Project - 16 Page 5

  “None. We don't keep track other than numbers. Special messages are sent via courier and are signed for but I doubt our guy would have took that risk. No, he probably put them in the bag before it was loaded onto the plane and they simply flew through the system unnoticed. The Dauntless receives thousands of hard-copies, orders, schematics and the like, so it could easily have slipped through the net.”

  “Have you tried to find this guy?” I asked.

  “We did, but that was just before we realised the last letter was nearly a year old. In that time we've rotated the men twice. The chances of finding him now would be slim and unless he were to confess it all to us we'd have nothing to pin on him.”

  “So DuPont had to have access to the incoming mail at his end in order for this to work. Surely all personal letters would have been sent via email?” I said.

  “Yes and as it turns out Alex had weeks of time logged sorting dispatches into their relevant files,” said Riley.

  “How did he wangle that job if he was a Marine?” She shrugged. “So we're looking at something that has been planned, prepared for and has now been executed. But why? To elope?”

  “You may need to read all of the letters for it to make sense,” she said. “But the brief side of the story is that they think they've found something here, buried in an underground bunker this woman found.”

  “Something?”

  “Not treasure or loot but something else. Perhaps you should read the letters, it'll make more sense to you.”

  She stood and drained the last of her cup before replacing it on the table with the clean ones. Then the Colonel rose to his feet and I did the same. Military life was catching.

  “Miller, there are digs you can use tonight if you want. Riley is staying on-base too, but in the morning I hope you can begin to help her hunt this boy down. If he has found something we need to know before the NSU get word of it - and they will, mark my words.”

  “Why do you think the NSU would be interested?” I asked.

  “Why wouldn't they be?” he replied, laughing.

  “I'll stop over,” I said. “It'll give me a chance to work out the best way of finding him. What do you intend to do once you've got him back?” I asked.

  “He'll face a court martial for being AWOL, maybe do a little bit of time. I can't predict what'll happen to be honest,” said the Colonel. “We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  Riley saluted the old man and he smiled, returning the kind gesture. Then we both left the stuffy cabin and went out into the cool fresh air of a British winter.

  “Why don't we get some chow?” said Riley as we crossed the busy parade ground. She had a long stride that made me increase my pace a little. She also had the usual walk of a soldier - eyes front, regimental arm swings and a keen awareness of what was going on around her. I hung back a little and let her take the lead mainly because in all my time coming backwards and forwards from this base I'd never eaten here and I didn't know where to go.

  “Sure,” I replied and avoided looking at the curve of her well-fitted combats.

  “You came straight from the place you found those kids?” she asked. I noticed that the formality of talking to a superior officer had gone and her accent became more defined.

  “Yeah. About 160, 170 miles.” She nodded and her hair swayed with the motion. The black hat she was wearing had a logo on the front and back, some kind of cross-hair in red stitching. We passed a platoon of troops in fatigues being drilled around the perimeter and Riley nodded to one of them.

  “He know you?” I asked.

  “Served in Syria together,” she replied. “I hope they've got some steak on. I could eat a steak.”

  We marched between a row of smaller buildings made of corrugated sheeting that'd been daubed with paint and scrim netting. On the other side was a small courtyard lined with narrow accommodation huts that had doors facing inwards to a tent that took up most of the area. A stainless steel chimney poked out of the top, belching scorched meat and burning wood smells out into the cold air.

  “The grill's on,” she said with sudden animation. “We might be in luck.”

  We followed two or three others walking towards the line, taking our place in it as the aromas made a full frontal assault on my senses. Even my eyes were stinging from the thought of some fresh food. I'd been out in the boonies for long enough eating only dried or cured food and a 'home' cooked meal was exactly what I needed.

  “How do you like your steak?” she asked, arms folded across her chest as we waited in the queue.

  “Medium-rare. You?”

  “Still fucking bleeding. I like it as fresh as possible which is probably asking too much of these guys. I remember what the chow used to be like only too well.”

  “What was your job?” I asked.

  “Marksman instructor. That's when I wasn't out on the front lines. Out there I was a Sniper. Had a great spotter, a guy named Wakowski. That guy had eyes like a fucking hawk, man. Could see a kill before they guy even showed up, he was that good.”

  “Sounds like you enjoyed it.”

  “I did. It was a hell of a time to be out there. You know, we saw more combat than most Vets did in the last 100 years. Go figure that fucker out.”

  “Why'd you retire?”

  “Not worth dying for. I had a chance to make some money going private so I did. No regrets.”

  The line shuffled forward a little and we shuffled with it. I was close enough to an orange juice dispenser and so I poured myself a plastic cup and downed it in one long gulp. I poured two more and passed one to Riley.

  “I loved being an instructor in the Rangers,” she continued. “But after a while they stopped sending me out into the field. They wanted me teaching the guys. What's the point in teaching it if you're not pulling your own weight? These guys were coming back in body bags and there I was, droning on in a class room. I asked to be put on active duty and they refused, so I left.”

  “How did private life work out for you?” I asked. We shuffled again. The smells were getting stronger and I could see a fat guy in a white apron flipping burgers on a fiery grill.

