The Deep Zone

Mostly to maintain his ruse, Rathor continued to stand in front of the Gettysburg Address plaque, pretending to read the words of Lincoln’s greatest speech. He wasn’t actually reading, but then the word “government” caught his eye and his brain stuck on it. Nathan Rathor hated the government. Few things could make him feel violated and impotent, but the government was one. He would never forget the public humiliations he’d suffered while testifying as BioChem’s CEO, groveling at the feet—literally, raised as they were, like false little gods, on their dais—of senators whose performances for the news cameras made them, in his opinion anyway, lower than the women and men who opened themselves for the cameras of porn. One of those senators had been David O’Neil.

That was almost four years ago, of course, a century in Washington political time. He and O’Neil had “buried the hatchet” and “come to terms,” as the pandering hacks put it. O’Neil had “recruited him onto the presidential team,” and he had “left private enterprise for the greater good of public service.” Rathor knew full well that O’Neil had not asked him to serve on the cabinet out of any misguided olive-branch waving. He had asked him in observance of an old adage of war: “Friends close, enemies closer.” Rathor understood that there was nothing altruistic in the president’s tactic. And Rathor knew that O’Neil knew what Rathor himself knew. That was how the game was played in Washington, like a gladiator match in which both fighters were aware that success depended on seeing one move further through the whirlwind of blows and feints than their opponent. Or on using a poison- smeared spear point.

“Government of the people, by the people, for the people.” Rathor hawked, spat. The people. What was it H. L. Mencken had said? “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people.” Truer words had never been spoken.

Rathor suddenly felt the need to piss. More than the need—an irresistible urgency, as though someone had inserted hot wire into his penis and stabbed his bladder.

Goddamn, he thought. The gin. He had an enlarged prostate and he was old. When he had to go, mild discomfort became searing pain very quickly. So he really needed to piss. But the bathrooms here were locked at this time of night. Going to a convenience store or gas station was unthinkable. He would not make it back to his office; that much, from long experience, he knew with certainty. There was only one thing to do. Take another risk.

He glanced over both shoulders. No one else was in the memorial. He was alone. There were security cameras, but they were aimed toward the great statue, not this remote, little-visited corner of the memorial. Casually, he took his right hand out of his pocket, rubbed his face as though brushing away tears, let it drop in front of him. He lowered his zipper, withdrew himself, relaxed, and sighed with relief. A weak stream of yellow urine spattered the marble wall beneath the Gettysburg Address and pooled on the memorial’s white floor.

NINETEEN

AS A MAJOR AND TEROK’S SENIOR MEDICAL OFFICER, LENORA Stilwell had her own computer station, and one that was email-enabled, to boot. Command had finally lifted the ban on email, but any mention of ACE was a court-martial offense, with national security implications, et cetera, et cetera. On her desktop she set down the cup of coffee that was now as much a part of her walking-around attire as stethoscope and clinic coat. What time would it be in Tampa? She could send an email home at any time, of course, but there was a better chance of catching Doug and Danny during waking hours, which would allow her to have an actual exchange. She knew the time zone differentials, had done the calculus hundreds of times, so why was she having trouble now figuring out what time it was where Doug and Danny were?

It was Friday. Or was it? She checked the calendar function on her watch. It was Saturday, March 3. Now the time differential. Tampa was eight and a half hours behind the time in her location up in northeast Afghanistan. It was 12:13 A.M. at Terok, so it would be… it would be… damn. She frowned, closed her eyes, forced her brain to kick over. Okay: 3:43 P.M. in Tampa. Doug would be at work, Danny working after school. No way to catch either one of them for real-time commo.

She started to get up, then sat back down. Wait. Give it a try. No telling when there’ll be a chance again. She flipped her laptop open, keyed in passwords, and opened her email program.

hey guys its me anybdy there? hw r u gys doing? Ther hs ben sum bad fitng & busy

Whoa. Can’t say that. It would suggest that there had been casualties, which could reveal some bit of intelligence with value to some unknown source somewhere. Or, at the very least, bad news for the home front. Start again.

hey honey its me anybody there? how r u guys doing? is cindy bck frm cmpus visits up north? r u guys gng fshng tmrrow on the boat? Dunno wht ur weather 4cast is. Ours samesame. I miss you both. I love you both.

She hit the Send button and sat back to wait. Doug had an iPhone, so even if he wasn’t at a computer, he might receive the email and reply. She watched the computer screen, listened for the little incoming-mail chime. A full minute passed, then two, and she reached to close the laptop, which was when it chimed and the email reply popped up. Doug still wrote like a civilian with all the time in the world, not like a time-poor Army doctor who calculated the half seconds she could save by leaving out punctuation, abbreviating where possible, and butchering normal grammar.

Lenny,

Wow. It had been a while. We were worrying. It is REALLY good to hear from you. I love you. Danny loves you. We miss you. I know you can’t say much about much, but from what we see on the news it looks like your area is heating up. Okay, your questions. Danny is nervous. Won’t admit it, but he is. Cindy got back yesterday. She visited Pitt, Penn State, Rutgers, and Amherst. She came over to see Danny this morning and said she liked Pitt most of all. We’re not going to go fishing tomorrow. And the weather? It’s Florida. You know how that is. We’re really low on groceries so I’m going to the commissary at MacDill this afternoon. I love you. Write me some more.

Cindy was Cynthia Merrit, Danny’s steady girlfriend, a beautiful, petite blonde whose voice always sounded to Stilwell like harp strings being softly plucked. She wanted to be a pediatrician and had been away for much of the previous week looking at colleges. Going fishing on the boat was taking their Scout 34 out for some tarpon fishing. MacDill was MacDill Air Force Base, just south of Tampa. National Guard members had access to all facilities of all service branches—commissaries, clinics, pools, everything.

Dnt wrry all gd here major mom gd shape 4 sure. c liked pitt—good P is a great school. no fshng 4 u tarpon sesn fll swng now dnt waste days bt u gys gtta eat how’s ur rnning?

She sent the email, fiddled with her earlobe waiting for the reply, looked around for a Butterfinger, saw none. Reminded herself to tell Doug to send another box. She was one of those fortunate people with a high-rpm metabolism that allowed her to eat anything she wanted and not gain weight. Keeping weight on was actually more of a problem. She didn’t pig out on Butterfingers, but one a day wouldn’t kill anyone.

Honey,

We’re not going out because one of the Scout Mercs needs an overhaul and both props need balancing. I’ll get my days in, don’t worry. I did 12 miles yesterday, still building the long slow distance base. The marathon’s not for another four weeks, should be just right by then. Hey, look, if I’m going to get the shopping done and be back in time to make dinner, I have to run. And don’t worry. I’ll pick up Butterfingers.

She laughed at that. They had been together long enough for them to read each other’s minds often, as he