Thin Air (28 page)

At last he had the direct connection. Harold Fletcher worked for Tri-State and Tri-State insured MTL and MTL was run by Edmond Traben.
 

He went back to the ready room and wrote out his flight plan. Destination: the military terminal at LA. International. He changed into his G-suit and handed in his papers, instructing the dispatcher not to list him on the status board.

Hammond touched down at L.A. International shortly after noon. During the flight he had been thinking of the other good reason for coming to Los Angeles: Jan Fletcher. She lived somewhere in Brentwood. He still had the phone number she had given him when she'd left Washington: 472-7304.

Hammond went straight to the pay phones and called her.

"I promised to keep in touch," he said.

"I didn't quite believe you. Harold's dead: we don't need to worry about his records anymore."

"Look, I don't know how much we still have in common, but we do have things to talk about."

There was a long silence, then she asked, "What are you doing in Los Angeles?"

"Well, business, actually—"

"Look, Nicky," she interrupted, "I never was interested in your work and you wouldn't share it with me anyway, so don't bring it to me now...." She hesitated. "Unless you've found out something...?"

He hesitated, wanting to tell her, to take her into his confidence because he believed she could be trusted, but then she might become a target, too, and he didn't want that.

Then what did he want?

"How about dinner tonight?" he asked.

There was a long hesitation, then she said, "I don't feel like wearing black in public, so you'd better come here. Take pot luck."

"You're on." He copied down the address and hung up, not knowing whether to be elated or scared. He hurried over to the Motor Pool and checked out a car. He had no trouble; his reputation hadn't preceded him.

It was an impressive building half a block long, set among acres of undeveloped industrial land on the east side of Manhattan Beach. A huge marble sign identified the firm in gold letters a foot high: MICRO-TECHNOLOGY LABORATORIES.

Hammond parked and walked to the entrance. The olive drab building was cold and sterile with a polarized glass façade and manicured landscaping. The sky was overcast; the bleakness of it all gave him the willies.

He walked through electric-eye doors and found himself inside a narrow but tall lobby, fully three stories high. A security man guarded the inner entrance. There was a reception desk in the center of the foyer.

On the wall over the inner entrance was an enormous blowup, a photograph of the plant with some impressive copy set across it:

MTL CONTRIBUTIONS

TO PROJECT TRANSAT:

TranSat Integrating Contractor
 

Structural and Thermal Systems
 

Data Acquisition and Processing
 

Power Control and Distribution
 

Flight System Software Aeroshell

Orbiter Communications
 

Computer Command System
 

Data Storage Memory
 

Communications Sequencing Computer
 

Attitude Control System

What in hell would a firm this solidly entrenched in multimillion-dollar space contracts want with something as weird as Thin Air?

It struck Hammond he might be barking up the wrong tree with respect to Traben. But he had to see him first. He marched up to the reception desk, showed his ID, and explained he was here on government business.

"Ordinarily, Dr. Traben sees visitors only by appointment," the ex-CIA type said. "This may take a while."

"Enjoy yourself," said Hammond. They were going to check his credentials. Good. That saved him the problem of informing Gault of his whereabouts. And it minimized the risk that he might disappear while visiting Micro-Tech. He sat down calmly in the lobby and waited.

Forty minutes later, an enormous bull of a man banged through the lobby and lurched over to meet him. He was so big his shoulders preceded him; he walked on the balls of his feet. He was dressed in a plain gray suit with the coat open and flapping so that anyone could see he packed a gun—a little .38 stuffed into-a- hip holster. But he had a big friendly face.

"Commander Hammond, I'm Joe Coogan, Chief of Security for MTL," he said, and threw out a meaty paw. Hammond shook it. "We're in the same profession," Coogan said with a smile. "So, what can we do for you?"

"Well, I really came here to speak with Dr. Traben, if that's all right."

"Sure it's all right," Coogan reassured him. "It's just going to take some time. He's a very busy man."

"—And would I like, to come back tomorrow, is that it?"

"Nor at all," Coogan said absently, checking his watch. "Come on, we have time. Let me show you around."

Hammond followed him, surprised. He had thought they were going to brush him off, but instead they were going to romance him.

Coogan gave him a mini-tour of the plant, explaining some of the projects they were involved in and showing him some very impressive equipment. And along the way Coogan did a little pumping: "We do tremendous business with the Navy, designing the micro-electronics for some very sophisticated guidance systems and newfangled radar transponders. You ever get into any of that, Commander?"

"Not lately."

"I find it fascinating. I'm bananas for gadgets, buttons, and the like. MTL has an almost 99 percent success factor with their Naval applications. You aware of that?"

"No."
      

"Almost never have failures. We're conscientious—that's why we get contracts. I'm sure the NIS uses some of our equipment."

"No, not that I—" Suddenly Hammond recalled that no one had identified the most sophisticated of the little bugging chips that had been planted in his office. This one is for Gault, he said to himself, as he took a wild shot: "Oh, we
are
looking over a brand-new sort of listening device. It's about yea-big...." He demonstrated with finger and thumb. Coogan didn't bat an eye. "Wouldn't have some of those around, would you? I could show you which one."

Coogan laughed. "I'm afraid not, Commander. That stuff is all top secret. I can't even admit we make those things. In order to show you anything like that I'd have to see clearance."

"Of course." Hammond smiled at the double-talk.

