Campion entered one of the four restrooms on the surface level of the Red Rock complex. Inside he found one working light out of three fixed to the ceiling.
According to the major, nothing had changed at Red Rock in twenty years. So why were they on this mission now? What was the device Twiste had trained to use? What was The Tall Company's involvement?
Questions. One after another pouring into his head. He always had questions before missions, of course. But questions about how to complete the job, not about the bigger picture.
He finished urinating and moved to the sink. As he reached for the tap he noticed a tremble in his right hand. Just a little shake.
What the hell is that?
But he knew. It had been quite a long time but he did recognize that feeling; he knew what had caused the slightest of trembles in his hand.
Fear.
Through training and focus Captain Campion had managed to take fear and bottle it away where it could not interfere with the task at hand, whether that task be rooting out insurgents in Fallujah or redirecting a rampaging alien in the Everglades.
So why did it surface now?
Because this mission makes no sense.
Campion understood that his job entailed facing the unknown. So many jobs over the years came with far too many questions and the need to alter plans in midstream. This was different. Everything felt wrong.
Still, he would not retreat from his orders. He defined himself by following and completing just such orders. And if the fear would not go away on its own, then he would make it go away in the only way he knew how. The only way he had ever known how.
Fear could be trumped … by pain.
Campion punched the restroom wall with his left fist, cracking a slate of green tile. Then again. Then again. He struck hard enough to send stings through his knuckles and up his arm, but not hard enough to break bones. He cracked one tile, then another, then another. Drips of blood splashed into the porcelain sink.
Again and again he pounded the wall until he had beaten his fear into submission, chasing it back into its bottle.
Gant glanced at his watch: 11:30 p.m.
He should have gone straight to his cabin to get some sleep. Yet he was too restless to call it a night.
He wandered outside for a while, then found himself inside Red Rock again, meandering to the recreation room where he had held the briefing not long before. It felt like returning to the scene of the crime.
Gant decided to check Campion’s progress in their war game. Just as he came to the room out came Specialist Sal Galati holding a soda in one hand and two Twinkie packages in the other.
"Late-night snack?"
Galati appeared to be sweating, perhaps from embarrassment at his late-night craving. He answered, "Yes, sir," in a voice far too meek for a man who told the loudest, most incredible stories (fact and fiction).
"You’ve got enough sugar there to keep you awake all night. Easy does it."
"Oh, these. They’re for tomorrow, sir. I’ve got this feeling that some sugar and cream filling will be exactly what I need about this time tomorrow."
"Sal, this isn't an overnight excursion," Thom said, swallowed, and assured, "We should be in and out before the end of the day."
"Yes, sir, I know sir," the soldier stumbled, seemingly thrown off-track to the point that the major hoped to hell his man had not been drinking or smoking something.
"Go get some sleep. That’s an order."
Galati nodded and moved away. Gant entered the room.
The fluorescent lights lit the static white walls with a buzzing glow. Chairs were scattered about, old magazines were left unattended, and the candy machine was all but empty. The only part of the room that was neat and well-kept was the table where the game map and pieces lay.
Gant gazed down upon the battlefield. He laughed aloud when he saw the situation.
Campion’s forces were in almost exactly the same positions as when Thunder had finished making Gant’s move. Her ruse had, in fact, slowed him down. Campion had moved some of his front line forces into reserve, while his armor launched only probing attacks.
"Well I’ll be damned."
Poor Campion is outthinking himself. I guess there’s something to be said for psychology.
"I see he’s taken the bait."
It was Lieutenant Colonel Thunder, leaning against the door frame.
"Doesn’t anyone sleep around here?"
She yawned in answer.
"I was signing out and saw your name signed in. Thought I’d see what you’ve been up to," she said, moving into the room and standing next to him.
Gant kept his eyes on the board while telling her, "It looks as if you have managed to confuse him. He is hesitating, not sure what he wants to do."
"And that’s not in his nature. It makes him uncomfortable," she replied. "He likes well-defined goals, a clear path. Not now. Now he is questioning what he’s seeing; questioning what’s right in front of his nose."
Thom could not help but ask, "Are we still talking about Campion … or someone else?"
Liz, still staring at the board, spoke in an almost trance-like monotone: "Look …" she swept her hand in a gesture toward the pieces. ”Look at all the toy soldiers. Just pick them up and move them, roll the dice, and—" she reached down and held aloft a small batch of cardboard markers—"discard what you no longer need."
She let the pieces flutter to the tabletop and then forced herself to look at him.
"Are you ready to be discarded, Major? I wonder how the dice will roll tomorrow."
"I think the dice are loaded."
14
Captain — and Doctor — Brandon Twiste stood at attention in front of Thunder's desk. Gant stood there as well, but in a much more casual posture as he handed Thunder the papers Twiste had shared with him.
"Three men," she said, glancing over the columns. "All three unfit for duty?"
Gant eyed Brandon suspiciously as the doctor answered, "Sawicki suffered bruised ribs during a mission in south Florida five days ago."
"Bruised ribs?" Gant interrupted. "Bruises, yes, but I do not believe—"
"If you question my diagnosis, have him transferred to a hospital facility for more extensive testing. In my opinion, his ribs are bruised and inhibit his ability to complete this mission."
Thunder watched the two men volley, fascinated but unwilling to intervene.
"And Van Buren? Roberts? Are you serious?"
"Roberts complained last night of a sore throat and is running a slight fever."
Liz read aloud, "Ninety-nine point one."
"He complained of a dry throat," Gant corrected. "Because he and Pearson got into some kind of video game contest and ended up screaming at each other. As for his so-called fever, that could easily be the thermometer you used. He is perfectly fine."
"He has a fever," Twiste repeated. "He is showing early signs of possible flu-like symptoms. He is unfit."
"And Van Buren? A rash? Are you serious?"
"He is suffering from Toxicodendron pubescens."
Liz translated in an almost detached voice: "Poison oak. Probably got it walking the grounds here; it's all over."
Gant huffed and growled, "He has an itch and it disqualifies him from this mission? I do not believe that General Borman will—"
"General Borman has reviewed this sick list and approved it," Twiste said while remaining in a mockingly stiff version of attention.
"Wow," is all Thunder could say.
Gant gasped, "You must be joking."
Twiste finally faced his friend and told him, "The general seemed unconcerned that our team would be down three men. He appeared more focused on the simple fact that we are scheduled to breech the vault door in less than an hour."