"There are fifteen empty head shacks," Trent said. "You can use one of those. It's got lights, electricity for your laptops, whatever you need."
Loren inquired, "Head shacks?"
"That's army lingo for the old launchpads. A head shack is a missile bunker. The missile on its launch rail is called the missile `head,' so that's where head shack comes from. You'll see them in a few minutes. You might have to sweep one out, though. All I do is stick my head in them once a month to make sure there's no squatters."
And ten to one this head shack is chock-full of spiders and God knows what else, Nora considered.
"Could you show us around the island now?" Annabelle asked Trent, a camera slung around her neck. "I'm dying to see it. It looks so exotic."
Trent led them toward. a trail. "If you're a tropical nature buff, you'll find this place pretty interesting."
Nora frowned, lugging two suitcase-sized field kits, while Loren carried the laptop and a bigger bag of collection and indexing gear. Annabelle bopped along with her big Nikon bouncing off her bosom. "It's so beautiful," she said wistfully.
You think it might be nice of you to carry one of these for me? came Nora's sarcasm again. She sputtered. Fat chance.
Various types of palm trees formed a maze before them. Nora didn't walk ten feet before she noticed three different kinds of geckos, two kinds of parrots, and a squawking gull-billed tern. Just as they entered the trail, a sedate marsh extended, mangrove roots jutting upward like weird plumbing. Clumps of water locus seemed to shiver as they passed; owls looked down at them from high nests in cabbage palms. A minute ago they'd been baking in the sun, but now the woods seemed to draw them into a labyrinthine coolness. Nora oddly felt as though she were traversing worlds.
KEEP our! a red-lettered sign warned. THIS IS A U.S. ARMY RESERVATION AND IS UNDER SURVEILLANCETRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED ACCORDING TO THE CIVILIAN STATUES OF THE UNIFORMED CODE OF MILITARY JUSTICE AND ALSO FLORIDA STATE LAW.
"That's what I call a welcome," Loren joked.
"You've got surveillance cameras out here?" Nora asked.
"Not anymore," Trent said, bored as he strode forward. "The sign's all bark and no bite, but it usually does the job."
"A heyday of regional flora and fauna," Loren commented next. A marsh rabbit shot away through brush at their approach. Swamp lilies and wild purple petunias bobbed their heads, and Spanish moss hung like mop heads off low branches.
"There are also leatherback turtles, peregrine falcons, and big-eared bats."
"I'll have to get pictures of those," Annabelle assured them.
"Hate to tell you," Trent went on, "but most of the wildlife out here is so unused to human contact, you'll never see them."
"What about alligators?" Annabelle asked next.
"There aren't any here. But even if there were…" Trent indicated the pistol on his hip. "I'm a qualified army pistol expert."
Dirty Harry in green, Nora thought.
Ahead she noted a long wall of sunlight beyond more trees. It seemed uncharacteristic until they broke through. "Wow," someone said. Now Nora saw what had been done: A clearing the size of a football field had been cut into the woods and in it had been erected Trent's drab cinder block "head shacks." They didn't look like shacks at all, more like blockhouses. Fifteen such structures in even rows, forty feet long, twenty high, and twenty wide. Gray-painted metal roofs sat atop each.
"Those are about the ugliest things I've ever seen on an island," Loren remarked.
"In the army," Trent said, "the ugliest is the most efficient. It doesn't matter what it is. A truck, a garbage can, a tie, or a head shack-the army will go out of its way to make it as ugly as possible. Even the Nike missiles themselves were ugly."
"But you said there's no missiles here now?" Annabelle asked.
"Not a one. Like I told you earlier, they were dismantled at the end of Reagan's second term and I think we gave them to Israel."
"Lucky them," Nora said.
Keys jangled. "Say hello to your new field lab," and then Trent opened a black-and very ugly-metal door. Hinges grated. He stepped in and felt around the wall. "At least we should have electricity."
"Should?" Nora asked.
"A maintenance crew was supposed to come out here yesterday to fuel the generator and purifiers. The generator runs on diesel fuel."
Suddenly light bloomed, and then everybody jumped an inch off the ground at a series of loud twangy pops!
"What was that!" Annabelle exclaimed.
They all moved inside, Trent looking up. "Not as bad as I thought. We only blew about a third of the bulbs."
Nora saw rows of large hooded lightbulbs mounted along the structure's metal roof. "It's good enough," she said. And she didn't see any spiderwebs or wasp nests. "A little moldy but it'll do."
Annabelle gazed down the length of the building. "So, twenty years ago there was a missile in this building?"
"Yep," Trent said. "And if the crew had ever had to fire one, a motor would crank the roof open, the missile rail would rise, then off it goes."
"They'd fire it from in here?" Nora questioned. "Wouldn't there be back-blast, exhaust gases?"
"The crew would actually launch from the missile station, not from any of these head shacks."
"Where's the station?"
"On the other side of the island. I can show it to you if you want, but…"
.Who needs to see another ugly army building?" Loren supposed.
"Exactly."
Nora set down her field case and looked around, trying to come to grips with the environment. This is going to be a pain in the ass, but I'll at least try to have a decent time. "Well, everything appears to be in order, Lieutenant. I guess we might as well get started setting up our gear."
"I hate to leave my cameras and dive gear in here," Annabelle fretted.
"I can guarantee that your valuables and important equipment will be perfectly safe," Trent said. "It'd be really tough for thieves to get on the island."
Nora wasn't sure but she thought she heard Annabelle whisper to Trent something like, I trust you and Loren but… She glanced briefly at Nora, frowned, and turned away.
You DICK! Nora thought.
"Before you get the rest of your gear come along with me to the other clearing," Trent suggested, marching them forward. "It's a perfect campsite."
Nora groaned and left the bulky field cases. The team filed down another trail, through more woods. Nora frowned at Annabelle's bouncy steps as more jealousy percolated. All women are NOT created equal, she cursed the Fates. She followed last in line, forced to face Annabelle's hourglass physique anytime she looked up: the tight rump churning in the skimpy bikini bottoms, athletic legs flexing. I hope she breaks all her nails…
Down the trail a ways, Annabelle pointed, enthused. "Look how yellow they are!"
A dozen large, bright yellow butterflies clung to the brambles, their brilliant wings barely moving.
"A southern dogface butterfly," Loren said. "Colias cesonia, at least I think it is."
"But I'm sure Professor Craig knows for sure." Annabelle glanced over her shoulder to Nora. "She is the professor, right?"
Nora ground her teeth at the blonde. "It looks like, well, let me see, like a fucking yellow butterfly, Annabelle. And beyond that I wouldn't know because I'm a specialist in segmented marine worms, not fucking butterflies."
Annabelle grinned at her jab, then complimented Loren, "You're really a smart guy, Loren."
I do not believe this bitch, Nora thought.
"Well, I could be wrong," Loren deflected. "There are thousands of different species of butterflies from six different families."
"How many different kinds of worms are there?"
"Oh, tens of thousands-"
"And fifty-four hundred Polychaetes alone," Nora struggled to contribute, "but it's estimated that there may still be hundreds more that haven't been discovered yet."