "You've recovered well enough from your car crash to consider a return to duty?"

Trennt shrugged, unaffected. "Yeah."

"And, Mister Baker, you're feeling properly?"

Baker nodded curtly, anxious to please. "Always ready."

The director settled back in his chair. "John, my friend, our guests might like some drinks."

He motioned the visitors to chairs. "Gentlemen?"

"Whisky and ice," gushed Baker, eagerly taking a seat.

"Water," Trennt muttered.

The product was offered him in a crystal glass with brutally clear ice. As a "Cee-Dee" family, his had once existed on bug-filled runoff, while here was a personal bar with its own ice cubes. A quick resentment of his hosts boiled up and out.

"Why are we here?"

The aide bristled at his forwardness, but Corealis welcomed the tone as a quick preamble to his subject matter.

"To perform a special, patriotic duty for your country. These times are different from any other in Mankind's history. Freak weather. Worldwide hunger, starvation, dead economies. Whole governments dead, for that matter. A large number even claim we're in the throes of heaven's own Armageddon.

But you know all that from personal experience. What you don't know is the broader picture of the biased political climate, which has put our nation at a serious disadvantage among its so-called allies. This has forced us to take certain drastic steps in the name of future self-preservation; not if, but when, Skylock comes to an end."

The director gave his aide a nod.

"Set on a remote plateau," continued the younger man, "is a covert research station operating outside the conventions of the global Manna Project. Shortly, we will be concluding its work and closing that station, removing and relocating its personnel. It's been decided to add some non-military specialists to the site as camp overseers—operatives, if you will, to expedite the final evacuation. That decision has put us in the market for skilled and reliable agents to handle the task. You gentlemen come highly recommended for just such an undertaking."

"For obvious reasons," interjected Corealis, "it's best not to give too many exact details. But I will tell you that the guardianship of the work being conducted at that station is of utmost value to the future autonomy of this country—and yourselves.

"If you're willing to accept the job, you'd be inserted by air, assist in the shutdown of the base and departure of its people. That will likely occur in a few days. Until that time, you will be our guests here in the regional center with all executive privileges."

Baker glowed comfortably, sipping his drink, but Trennt never relaxed as the director went on.

"Also understand that the mission requires strict secrecy. No flight plan would exist for your trip, nor any record of you. In the event of an emergency, you could likely find yourselves left to your own devices for survival. But you do seem to be thorough experts in that field."

"Be also advised," said the aide, "that if at any time during the course of the project—for whatever reason—it is deemed that the integrity of your work is jeopardized or compromised, or your relationship to it judged to have become a liability, you could be subject to termination."

Corealis scrutinized his candidates. But the only reaction came from Baker, who regarded his whisky, then huffed behind a bored smirk.

"Been there before, sonny. Ain't no big deal."

Corealis took back the reins. "On the other hand, your success would guarantee you substantial and permanent privileges higher in the organization."

Baker's glow heightened, but Trennt looked away.

"The entire task should be handled easily by men of your caliber," said the director from behind another sweep of calculating eyes. "Will you do it?"

For the first time, Trennt showed a sign of interest.

"How many people are on site?"

"Nine."

He set his water glass aside and stood. "No thanks. Bye."

Corealis blinked. His aide was staggered. For the first time, their authority was in question.

"Why not?"

Trennt hovered impertinently between them.

"Because I shepherd hard goods. Livestock is delicate and demanding. Intellectuals are worse; clumsy. They get afraid and lack survival skills. Makes extra danger for them and me, both."

"But we wouldn't be herdin' 'em, Jimbo," interrupted Baker hurriedly. "Just sharin' their bunkhouse and ridin' home on the same bus. Besides, it's our patriotic duty."

Baker faced his hosts, deciding for both men in a broad, honeyed smile.

"We'll take the job."

Trennt drew a measured breath, but did not object.

The aide offered up a photo package for inspection. First from the folder was an aerial view of a rugged, tree-covered mesa.

"The place you'd be going is this particular Wyoming tableland. Originally the site of an old Special Forces training camp, it was converted for the current research work. It's been made totally self-sufficient by its own power systems. Nine tenths of its diameter is sheer rock face and impossible to scale."

"And the rest?" asked Trennt.

"A very narrow band that was designed as an emergency evacuation route. It can be traveled upward in reverse, but not easily. The circumference is layered with an independent defense system, a mix of natural barriers and passive booby traps that are ringed and overlapped at various separate levels. Near the summit, an intruder alert system constantly monitors things through a laser gridwork, which is plumbed into a series of electric mines and an automatic gunnery system."

Trennt interrupted again. "What kind of gunnery system?"

