Even so… even knowing what I knew, I wanted to believe it anyway. I wanted to let go and swim in the soft sea of luxury. And, what the hell did it matter if I believed or not? Even if I knew it was fake, it was still true. Shaun's job was to take care of me so I could help win the war.
And then I had to laugh at myself. Even when it's true, I don't believe it. And then I stopped laughing-the assumption here was that I could help win the war. And that wasn't necessarily a valid assumption. Nobody even knew if the war was winnable anymore. But…
I looked across at Shaun. He was still waiting for my reply. I reached out to tousle his hair, then at the last moment realized that was something a man did to a boy. Instead, I put my hand on his shoulder and patted him gently. "Y'know something. I can't remember the last time somebody told me he just wanted to make me happy. At least, not without a hidden agenda. It's been a long time." I shrugged and accepted the circumstance. "Thanks. I promise I'll do my best to be as comfortable as I can. If you see me tensing up, hit me with a club and give me your ten best suggestions for getting happy again, okay?"
He grinned happily. "Yes, sir!" And threw me the sharpest salute I'd ever seen.
What the hell. I saluted back. I felt silly as hell doing it, but what the hell. At least his was the most honest salute I'd ever received.
Before the Chtorran plagues could be initiated into the human population, before any agent of transmission could begin the job of infection, a reservoir of disease germs had to be established for those agents to draw upon.
The process of infection requires—demands—a reservoir. Some host mechanism must first be present in which the disease-causing agent can exist indefinitely. The process of transmission and infection cannot occur without a biological partner providing storage and reproduction facilities for the germs.
If we are to accurately establish the method of Chtorran colonization, it is essential that we identify that reservoir of infection. Where-or what-is it?
—The Red Book,
(Release 22.19A)
Chapter 32
The Long Briefing
"The only acceptable substitute for brains is silence."
-SOLOMON SHORT
General Tirelli entered the room from the back. She didn't even glance at me; she just strode forward down the center aisle and up onto the dais. Several tugboats followed in her wake; that was what I called the inevitable troop of aides and assistants who followed every command-level officer. I'd made it a personal hobby to gauge the styles of the different tugboats as they delicately maneuvered various high officials into position, setting up microphones, cameras, briefing books, pens, notepads, and water pitchers. What I liked about Lizard was the way she brushed the tugboats impatiently aside and got immediately down to business. I noticed that Dwan Grodin, the electric potato, was sitting quietly in the front row of chairs.
"Would you all please be seated?" Lizard asked loudly. She waited with visible impatience. I thought about grabbing a chair, they looked comfortable. I'd sluiced away as much of Mexico as could be scrubbed off my skin, put on clean underwear and a neutral jumpsuit, and felt a lot better physically than I had in days; but I was still feeling surly. Mostly about Lizard right now. I didn't like the way she'd brushed by me so coldly. So I ignored her request and decided to stand instead. I drifted over to the back of the room and positioned myself right next to the exit. I folded my arms against my chest and leaned nonchalantly, but deliberately, against the wall-and thought about my promise to Uncle Ira. This wasn't going to be an easy one to keep.
I studied the twelve-man combat team just filling up the last row of chairs. They'd been assigned to the mission at my recommendation, despite protests from the Science Section that the space could better be used for twelve more scientists. Furthermore, the weight allowance for all that heavy military gear could be better used for more probes and monitoring equipment. Lizard had backed me up on the need for a security squad, and that had been that. But this wasn't the team I had picked. I had picked a squad of battle-hardened veterans, men and women I'd worked with. The troops I had picked looked like they'd been chiseled out of a rough stone cliff. These soldiers were children. They were tall, they were broad-shouldered and straight-backed, they had great posture. You could use them for doorposts. They were all annoyingly clean and bright and attentive; but the only thing chiseled about them was their cheekbones.
To the untrained eye, these kids might have looked like combat-ready troops-especially in comparison to all the flabby scientists around them, most of whom looked as if they had been sewn together out of big pink bags of jelly; but I knew better. This was somebody's drill team; they were here because they looked good. Maybe this was a reward for them; they'd been good and somebody decided that they deserved a vacation and bumped the muscled workhorses off the roster to favor the pampered thoroughbreds. These kids were too confident, too self-assured; they were big and strong and friendly-looking. That was the giveaway. They didn't have the narrow look of death in their eyes. They didn't have the right sense of spiritual exhaustion and mordant resignation, they didn't have the inner core of silent hardness. They were virgins. I hoped to God they wouldn't be needed for anything more strenuous than carrying luggage to the exit lobby. I wondered whose good idea this had been and why Lizard had let it happen.
A six-meter projection screen dominated the forward wall of the main lounge. Lizard stood in front of it and looked out across the room. The lounge was arranged theater style, and every man and woman assigned to the mission was present. There were 180 of us. The Latin Americans were sending an additional team of 85 who would meet us in Amapa. My gut-level feeling was that we had too many scientists and assistants and not enough combat veterans. I knew that we weren't planning any drops, but… I also knew that accidents only happened when you didn't prepare for them.
"Congratulations to you all. Operation Nightmare is officially underway-" Lizard began. She had to wait until the applause died down before she could continue. "We're exactly one year and one day late, but we're on our way. Dr. Zymph assured me before we left that the Chtorrans would still be there waiting for us, and all of our surveillance seems to bear out her prediction, so the trip won't be wasted." There were only a few polite chuckles. Stand-up comedy was not Lizard's forte, and she knew it. She took a paper out of her breast pocket. "I have a note here from the President. She says, 'General Tirelli, I don't have to tell you how important your work is. You and your dedicated team know that better than anyone. Know this, that you are traveling with the hopes of an entire planet. You carry with you the best equipment, the best information, and the finest support that the United States can provide. You also carry our most heartfelt hopes for a speedy and successful resolution of your work. I look forward to the opportunity to personally thank each and every one of you for a job well-done. You have my complete confidence, and you have the best wishes of the people of the Earth."' Lizard refolded the note and slipped it back into her pocket without comment.
She continued brusquely. "We're carrying with us several observers from the Brazilian government-" She had to wait again until the applause died down. "I see that some of you have already met Dr. Julian Amador and Dr. Maria Rodriguez. It's an honor to have the both of you aboard. Let me also introduce Ambassador Jorje-Molinero, who will be traveling with us, acting as our host and our liaison, at least as far as Amapa, and he'll be reporting on our operation directly to his government, so please give him your utmost cooperation." That Ambassador Jorje-Molinero did not receive as warm a welcome as the two scientists did not go unnoticed. The strained relations between the North American Operations Authority and the Latin American Security Council were no secret; things had been especially tense since the liberation of South Mexico-and the Brazilians had been among the most vocal in their objections. As a result, Operation Nightmare was no longer simply a high-intensity surveillance operation. Now it carried a lot of political baggage; it was also an attempt to thaw out the frozen relations between two superpowers. Neither Ambassador Jorje-Molinero nor General Elizabeth Tirelli appeared particularly sanguine about the situation.