“We might have to do just that. I need to think, Major. We’ve got to get this thing back in the bottle.”
28
Stafford opened his car window and poured the dregs of his coffee out onto the gravel of the truck park. He had backed his rental in between two large deuce and halfs in a line of transport vehicles parked across the railroad tracks from the DRMO, which positioned him to watch the entrance.
The run to Atlanta from Anniston had been uneventful. He had passed some state troopers lurking in the median. strip, but they’d seemed more interested in watching for real Hotlanta-bound speeders than in his nondescript Army sedan. He wondered when the Army would figure out what he had done with the Fort Gillem Crown Vie, but that was their problem.
It would put them on notice that he was aware of their interest, though.
Perhaps he should have done something a little less in-their-face. A pang of conscience had prompted him to mail back the keys to the Fort Mcclellan motor pool, along with the parking stub. That officious sergeant would probably get his ass handed to him.
So what’s the plan, Stan? He wasn’t entirely sure why he had come back to the DRMO, except that Sparks might be having his hotel hi Atlanta watched, and he couldn’t just show up in Graniteville at four in the morning. He was convinced more man ever that the Army had somehow managed to lose a cylinder of some seriously bad shit. The visit of the CERT, the military police showing up at his motel, and Ray Sparks’s entire demeanor were signs of real trouble. He wished he had not told Sparks what he suspected, because if Sparks and the rest of the DCIS went into the cover-up mode, he’d be out in the cold. Again.
He had also promised Owen Warren not to drag the girl into this mess, but by telling Sparks about the girl, he’d blown that, too. That, he really regretted.
A Fort Gillem MP car on night patrol came down the main street in front of the truck park and turned across the tracks into the DRMO complex.
After a minute, he could see the car’s headlights reflecting off the back buildings of the complex, and then the car emerged at the far end, crossed back across the tracks, and resumed its patrol. Stafford was pretty sure his car was just about invisible in the pocket of shadow between the two large trucks.
And then there was the problem of Carson. Stafford was equally convinced that Carson either had the cylinder or knew where it was. He had told Sparks he suspected Carson. The question was, Had Sparks told the Army, and what would the Army do about that? If they couldn’t even admit they’d lost the cylinder, would they be likely to move against Carson?
After seeing those military police at the Holidaytnn, he thought they might just be looking to pick his ass up and take him to the backwoods of the Anniston Depot. On the other hand, he wondered if today’s politically correct Army really had it in them to squeeze someone. He doubted it So all Carson really had to do was sit tight and not say anything, and he could do whatever he wanted to with the cylinder in due course, assuming the Army didn’t find it He rubbed his eyes with his left hand, around and around. So what was the plan? It was Sunday morning, so there shouldn’t be anyone coming to the DRMO until Monday.
Maybe go in and take a look around himself? He yawned as the caffeine wore off. Not much point in that, he concluded.
All those warehouses filled with stuff — it could be anywhere, or not even here at all. What he needed now was some sleep, and men he would head for Graniteville at daylight This time, he would talk directly to that girl, Jessamine: What a fascinating name. Then he fell asleep.
At twelve-fifty in the morning, Wendell Carson drove through the gates of Fort Gillem. He drove by the empty guard shack, up the deserted main drag, and then turned across the railroad tracks toward the DRMO parking lot The lot was empty, as was the rail siding. The nearest vehicles were a few dozen Army troop transports spotted across the tracks. He parked in his usual place and shut down to wait and watch for a few minutes. He wanted to be damned sure no one was watching the place, and he would prefer not to be unlocking the front door just as the night patrol came past, necessitating explanations he’d rather not give.
I After fifteen minutes, the night patrol did come by. Carson slumped down in his seat, but they did not appear to notice the Army pickup truck that had not been there the last time. When the MP car went back across the tracks, Carson got out and let himself into the admin office.
He left the lights off and went straight through to the back door that led into the auction warehouse. He stopped at the back door of the warehouse to examine the lay-down area through the window hi the door.
The tarmac was well lighted by rose-colored security lights mounted on all the warehouses, but all he could see out there were the darkened lines of palletized materiel. There were four flatbed trailers parked over by the demil building, but no trucks or other vehicles were visible anywhere hi the area. He noted the time. The MPs came around about every thirty, forty minutes, but they wouldn’t stop and check a building unless something seemed wrong from the outside or one I of the alarmed warehouses had signaled a problem.
He let himself out the back door and walked confidently across the lay-down tarmac. If someone was watching, he did not want to appear as if he was anything but the manager checking the place out. He went straight to the feed assembly building and let himself through the cipher locked door. Inside, the warehouse was dark except for two security lights. The stacked shelves were empty, as was the conveyor system leading next door to the Monster. He did a walk-through of the entire warehouse anyway, just to make damned sure. If someone wanted to watch the demil building, this would be a good place from which to do it, but the place was empty, with only the forklift battery-charging station displaying any signs of energy.
He went back outside, after once again surveying the lay-down area through the door window for a few minutes. Then he let himself into the demil building itself, carefully closing the door to make sure the cipher lock had reset. He walked through the darkened anteroom and into the control area. Here there were small security lights set high up on the wall, illuminating the great bulk of the demil machine, the open area in front of the Monster, and the conveyor belt coming through the wall from the feed building next door. The control booth was shut down and devoid of lights.
He walked over to the conveyor belt, took one last look around, and then put his hand down on the last roller before the feed aperture of the demil machine. I should have brought a flashlight, he thought as he counted back to the third roller from the aperture and squatted down to examine the bearing assembly and end cap in the dim light. It looked no different from the ones on either side.
He put his hand on the highly polished steel surface of the roller by the edge of the conveyor belt and was surprised to find that it was warm. He took his hand away and tried again, then compared the sensation by touching the rollers on either side. They were cold. The third one was definitely warm. He remembered thinking the cylinder had been warm the last time he touched it, too.
He removed his hand and thought about that. Why in the hell would it be warm? Some chemical reaction going on inside that cylinder? Could the thing be unstable?
He touched the roller again. No doubt about it. In marked contrast, he felt a cold tendril of fear stirring in him as he straightened up. Would it be safe to open the roller assembly to retrieve this thing? Suppose it was build big up pressure, or worse, about to burst or start leaking?
He almost didn’t hear the rumble of several large trucks outside, until one of them locked his air brakes, causing Carson nearly to jump out of his skin.