The aide fumbled with his folder, annoyed and obviously unfamiliar with the mechanics of weaponry.

"Ah, 40-millimeter grenade dispensers and overlapping 7.62-millimeter machineguns."

"I want specs on the mechanism," declared Trennt brusquely. "Setup, range, and fields of fire. And whatever maps and pictures there are to detail every square inch of the terrain."

Corealis concurred with a benign nod.

"You'll have them. One other thing. You'll also be carrying a trigger mechanism to arm a small on-site nuclear device for neutralizing the grounds once you've departed."

Trennt gave the footnote a cursory shrug, then moved over to sift through the mug shots and attached bios. All those pictured were plant geneticists, but from the pile one photo stood out. A slim, middle-aged man with thick salt-and-pepper hair. He gazed out from intelligent, yet heavy-laden, brown eyes.

"This the top dog?"

"Correct. Doctor Martin Keener, project team leader. A humanitarian individual who has answered a personal call throughout his life to abolish world hunger. Much of the Manna Project's core effort was based on his wealth of studies on drought-resistant grains for the old Third World.

"One of his products you may have had practical experience with is the V3A barrier thorn-bush. A quite impenetrable living organism meant to contain livestock or prisoners of war."

"And what's he doing now?"

"Keener and his people are the best we have at plant cloning, cell fusion, and gene splicing. Early on in the Manna Project, they mutated a very critical amino acid-protein link that helped develop a saline tolerance for the world's inundated, rice-growing coastal areas. They're been working on it since."

Baker leaned over with a bolt of stirred personal interest.

From the packet he slid out a woman's partially exposed picture.

"Say now, who's the honey?"

Corealis exchanged a furtive glance with his aide. "The group's housekeeper, Geri Litten."

Baker lingered a moment on the photo before returning it to the pile. "Sure looks familiar."

Their meeting concluded and Baker and Trennt were dismmissed. Back outside, Trennt drew a worn breath.

"They're lying about something. Big time."

Baker shrugged it off in typical nonchalance.

"Shoot, Jimbo, all staff level folks do. What's it matter?"

"So why us?"

"Our track record!" cawed Baker self-indulgently. "They know who's good, when they see 'em. And, baby, that's you an' me!"

Still, the gunman scouted his cohort with bewildered concern. His words came solemn as the grave. "Jimbo, I know you're prob'ly still shook up from that wreck an' ain't thinkin' too straight yet, but listen to me; this here is our big score. And I say don't look no gift horse in the mouth. We ain't marryin' those folks back there. Just contractin' a job for 'em. Straight talk or no, the payoff's all that counts for us boys. And this 'uns gonna set us for life."

The gunner's smile returned as he glimpsed the area.

"We finally got us the brass ring, Pard. And what sounds like a couple solid go-to-hell days in this here kiddie park before we even need to dirty our hands. Let's us find those guest cottages and get started on some serious R 'n' R.

Back in the meeting room, Corealis settled deep into his overstuffed chair, rocking gently with pleasure.

"Excellent candidates, John," he complimented. "Commendable work in locating them so quickly."

The aide received the praise tentatively.

"Thank you, sir. I didn't feel it was my place to object at the time. But the abrasive one, Trennt—I may have been too hasty in nominating him."

Corealis dismissed the notion with a slow head shake.

"His aloofness? That's the ultimate sign of professional confidence. Besides, your report on his handling of that car chase tells me we definitely want him in on this project."

Corealis touched a thoughtful finger to his lips.

"Before I forget, make an appointment for Clausen and me to speak in private sometime tomorrow. I want to better understand the exact capabilities of his special airplane. In the meantime, see to it that our new agents are treated well while they're here. The best of everything—like you would any condemned men."

The expediters hopped aboard a courtesy jitney and rode out to a small neighborhood of private guest bungalows. There they matched housing assignments with numbers of newly received electronic security cards.

Trennt swiped his card through a computerized door slot and stepped into the narrow hallway. As was his habit, he lingered a few moments, comparing, recalling all the different places he'd weathered in. Some, just a pile of chilly straw in a long forgotten barn, his express pouch for a pillow. Others, like Mama Loo's old courier station, sparse in accommodations, but rich in a furious notion of family.

Then there were those rare spots like this—a wealth of sanitized booty and comfort, all waiting freely for his use or abuse. There'd been too few of these in his travels. But for all their warm showers, clean sheets, and precise comfort zones, they were indifferent places, which always seemed to solicit more than they offered.

The customary enameled shapes waited further on: efficiency fridge and stove, frosty air conditioning. Trennt ran a hand over their cool, clean surfaces and felt the uncommon pulse of electricity humming deep inside.