At the entrance to the nearby restaurant Suttles borrowed pencil and paper and hurriedly scribbled out what he could remember of the information the bartender had provided via his ventriloquist’s mannequin. Only when he was through did he allow himself to examine it at leisure and with care. This and that, combined so. It didn’t seem to make any sense.
Maybe, he told himself, that was the idea.
Since they’d come in Matt’s car he was forced to take a taxi all the way back to the base, leaving lights, laughter, and friends behind. No doubt he was embarked on a fool’s errand and would quickly come to regret his gullibility. But what intrigued him as much as the cockeyed formula was its source. The only chemical formulae he’d ever heard bartenders spout were pretty basic and involved combining two parts vodka with one part vermouth, add cherry juice, and so on. He glanced at the paper he’d filled with names and equations. It was devoid of allusions to alcohol or its chemical analogues.
Whether it was equally inflammatory remained to be demonstrated.
Suttles was an electrical engineer, not a chemist. Among his many tasks was to ensure that the lights stayed on inside an Abrams tank. But he remembered enough chemistry to be intrigued by what the bartender/dummy combination had deposed.
The cab ride was an extravagance. Now he faced the difficult task of acquiring the necessary equipment late on a Friday night.
SIX
Ross Ed hadn’t broken stride. He continued to draw beer, mix drinks, and make jokes. Midnight passed into a new day without anything changing in the bar. But the look on that soldier’s face as he’d hurriedly made his exit stuck with him.
He felt bad about leaving the way he did, but Raskin had left hours ago and Ross Ed didn’t have his home number. Probably the manager was out with his family anyway. So the short note left on his desk would have to suffice.
Taking off without waiting to collect the three days’ pay he had coming to him might look suspicious, but Ross didn’t feel he had any choice. The officer might return at any time, with fellow curiosity-seekers in tow. Specialists whose pointed questions Ross might not be able to joke his way out of. He wasn’t ready to give up Jed yet. Not by a double shot.
He let Mark close up, tucking the alien under one arm as he made his way through the employee parking lot. The Caddy was waiting for him, hulking and secure.
This late there was little traffic. As for his motel bill, he paid on a daily basis. The bored night clerk didn’t bat an eye when Ross Ed informed him that he was checking out.
“Finally decided to leave us, Mr. Hager?” Behind the clerk the printer chattered out a receipt.
“Time I was moving on. You know how it is.” Ross remained calm as he periodically checked on the drive-through outside the office.
“Yeah,” murmured the clerk, not knowing at all. He’d lived in El Paso all his life. “Where you headed’?” Ross’s receipt was extensive and the printer was taking its time. He could have left without it, but that, too, would have looked suspicious.
“Oh, you know. Just traveling around.”
“Lucky you. I’ve got three kids and no money to go anywhere. But hey, that was my choice.” Ross Ed felt no need to comment as the man tore off the finished receipt and folded it for ease of handling. “Have a good trip.”
Ross accepted the wad of paper. “Thanks. I’ll leave the key in the room, next to the phone.”
As he prepared to depart he contemplated putting Jed in the trunk. It was spacious, and the night air was pleasant, but in the end the alien ended up back in his familiar place on the passenger seat. Ross Ed knew that if the situation had been reversed he wouldn’t have wanted to be stuffed into the trunk like another piece of luggage. The image of Jed driving down the road with a dead Texan slumped in the seat next to him was enough to crack the serious expression that had been threatening to set up permanently on the big man’s face.
Pulling out of the lot, he turned down Airway and up the first on-ramp, heading west. Maybe he was being overly cautious, but in any case it felt good to be back on the road again. The slim strongbox he’d picked up at Wal-Mart fit neatly under the passenger seat. It was full of fifties, more than enough to get them to and through California.
He wiped at his eyes with the back of his left hand, checked his watch. The Cadillac’s dash-mounted clock was useless, of course, since all General Motors car clocks from the sixties and seventies were purpose-built to fail after a few years’ use. It was just after three A.M. He’d drive until his attention started to wander, then find a nice motel and sleep until his system was restored. That should allow him to get well away from El Paso.
