"I thought you dealt in the unknown. I thought your job was to figure these things out," Thunder said, sensing misgiving in McCaul’s voice.
"My dear Colonel, science is a wonderful thing, but it can be a dangerous thing, too. The more secrets of the universe we unlock, the more fragile and tenuous our existence seems."
Thunder fell silent and absorbed the whole of the conversation.
"Colonel?"
"Thank you, Dr. McCaul."
"Oh, don’t thank me, it wasn’t a bother at all."
"It may be. I can think of a couple of people who probably won’t like the fact that we just had this conversation."
"That’s okay." Thunder felt McCaul’s smile over the phone line. "Sometimes we scientists like to kick over a rock and watch all the slimy bugs go running for cover."
Thunder laughed, then said goodbye. She had to go confront one of those slimy bugs, but Vsalov — she felt — was not likely to go running for cover. He was more likely to turn and fight.
Liz remembered Major Gant, Campion, and the rest of the men, as well as the metal plate welded to the door to seal their fate. All the silver oak leaves in all the army could not erase her shame if she did not act.
Not again. Not this time.
She remembered Twiste confronting her, thinking her the devil pulling the strings. She remembered the way he had looked at her, threatened her, not knowing that she had already earned the wrath of General Borman for trying to derail this mission.
Maybe if she could find out more on this end — unearth the truth — it might help the men down below, or at least ensure that their sacrifice did not occur in vain.
Or maybe, Liz, you just owe it to yourself to do the right thing for once.
And it was not merely about the Archangel detachment. If her fears were correct, if Major Gant and his team accomplished their mission, things might get worse, and for a lot more people.
Liz stormed out of her office with long, determined strides. She rounded the corner and approached the elevator, using her access card to activate the car. A series of whirs and clangs announced the elevator's approach.
When the big doors opened a soldier in black BDU’s stepped out. She immediately sensed that something was wrong. He held one hand to his temple, while in the other he clutched a bundle of plastic-wrapped packages.
"Soldier? Roberts, right?"
The grunt tried to stand at attention and show the proper respect, but he was obviously bothered by something either emotional or physical — or both.
"What seems to be the problem?" she asked cautiously as her mind recalled twenty years' worth of incident reports at Red Rock.
"Well, I’ve got one hell of a headache," he answered. "And then there’s these. I just can’t figure it out."
He carried a number of Twinkie packages. Thunder remembered seeing Roberts pump quarters into the vending machine in the cafeteria.
"What can’t you figure out?" Liz shifted uneasily.
"Before the mission — I mean, before the other guys went on the mission — I had this incredible craving for these things. I just couldn’t get enough of them. But I wasn’t eating them. I just kept thinking, man these would be great to have on the mission, you know? Like I was going to need a Twinkie in the middle of all of that, you know?"
"And now?"
He looked at the packages and tossed one to her. She caught it with both hands.
"And now I realize I hate these things."
Liz probed, "Other guys on your team buy up a lot of Twinkies, too?"
Roberts did not need to think about that answer. He told her, "Twinkies, soda, candy bars, and I think Pearson took in a can of coffee. Just getting all this weird stuff like we were going to need it. I mean, we never stop for a snack when we’re in the field. Maybe an MRE if it’s an all-day thing, but not a friggin’ Twinkie. Other stuff, too. Moss took a package of light bulbs. I saw him, but at the time I didn't think it was weird. It was like, sure, we'll need light bulbs down there and I'll need Twinkies. Strange, you know?"
Liz’s attention wandered and she vacantly agreed, "Yeah, I know …".
She did not look at him again, so Roberts walked away, probably wondering to himself if the lieutenant colonel felt right.
Thunder no longer thought about confronting Vsalov; she had a much more pressing matter. She boarded the elevator but did not go toward the vault room. Instead, she stopped on sublevel four, home of — among other things — the records room.
Corporal "Sammy" Sanchez walked briskly along the corridor, his boots offering muffled thumps against the floor. He oftentimes mused that facilities this big were not meant to be so empty.
He came to the records room, saw the padlock Borman had placed there snapped off, and went inside, only to immediately wonder if the lieutenant colonel had succumbed to the same delusion-causing influences that had overcome his previous commanding officer.
The records room looked small, but was really quite long. Row upon row of shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, with only tiny pathways in between to create a cozy feeling. Yet those rows of shelves ran for great length through the shadows of the poorly lit area.
Thunder sat at a desk at the mouth of those pathways. A solitary lamp augmented the aging light fixtures drooping overhead from dust-covered cords.
Piles upon piles of folders surrounded the colonel, their contents scattered over the desk as well as over two old wooden chairs and even more were strewn on the cold concrete floor.
Without looking at him, Colonel Thunder said, "Glad to see you could make it, Corporal. Pull up a chair."
He strolled in cautiously, still trying to ascertain her state of mind. After all, there were no chairs available for the pulling.
"Colonel … um … ma'am, are you okay?"
She continued to shuffle through the reports, actually throwing two sheets of paper over her left shoulder in a combination of frustration and impatience. The pages — yellowed with age — fluttered like mortally wounded paper airplanes before hitting the deck.
"Okay? No, Corporal, I’m not okay. Why? Why do you ask?"
Sanchez remembered how comfortable she had made him feel on the surface. Now either she was intentionally making him uncomfortable or something was wrong. He quickly wondered again if this was one of her psyche tests, the type where he could end up transferred. He wondered if that was a bad thing.
"Well, Colonel, ma'am," he said. He had never gotten anywhere by being coy. "We’re supposed to keep an eye out for strange behavior, and you seem to be behaving strangely."
She stopped looking at the papers and offered him a gaze that made him feel as if he had an "I’m an asshole" bumper sticker slapped on his forehead.
Sanchez’s concern for her behavior increased substantially as she slammed the remaining papers on the cluttered desk and rose to her feet with a determination that made him feel he might be in for a left hook.
In the 1.5 seconds it took Liz to get into his face Sanchez wondered which would be worse — the damage to his chivalry if he were to hit her back or the time in the stockade for striking a superior officer. Then again, a few days ago he had shot a superior officer, so all things were certainly relative.
"On the lookout for strange behavior — is that right?" She challenged.
"Sure, I mean, yes, ma'am. That’s part of our—"
"Strange behavior like people hearing voices. An example of which would be Colonel Haas and his idea that his daughter was behind the vault door."
"Well, yes."
Her eyes were wide and angry, but he could see that they were also tired.
"How about a tactical team that stuffs its pockets with Twinkies before it goes into a combat zone on an unknown mission?"