"But if the Navy's interested, I'm sure we'd like to be involved."

Cool. Very cool. Hammond moved to the next door.

"Oh, not that way. Back out the way we came."

Hammond continued smiling. He liked unsettling this big cheese. It was fun playing cat and mouse and being the calf for a change. Then he thought back to that cold road outside of Taos, the two tons of steel pursuing him. It would have to have been a big fellow maneuvering that truck....

Coogan's bulk followed him through the door and they walked in silence down the hall until Hammond asked, "Job keep you close to home?"

"Sure does," Coogan replied. "We're very security-conscious. I hardly get a chance to travel even as far as San Diego. My wife's been complaining for years."

Hammond took another stab in the dark: "Not like being in the Navy, is it? All that travel...When did you get
your
discharge?"

Coogan didn't answer. He was already reaching for a door. His smile was automatic as he ushered Hammond through to Edmond Traben's outer office.

"Secretary's right over there, Commander. Emily, this is Commander Hammond. He's cleared to see the chief."

"Thank you, Joe," smiled Emily.

Coogan was gone before Hammond could thank him.

"Please have a seat, Commander. I'm afraid it's going to be a few minutes."

Hammond sat down, smugly contemplating the man in the inner sanctum, wondering if he was disappointed to learn this Naval bloodhound was still alive. So far, no one else seemed upset.

The few minutes became thirty before Hammond found himself face-to-face with Edmond Traben.
 

He turned out to be sixty-odd years old, balding, with piercing blue eyes and a thin, pinched face. He was sleek and trim and well-dressed, the epitome of a successful businessman. He was lighting a pipe as Hammond stepped in and used it to wave Hammond toward a bulging leather chair.

"Well, Commander," he said quickly, "I'm sure you have a reason for this visit."

Hammond smiled. "I'm here to inquire about Project Thin Air."

Traben was expressionless for a second, then blew out a cloud of smoke. "I didn't realize anybody was still interested in that." He looked back at Hammond and spread his hands expansively. "Great period in my life, you know."

"Maybe you could explain your involvement...in your own words."

Traben grunted and said, "I believe the project is still Classified. I would need assurances that you're cleared to look into it."

"I'm sure your security chief has already verified me. But I'll add that I know what Thin Air was; I know the names of a lot of the people involved, and I'm on direct assignment from NIS."

Traben sat forward and rested his arms on the desk. He seemed alarmed. "I hope this doesn't mean the government is thinking of reactivating the project."

"Would that bother you?"

"Of course. I'd hate to see them waste the money."

"You wouldn't be...wasting money on it yourself, would you, Doctor?"

Traben shook his head so quickly he must have known the question was coming. "I find it hard enough to get financing for viable enterprises. I wouldn't
think
of wasting 1 my own money on it."

"Yet you thoroughly believed in it—for about thirteen years.

"I believed in Santa Claus, too, once upon a time. But mass hypnosis and disorientation are passé in this day and age."

Hammond perked up. "What?"

Traben looked at him with suspicion. "Commander, if you really know about Thin Air, then you know that's what it was: a method of rendering the enemy impotent by leading him to believe he was disoriented, "so he wouldn't be able to function or fight."

Hammond felt something clutch inside him. He smiled weakly and asked about the
Sturman.

"Experimental vessel. We subjected her entire crew to our device and it succeeded. They were disoriented as hell."

"Why did you need a ship? Why not controlled lab facilities?"

"The
Sturman was
a controlled lab facility. We had to have the isolation of an expanse of sea in case the field spread too far."

"If it was successful, why was it never used in combat?"

"Unfortunately, there were aftereffects, psychological problems that lingered on."

"For how long?"

"I would imagine they are still extant if any of the crew are left alive. They would probably be under treatment, even today."

He seemed appropriately grim about that. Hammond asked if he knew personally of any crewmen under treatment. He shook his head.

"The War Department decided not to employ our device, afraid that the enemy powers would retaliate with something even more insidious. Possibly chemical warfare. So they opted for the big effect, the blow that would end everything: the atom bomb."

"But you and Rinehart stayed with the project until 1955."

Traben's eyes grew dark and cloudy. He was silent a moment, then began to speak about Rinehart as if he were describing an unpleasant relative. "He was a maniac who couldn't see the possibilities. He tried to get everything stopped. I had to fight him at every turn. He became convinced we were experimenting with something
preposterous
and doing unspeakable things to human beings!"

Quietly, Hammond asked, "Were you?"

"Good Lord, no!" Traben barked.

"Rinehart claimed the project dealt with invisibility," said Hammond. "If that's not true, then why was it called Thin Air?"
      

Traben was patient. "The thrust of the disorientation technique was to make the enemy
believe
he was confronting an invisible adversary. In that sense, the name was quite proper. Besides, the War Department had a pixie sense of humor. You recall Overlord, Torch, and Market-Garden?"

Traben smiled at his point, then his eyes narrowed. "I gather you've been talking to Rinehart...."

"I've seen him, yes."

"He's a
totally unbalanced man!"
Traben exclaimed. "He ended up writing books about flying saucers!" He burst out laughing.

Hammond smiled thinly. "Yes, that is damaging to a reputation, isn't it?"

"What people do with their lives is their business, Commander," Traben lectured, "but when they invent stories about impossible plots against humanity and insist they are true, it's more than irresponsible. It's criminal!"