In addition to departing in unseemly haste and abandoning his friends, the curious soldier had asked too many calculating questions. Worse, he’d paid attention to the answers. Thinking back, Ross Ed couldn’t remember the man laughing, not even once.
Actually, it was kind of surprising that Jed hadn’t attracted serious attention before tonight. In that respect Ross knew he’d been lucky. Noticing that the speedometer had crept up to seventy-five, he eased off on the foot feed and let it fall back to sixty-four as he shifted over into the slow lane. It meant that while the majority of traffic would pass him, including the big rigs, any highway-patrol cars in the vicinity would ignore him. He had no desire to repeat the encounter he’d had back at Alamogordo.
The interstate stretched out before him; dark, straight, and promising.
It took Suttles a couple of hours to assemble the necessary materials in a deserted garage on the far side of the motor pool. A couple of humvees stood parked in back, awaiting service. Otherwise the large shedlike structure was empty except for repair gear and supplies. The big overhead fluorescents provided more light than he needed.
Sitting back from the workbench and pushing the magnifying goggles up onto his forehead, he examined the results of an hour’s intensive work. The little pile of powder that was the result of his efforts would fit neatly into a thimble with room to spare. It certainly didn’t look like much.
Wearily, he glanced out a window. It was starting to grow light outside and he knew he didn’t have much time left before the morning detail arrived to begin work. Bearing in mind the bartending ventriloquist’s warning, he wanted to conclude the experiment sans witnesses. It would also be nice not to have to explain what he was doing in case it proved, as was likely, to be a complete and embarrassing flop.
Devising a suitable receptacle for the experiment had left him stumped until he remembered the stainless-steel thermos bottle he always kept in his work locker. Using a putty knife, he carefully scraped every grain of powder into the thermos before adding two different liquids from a pair of otherwise empty Dr Pepper bottles. Two drops of vinegar completed the foul-smelling concoction.
Sealing the thermos, he placed it upside down on the work-bench and stepped back. Feeling more and more like a prize idiot, he stood and stared as the sun continued its inexorable ascent outside. A check of his watch showed that reveille was on the verge of blowing.
And that’s about enough of this stupidity, he decided as he took a step toward the bench. Talk about your wasted evenings …
A surprisingly deep-throated bang stunned his hearing and a blast of air knocked him to the floor. When he finally regained his senses there was no sign of the thermos bottle.
There was, however, a hole a foot in diameter in the middle of the solid steel worktable. Tools and gear had been sent flying in all directions, and indeed, a ball-peen hammer had just missed his head. Stumbling over to the table, he found that he could look through the hole into a depression in the concrete floor seven inches deep.
It took a bit of searching, and he never did find the thermos. But he found where it had gone. He finally noticed the hole in the roof when he tilted his head back to wipe sweat from his eyes. The edges were bent outward, not down, indicating that something had gone up and through. The hole wasn’t much wider than the AWOL thermos.
Well now, he mused, isn’t that interesting? Just mix up your powder, add vinegar, and wait. If a pinch of the concoction would do that to a heavy thermos, what might a truckload do for a solid-fuel rocket? Very funny, ha-ha, all part of the act.
It was an act he was now thoroughly convinced deserved a much larger and more appreciative audience.
Noddy Raskin was busy and in no mood for company, but his secretary said the visitors were insistent. They were also in full uniform, which didn’t surprise him. Visitors from the base usually wore uniforms when making arrangements for the use of civilian facilities. The hotel had hosted many banquets and special events.
He noted one lieutenant colonel among the assembled brass, who filled his modest office to capacity. “Look, if it’s about the fight last week, we handled it the way we always do. I’m sorry if there’ve been repercussions.”
All smiles, a young major stepped forward. “Our visit has nothing to do with any fight, Mr. Raskin. We just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
Raskin emitted a sardonic snort. “I’ve heard that one before. What are you guys, MPs?” No, he told himself, that couldn’t be right. There were no enlisted men in among the visitors, only officers. Come to think of it, that didn’t make much sense.
Four of them there were, and not a sergeant or specialist among them. As his initial concerns faded his curiosity intensified. “Won’t you please sit down? A couple of you, anyway.” What important base function needed catering this time? he wondered.