  “I was back in the field for a while. We had people in Turkey, Iran, even Georgia until the Reds pushed back with their T-18s. Then they learned about me being an instructor from some G.I and I was back in the class room three days out of seven. So I quit that too which was just as well because that day I got the phone call from my sister.”

  “Is she okay with you being out here?”

  “She just wants her son back in one piece. I don't think I figure into the equation when it comes to her boy.”

  We reached the front of the line and Riley began talking to the guy in the apron like they were old pals. He asked her how she wanted her steak and she repeated her culinary instructions with a little more colour than she'd told me. He took a thick piece of cow from a stack, flopped it onto the grill and waited five seconds or so before flipping it with his greasy spatula. After another brief pause he flipped it again, grabbed a plate already loaded with roasted veg and gravy and threw the bloody slab on top of it. Riley gave the cook the devil horns with her free hand and grabbed the plate with the other.

  “Well?” The cook asked me.

  “A little less blood thanks,” I said.

  “Hey!” he cried. “You're an Aussie. You're a bit far from home, buddy.”

  “You think?” I replied as he threw his cow meat onto the grill. It sizzled as he leaned the flat of his spatula onto it like it might cook quicker that way. All I saw was the flavour being lost to the flames.

  “Wow. I met an Arab last week. Now an Aussie. How's things down under?”

  “Bonza,” I said. “Bloody brilliant. I'd rather be on a bloody beach right now, sinking a few beers with the boys over a barby.” The cook was in stitches as he flipped over my steak. It looked a bit more dead than the one he'd served Riley.

  “There ya go buddy,” he said, slamming it onto the plate. “Enj
oy a bit of US hospitality, pal.”

  “Cor,” I said, “Bloody nice of you, mate.”

  “Don't mention it.”

  I wormed my way through the benches to where Riley sat with six beefy looking guys in battle dress and already she was chatting to them. I took the empty space opposite her and watched as she talked and chewed at the same time.

  “Oh man, Iran was a shit-storm, dude,” she shouted, cutting into her steak like it was a cadaver. Blood oozed from the wound. “You guys were there?”

  I admit to having zoned out for a bit. I was more concerned with enjoying the piece of meat in front of me. Despite his bad geography skills, the guy in the apron knew how to grill. The meat was fantastic and even the roasted vegetables tasted like they'd come from my own garden. Half-way through I got up to get another drink and, noticing her cup was empty, I took it with me. When I returned her steak was gone and she was stabbing the potatoes with her fork as if she wanted to get through to the other side of the plate. I passed her the cup. The guys in battle dress had gone.

  “What happened to your mates?” I asked.

  “Those shit heads? If they were in Iran then I'm a fucking goat herder.”

  “Sorry?”

  “We never put tanks on the ground in Iran, especially not the ones they were driving. I should know, I was fucking there, man.”

  “Why would they lie?”

  “They see a girl in camo and think they can impress her with bullshit. It only takes a couple of questions to catch them out, you see. Troop movements, where who was with what thingy. Man, that's really got to me. Such bull shit.”

  I left her double-tapping her peas and finished my meal. The kitchen tent was a swirling mass of people all trying to eat or talk or both. Some engineers in overalls came and sat at our table. Riley didn't even notice them.

  “I'm going to find a bunk and read these letters,” I said, getting up.

  “Sure,” she replied, still looking down at her plate. She suddenly heard something, a voice at the other side of the tent and spun round, looking for its source. “Was that Benny?”

  “Benny who?”

  She stood up and walked off calling out to 'Benny' who was stood talking to a bunch of other guys in DPM. I could see the engineers looking after her and nodding their approval to each other.

  “Hey fellas,” I asked. “Who do I see about the digs? The Colonel offered one for the night.”

  “The big guy over there, pal. Say, when did the Canadians get here?” he asked. I shook my head, gathered our dirty plates and hoped the room was soundproofed.

  It wasn't. I sat there on the narrow cot listening to the sounds of the cook tent dishing out the beer and the roars of laughter as the G.Is got quickly hammered. It was one of their last few nights on the base and they intended to leave it with a hangover.

  The room was plain, cold and bare with only a stumpy table and a gas lamp to mark it as a living space. Once I'd sorted out the room I'd gone back to my Land Rover to get my pack and found that the remains of the kids had been taken away and the back of the 'Rover scrubbed clean with disinfectant. I'd taken a quick look around to make sure nothing was missing and as I'd stuck my head under the seats I'd seen something glimmer in the halogen lights. It was a 'Hello Kitty' fob that had somehow broken off Rebecca's rucksack. I held it for a moment, looking at it and remembering before heading to the bin to dispose of it. As I got there I found I couldn't part with it and attached it to my own pack instead. Figure that one out.

  In my room I led on the cot with my back against the wall and moved the table to shine the lamp on the letters I had on my lap. They were all made from a similar paper - this recycled stuff that was thick in some places and thin in others like a badly made pie crust. They smelled of pie too, like they'd been made out of food packaging or something. I held each one up to the lamp and turned it around and over and side to side in the poor light but I could see nothing particularly interesting. When I was satisfied I could get nothing from the paper itself, I turned to the characters instead.

