The old man spoke loudly and then more softly. It was hard for George to get most of it.
“What's he saying?” Matt asked, impatiently.
“Talking about… the teams and… two possible points of insertings. He doesn't know yet which one they will do. Marshals and devils. Whipstick has never been… breached.” The old man went on talking, but the words became harder to decipher.
Matt sneezed and George almost fell, but he grabbed the edge of the transom just in time, and regained his balance by shifting his weight onto the file cabinet.
“Damn it! I almost fell.”
“Sue me, I sneezed from the dirt mite poop in here.”
When George raised the binoculars back to his eye, he was struck dumb by what he saw, or didn't see. The eight men were gone-vanished. George scanned the space frantically, but to his horror, he saw nothing.
“I heard something,” Matt insisted.
“Shut up!” George hissed. “They're not…” His binocular lens went dark. He opened his left eye, which he had clenched shut while peering through the single lens, and found himself staring straight into incredibly deep-blue eyes, inches from his own. Before George could scream, Matt suddenly twisted under him and George fell to the floor, landing hard on his side. When George opened his eyes again and looked up, a large man with a crew cut was looming over him, holding Matt by the arm. The man was also holding the scariest knife George had ever seen.
“What's clickin', chickens?” the knife man asked. Matt started blubbering, a high-pitched squeal that quickly became a cry. His whole plump body was trembling.
Like ghosts materializing from shadows, men suddenly filled the room. The sight of them, the knife, the sour smell of their sweat, made George feel very weak. As one of the men bent down toward him, the boy was aware of a warm wet spreading underneath him.
Five minutes later, now seated in one of the metal folding chairs in the hangar, George Williams was embarrassed, frightened, and physically uncomfortable. His clammy jeans clung wetly to his legs and bottom, and the stench of his urine was embarrassingly obvious to all. The old man and the seven others standing behind him looked fierce and evil. Matt sat on a similar folding chair inches from his.
The old man was really angry. “You boys are trespassing on a restricted military complex. That's a federal crime. Prison. Government can take away your parents' houses, cars, anything of value. You two hooligans will be in a youth facility with hard-core, butt-boogering, rap-talking, gold-toothed niggers who'd as soon cut your throat as look at you.”
George was certain this was the worst moment of his life. Why did I come through the fence? Why did I peek into the hangar? Why, why, why?
Matt snickered. “What's a hoolican?”
The old man's face abruptly reddened and became so contorted with rage that George was sure he would simply explode. “You little twit! Do you think this is a fucking joke? Do these men look like comedians?”
Terrified, the boys fell silent, stunned and trembling. George wasn't thinking about the men or their weapons. He was thinking about two years earlier, when he had been caught shoplifting and the store's manager called the cops, who called his father, who took him home and thrashed him with a belt.
The old man pulled a chair in front of the boys, then took a folding knife from one pocket and an apple from another. He sliced the apple down the center and handed each of them half. They stared down at the fruit in their hands, confused. George's father often went from ranting to silence in the blink of an eye. Maybe the old man was tired of yelling.
“What are your names? Please don't lie to me or you will be very, very sorry.”
“George Williams.”
“Matthew Barnwell.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve,” George said.
Matt nodded. “Me… too.”
“Did anyone come here with you?”
Both shook their heads.
“No one at all?”
“Nope,” Matt said.
“Does anyone know you're here?”
“No, sir,” George said.
“Where do you boys live? How far from here?”
George said, “Three miles. Green Meadows subdivision.”
“How did you get here?”
“On our bikes.”
“You've been in here before?”
“No,” Matt said.
“Don't lie to me,” he snarled.
“Lots of times,” George said quickly, not wanting to piss him off again.
“Alone? Just the two of you?”
“Yeah. The tower out there… it's our secret clubhouse. Was before, I mean. We never bothered nothing.”
“We don't ever hurt anything,” Matt added soulfully.
George thought Matt sounded pathetic.
“Where did you get these?” The old man picked up the binoculars.
“They were in the tower. They were already broken.”
“Theft of government property,” the old man said with a sigh. He looked as fragile as ash.
He stood behind them and placed one wrinkled fist on each boy's shoulder. George eyed the pocketknife in the old man's right hand, the blade inches from his cheek. “Aren't you scared to come here alone to this dangerous place?” the old man asked softly.
“It's not dangerous,” George said, grasping for straws. “If you're careful on the broken stairs, it isn't.”
“Signs say ‘armed response.' Did you know you could be shot for sneaking in here?”
“We thought it was a bluff,” Matt protested, eyeing the solemn-faced men watching them. “Nobody ever came before.”
George looked at the guns on the table. The stacks of loaded magazines. The large pistols. The table was filled with fascinating equipment.
“Nobody till you,” Matt added. “Are you Army men?”
“We're Special Forces,” the old man answered. His eyes flickered to take in his men, standing nearby, watching silently. “I am a general. My men and I are not going to be here long. But it's vital that nobody bothers us while we're working. This is a top-secret mission. I'm not entirely sure I should let you go. You might tell people, and then it could get back to the other side and we could lose a very important and extremely expensive war game.”
“We wouldn't ever tell, no matter what,” Matt vowed. “We're real good at secrets. We never, ever told anybody about this place. It's our secret and if we told, other kids would take it away.”
“If you don't tell my dad, I won't tell anybody about you guys fixing up your stuff here. He'll kill me, honest,” George heard himself say.
The old man was silent for a long time. Then he said tenderly, “Eat your apple. I'm not going to put you in jail this time… or even call your parents. But, George and Matthew-if you ever mention our presence, you and your parents will be in serious trouble. Just so you understand this is not a joke. Do I have your word of honor you will never speak of this? Both of you?”
Both boys nodded enthusiastically. “Well,” Matt said, “we thought it was a UFO you had in here.”
“Wouldn't that be something,” the old man murmured. “If you two can keep the secret and not tell anybody, you can come here anytime you like after we're gone and play all you want.”
“I bet riding in a helicopter is real fun,” Matt said. “When I grow up I'm going to be a helicopter pilot in the Army and fight with missiles and machine guns like yours.”
“I'm sure you will. You keep my secret and I'll make certain you get in the Army.”
