Darpa Alpha

“Yes,” Margaret answered her, hung up, and relayed the message to Freeman.

“Ah,” said Freeman. “The CNO.”

“What’s the navy got to do with it?” Margaret asked.

Douglas smiled at her. It wasn’t a husband-to-wife expression but rather that of a patient adult to a child. “Big navy chief,” said Freeman. “Boss of DARPA ALPHA. It’s a naval base — not army.”

“I’m not that dumb, Douglas.”

“What—” He paused, seeing his reflection in the wall mirror. He looked like Patton, with Ike about to reinstate him. “Did I sound patronizing?” he asked Margaret.

“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps you might try being a little less sure of yourself when this naval person calls. Pride goeth before a fall!”

“Naval person!” he joshed. Her naivete regarding military ranks, indeed regarding all things military, at once amused and pleased him. It meant he could always tell her something new about American defense, about a soldier’s life, discuss a fresh topic over dinner instead of sitting there boring her. Mundane table talk, and its sheer repetition, he believed, could finally be every bit as damaging to a marriage as an affair.

“How long did the operator say?” Douglas asked. “Ten minutes?”

“Yes,” said Margaret. “Don’t be impatient. You know how people are. Ten minutes could mean half an hour.”

Tired of pacing back and forth past the light-suffused drapes in the living room, he decided to go to his study, switched on the computer, and called up his team’s e-mail addresses — all except Ruth’s. Margaret brought in his coffee, and the general could see that despite her overall cooler demeanor, his wife was excited, too, but worried. Hoping for him that, like Patton, he would get another chance to track down his enemies, but worried, like so many military spouses who never got used to seeing their loved ones going into harm’s way.

The phone rang, startling her, Douglas indicating that she take the call — a little psychology in order, he thought.

“Freeman residence.”

A demanding voice asked, “Do you use grain-fed beef and organic vegetables?”

For a second Margaret hesitated. Was it Aussie Lewis? she wondered. Was it code? “To whom would you like to speak?”

“What — is this the Dim Sum Restaurant?”

By then Douglas was on the line. “No,” he said emphatically. “You’ve got the wrong number.”

There was a click and the hum of the line.

“What a rude person,” said Margaret. “The least he could have done was apologize.”

“Is Dim Sum open twenty-four hours?” asked Douglas.

“Yes. I think our number must be very similar. Why, is there something wrong?”

“No,” said Douglas tentatively, thinking it over, then more assertively, “No. But this whole business about the terrorists, I mean, puts you on edge.”

Margaret concurred. “Everyone’s on edge. Have been since we found out our own government has been listening in on all our calls.”

When the phone rang two minutes later, Douglas took it. It was a Pentagon operator, presumably the same one who had called Margaret. She apologized to the general, but the CNO had been delayed. He would be calling shortly, however. Douglas said that was fine and thanked her for calling. He put the phone down.

“Godammit! He’s delayed!”

Margaret could see that he was worried that the delay might mean he was out of the running.

“Don’t fret,” she told him.

Freeman nodded amicably. “You’re right. You know why?” Before she could answer, he told her, “It’s because I still have that intuition. This is no courtesy call at—” He glanced at his watch. “—0330.”

“You’re right,” Margaret said, “unless the chief of naval operations wants to order takeout!”

They both laughed. Margaret decided she’d now have a cup of Evening Star herbal tea. It was said to calm the nerves, creating an ambience of tranquility, an ambience that was shattered by the shrill ring of the kitchen phone. Not wishing to seem too eager, Freeman hesitated for a moment as he took the receiver from his wife, giving her a wink and a smile. She was pleased. He was ready. How often had he told her that luck is no more than being packed, ready to act on a moment’s notice?

“General!” The drawl of hard consonants was unmistakable.

“Aussie?”

“The one and only, General. Sorry for calling so early but I wanted to give you a heads-up before the media get to you.”

“Well, mate,” replied Freeman, “you’re a bit late. They’ve parked outside — en masse.”

“So you’ve heard already?”

“Heard what?” Freeman asked impatiently.

“The scumbags,” said Aussie. “They’ve bought it.”

Margaret was straining to hear what Aussie was saying, her face muscles tightening as she tried to make sense of it. Douglas, she saw, looked stricken.

“Where?” Freeman asked Aussie.

“On the Canadian side. Apparently the RCMP were called. Funny thing, though — I mean funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha — was that it was a coupla civilians who tipped the Mounties.”

For Freeman the image of a scarlet-tuniced Mountie with the distinctive peaked hat, brown leather riding boots, and yellow-striped riding britches leapt to mind, even though the general knew that this was the ceremonial garb of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and not the more utilitarian khaki, yellow-banded cap, and yellow-striped navy trousers that constituted the workaday uniform of Canada’s famed federal police.

“A firefight?” he asked Aussie.

“No,” Aussie replied. “Not a shot fired from what I was told. They went off the road into a great bloody ravine, snowing like crazy.”

“Who told you this, dammit?” pressed Freeman, who was anxiously awaiting the CNO’s call and growing more tense by the second with the knowledge that because Margaret had declined to pay extra for call waiting, the CNO was probably trying to get through right now.

“Mate o’ mine in our Mountain Division told me,” Aussie explained. “Gave me a bell.”

“Bell” was British and Aussie slang for someone phoning you. Freeman was struck anew by how cellphone communication had revolutionized life. In this case it had allowed Aussie Lewis’s buddy in the field to effortlessly transmit the news before official channels.

“So you’re telling me,” said the general, “that the terrorists are confirmed dead?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d give you a bell before Marte Price and the jackals hit you with it out of the blue.”

“Can you call your buddy back and get more details?”

“I tried, General — knew you’d want more info, but I can’t reach the bugger.” Aussie momentarily lost his accent as he affected the neutral tone of the ubiquitous cellphone operator: “The customer you have dialed is away from the phone or temporarily out of the fucking service area. Please try again.”

“Do you know where the ravine is?” the general asked Aussie.

“Somewhere near Ripple Mountain, Mike said, just north nor’west of the border corner area between Idaho and British Columbia. Mike — my buddy — said the Mounties had to chopper in to retrieve the bodies.”

“An accident?” said Freeman.

“Looks like it. Minibus they were in went off the road on a curve. Black ice all over, apparently. The weather channel’s been telling people to stay off the roads up there. Hell, General, they are— were—towelheads. Desert guys. It’s a sure bet that they knew squat ’bout driving in snow.”

“Towelheads,” said Freeman. “All of them?”

“Not all. Two were Brit Muslims, I think. You know, British citizens.”

“You sure about that?”

“Well, that’s what Mike told me. His Mountain Division company was sent up to help the Mounties. Intel