  They'd been left in date order which saved me the task of rearranging them. Each letter was written in a feminine script, some in ink, some in pencil and each one had been dated at the top right hand corner. I read the small talk, the 'hi, how are you?' flow of the text for that first letter and most of the next. For example:

  My dearest Alex, I miss you so. Today I spent my hours in the Electronic books you gave me making copious notes and feeling that I'm all that closer to success. Though the works are dated they will suit my needs perfectly and I'm sure that the next time you see me we will be even closer to our dreams...

  At first I assumed the author was studying for an exam, grateful for the help the text books gave her, but it dawned on me that she was referring to an electrical problem she had. It was a poor example of code but I suppose if you aren't looking for it then the sentences themselves don't really say anything obvious. Riley had mentioned a bunker. It would have to have been built before the Panic so the mechanisms for the door would be old. Dated text books would help and it seemed like they had.

  I read on. The letters became less covert and more open perhaps as a result of their success in sending them through the mail system. She'd gotten relaxed after the first few, eager to share her findings with Alex more easily.

  When you come try to bring as many type 5B fuses as you can. They may be hard to get but I think the old SeaSharks still use them in their circuits. A lot of the main systems are still offline and I can't get them back up without the fuses. I suspect the item is in the lower levels but I can't get down there until you arrive. Bring the books I asked for as well as the tools and the water purifier. My source dried up last week - I'm glad I went to the effort of bottling it now. I have enough to keep me going until you come but hurry - I won't last long without it and we're so close now.

  When I'd finished reading I put them bag in the bag and sat there turning the facts over in my mind whilst the G.Is carried on getting louder and louder. I suddenly fancied a beer but I couldn't face a crowd like that. I hadn't realised how much time I'd spent on my own and how I'd gotten used to the silence. Now it was like the racket was personal, that it was aimed at me. I knew it wasn't, but it felt like it was and I wanted to get out of there.

  I led out flat on the cot and put my hands behind my head trying to find a thought to concentrate on. I'd need a map of all the bunkers the US knew of which might not be that extensive. How much information had been shared towards those last few days? How much did they already know? The leaders hadn't made it to some underground bunker when the missiles rained. Why not?

  I thought about my Dad and his library of notebooks. Perhaps there'd be something in those hand-written volumes I could use. I decided that in the morning I'd set off home after speaking to the Colonel.

  I dimmed the lamp and tried to sleep. My mind was scattered and fragmented and I let my thoughts flit from memory to fiction to fantasy and back again. Ideas tumbled down a never-ending spiral, grasping at others, making strange connections until I was shocked awake by one of those weird falling dreams.

  Dad's library. He'd filled a few shelves with notes about his life in the wilds after the Panic. Notes on growing veg, on smoking meat, storing food for winter, brewing alcohol, trees, shrubs, plants, geography, small maps of key areas, danger spots. The list went on. How many had I read? Not as many as I should have done. There were bound to be maps of the bunkers, surely?

  I dozed a little but before I knew it I was awake again though this time I didn't need a lamp. Light was streaming in from under the door and there was a loud knocking on it.

  “Miller? You in there?” It was Riley and the dead were probably wondering who'd woken them.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  “The Colonel wants to see us. You decent?” I realised I'd fallen asleep in my clothes, hammock fashion.

  “Yeah, come in.”

  I was momentarily blinded as she swung the door open a
nd let the morning in. She was carrying a cup of coffee in her hand and wedged in her mouth was a piece of toast. She bit into it and held the rest in her free hand.

  “Breakfast is up,” she said, still loud enough to shatter glass.

  “I'm coming,” I said, gathering up my things and repacking my bag. Riley watched me with a smirk.

  “Do you live out of that old thing?” she asked, pointing at the rucksack with the corner of her toast.

  “Sort of,” I replied.

  “It looks fucked, pal.”

  “It's fine.”

  “No, seriously man - it's fucked. Why don't you get one from the stores or something?”

  I stood up and my back cracked almost as loudly as Riley's talking.

  “Woah!” she cried. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I just don't do beds.”

  “Really? What the fuck do you sleep on then?”

  “A hammock.” I stepped out into the daylight and slung my pack over my shoulder. It was cool despite the sun and the line for breakfast wasn't too long today. I joined it, reaching the orange juice urn and filling a cup with it. Riley followed, still chewing her toast and sipping her black coffee.

  “There ain't none,” she said.

  “No what?”

  “Tea, man. Don't you Brits drink tea?”

  “Not all of us,” I replied, looking for the percolator. I couldn't find one and I realised they were dishing out spoonfuls of instant instead. I grimaced.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  The cook behind the grill wasn't the guy from last night and he gave me a surly glance as he asked me what I wanted. Americans could do a mean steak but when it came to bacon they seemed to have dropped the ball. He loaded my plate with thin, streaky rashers of the stuff - not like the kind I sometimes had at home where the cuts were as thick as I wanted them to be. He slapped a spoonful of reconstituted scrambled eggs on one side and a stack of pancakes on the other, then ushered me onwards.