Systemic Shock

Quantrill looked away with a headshake as if to some onlooker. And scored with a double-crossover. He scored with each hand; sometimes with eyes closed; sometimes crossing. He did not miss once in fifty moves.

'Okay, game's over,' Sabado grunted finally, as if troubled. 'For awhile I couldn't figure out how you were doing it. Nobody's quicker than I am.'

'You think I'm cheating?'

A snort. 'No. I was wrong, that's all; somebody is quicker, compadre. Not because I was spooked. That's easy enough to prove.'

Sabado placed his hands atop QuantriU's again, pointed out that neither of them betrayed hypertension with vibratory tremors. 'Yeah, I thought so,' Sabado said, lowering his hands. 'You're a gunsel, all right.'

A gunsel, he said, was an old tag. The Army psychomotor test people had culled it from studies on what they termed the 'gunslinger mystique'. The adrenal medulla produced both adrenalin and noradrenalin in response to stress, heightening the speed and strength of muscle response. In nearly all humans were emotional side effects as well as physical, a shakiness that could interfere with coordination, that could even produce panic or unconsciousness.

But in every million humans were a few who made optimum stress-management responses. Those few, said Sabado, got the advantages of their adrenal glands without the disadvantages. 'That's me,' he added, “and that's you. In the 1880's we'd've been gunslingers. Nowadays there isn't much call for that. But the Army needs a few gunsels, people who can act alone under special hazards. I'm a referral service for those few.'

Quantril checked his lapel dosimeter, relieved to find that they were taking only a fraction of a rad per hour outside. 'How do they use those guys, Sergeant: Something like a regimental combat team?'

A long slow smiling headshake. 'More effective than that, with lower profile. When I said 'alone' I meant it, Quantrill.'

'Doesn't sound like the Army to me.'

'Doesn't, does it?' Sabado pursed his lips reflectively. 'But let's suppose there was a foreign national, someone who did top-level liaison between the President and, ah, another NATO country. Run it on down with me: supposethis bastard was a mole — a deep-cover SinoInd agent — who was pinpointing our key installations to be nuked on cue. Like the Shenandoah Command Center, or the Grand Island Quartermaster complex.'

Quantrill's eyes widened. Both of those underground centers had been secret until they'd taken consecutive impact nukes, drilling down into bedrock to atomize a President and a supply center. “I guess the FBI would shoot him on sight,' he said.

'The feebies don't ice folks on contract these days. Some CIA people do, but not on US soil. Treasury Department sticks to other duties. That leaves military intelligence, compadre.' Sabado's eyes were glimmering slits in the half-light. “I hear the Army has such an agency. I would imagine they'd have a few gunsels train able to go anywhere, anytime, to complete an assignment. The question is: are you interested!'

'This is crazy, Sergeant. I mean, it can't be this simple—'

'It isn't simple; but this is how it starts. Did you think they'd advertise in the Ft. Worth Star- Telegram!'

'No-o-o, but if they did they wouldn't ask for anybody fifteen years old.'

'Don't second-guess the Service. They'd be interested in a toddler if he had your reflexes — but it shit-sure isn't an open sesame, they run you through a heavy wringer before they take you. “If they take you. I gave somebody your name a week ago; surely you don' think I'd make this pitch unless somebody higher up gave the word. But I've told you everything I can until I get a commitment. Yes or no!'

A youth came out the door, affixing his headgear, nodding to the pair who stood near. Quantrill smiled, nodded back, waited until they were alone again. 'When do you need my answer?'

'Right now. I didn't come here tonight because I like green beer. Something else that should go without saying but I'll say it anyhow: whatever you answer, you don' even hint to anybody about our little talk. I'd have to say I lie a lot. I wouldn' like that.'

Quantrill took a long breath; expelled it. 'Okay, I'm still not sure I believe it. But I'll do it. It sure isn't what I had in mind when I joined up, Sergeant. You sure I won't wind up with an assignment like yours?'

He had never heard Sabado laugh and was surprised at the musical gurgle deep in his chest. 'This isn't an assignment, Quantrill; this is what I ask for between assignments. I'm not always a sergeant. It depends,' he added vaguely.

This Sabado was subtly different from the big swaggerer on the practice mats. The difference was unsettling until Quantrill realized it lay in the man's speech patterns. Tonight Sabado was relaxing, letting his Tex-Mex accent have its way. Tonight Rafael Sabado was not bothering with bullshit. “If he plays a lot of parts, a gunsel must get a lot of ID's,' said Quantrill.

'Sure. But none to link him with 'T' Section. For what it's worth, a gunsel can't flash an ID if he gets in trouble on assignment. And he's up against people who know some tricks — cosmetic work, false prints, martial arts — so he gets the best training Uncle can provide. What he doesn't get is any promise about tomorrow.'

'At least you're up front about it. I gather a gunsel doesn't take prisoners.'

'If they need the quarry alive, the feebies can handle it. If they don't, somebody in T Section gets the assignment.'

'What does 'T' stand for?'

'Terminate.'

'I hope they terminated the guy who pinpointed Shenandoah.'

'What if I tol' you it was a woman, compadrel'

'I dunno. I guess it wouldn't make any difference.'

'It didn't,' Sabado grunted. 'A gunsel takes what comes.' Pause; flicker of something unsaid in the face. “He has to. You'll see. You have to make up your mind that T Section chose you and your assignment for a good reason.

You may never know how much you've shortened the war, how many lives you save, but,' he gave a sly chuckle, 'you get to see results first-hand. More gratifying than lugging mortar rounds in fucking Siberia.'

'Too bad; in a way I was wondering what Siberia's like.'

'You might find out if you flunk. Don't. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow right after rollcall, you make sick call. Take a book with you. Then ask to see Major Lazarus. That's all. Now repeat that.'

'Uh, — sleep. Sick call after rollcall, ask for Major Lazarus.'

'Take a book, compadre.'

'Right.' Quantrill watched the big man take the stairs two at a time; wondered if Sabado really did lie a lot; wondered if there really was a Major Lazarus.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Perhaps Major Lazarus existed. Quantrill never met him, but the fact that he became the only occupant of an examination room told him something. There were very few empty rooms in San Marcos.

The avuncular white-haired medic who bade him strip was a captain wearing a cool blue smock and a warm pink smile. Quantrill found some of the exam, like the prostate probe, familiar. The elastic straps, fitted as anklet, wristlet, and headband, placed unfamiliar devices next to his skin. Quantrill guessed they were feeding data to the computer terminal on the desk while he did calisthenics.

The medic was polite, anonymous, mildly interested in the bullet wound, more interested in Quantrill's microfiche record. When he asked whether Private Quantrill had ever shot to kill, Quantrill decided that someone had been to considerable trouble to check his recent past.

'They were shooting at me,' he said defensively.

'Just answer the question, son.'

'Yes, I did. I think I got him.'

'I'm not judging you. And I'll only ask one more question along this line.' A brief silence before, 'Did you ever kill anyone, or try to, before that night at Oak Ridge?'