August whipped his head in Gil’s direction and cut his eyes at him. “What are you saying? Do you know something I don’t?”
“What? No, not at all. I was just racking my brain.”
As the SUV approached, it slowed and pulled off the road at the campsite’s entrance. An agent got out of the rear passenger door and moved away just before a hooded man fell out and landed hard on the ground, having clearly been kicked or pushed by someone. The agent outside grabbed the man’s wrist restraints and hoisted him upward, failing to apologize. “Get up, you slippery piece of shit. Don’t you even think about fighting me.”
The two agents latched on to the prisoner and carried him to August and Gil with his feet dragging through the dirt and gravel.
August regarded both agents in joyless fashion. “How about removing his hood so we can get a look at what you idiots did to him?”
The agents looked at each other, stupefied, as if exchanging guilt, neither wishing to accept responsibility for what had been done.
Finally, Gil reached forward and pulled off the hood, exposing the prisoner’s battered face.
“Jesus.” August’s expression contorted with scorn. He ripped the hood from Gil’s hand and tossed it down, then pointed at the two men holding the prisoner. “This wasn’t parcel to the program. It wouldn’t have been a factor if you assclowns hadn’t left the reservation today. I want this man cleaned up, thoroughly and gently, as if you were giving your own infant son his first bath. If I see any further damage, any new marks on his face—a blister, a scratch, a papercut, anything anywhere—what he looks like now will pale in comparison to the permanent disfigurement I’ll dump on each of you.” August then stormed away toward the fire and back to his camp chair.
After having some words of his own with the agents, Gil Norris took his time making his way over, but eventually rejoined August. “You’re not planning to permanently disfigure me, are you? Before I pull my chair over, it’d be nice to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“No, Gil. I’m not going to hit you. Take a seat.”
Gil slid his camp chair close and plopped into it. “The shit you say sometimes, man…you can be a scary mother when you want to be, and that’s a fact.” He held his palms to the fire. “Have you ever lost control of yourself before or lashed out at anyone?”
August blinked a few times. “Not that I recall.”
“Bet you’d ruin just about anyone if you did.”
August didn’t say anything.
“That prisoner looked awfully familiar. I feel like I know him…or I’ve seen him somewhere before. Can’t recall where, though. You?”
“Hell if I know,” August said snidely. “Maybe I could better tell if his face wasn’t so fucked up.”
“Tucker and Simpson are on it. I think you put the fear of God into them. When I left them, they were dragging out their hygiene kits, looking for mild soap and wipes that don’t chafe.” Gil hooted at himself. “Ah, shit, August. The times in which we live. So, tell me. What are you planning to do about this…urgent extension we got stuck with?”
August pursed his lips. “I don’t know…nothing, I suppose. There isn’t much we can do besides ride it out.”
“Yeah, okay. Ride it out, sure. Just one biiig blaring question, bud. For how long are we prepared to do that?”
Chapter 22
FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo
Thursday, March 10th
Beatrice made entrance into the ground control station, closed the door behind her, and secured it using a code she tapped into the keypad with the tips of her nails. She strolled ahead to where the two RPA operators were seated before the ground-based hardware systems and the human-machine interface for the Predator UAV. Large LED screens with digitized heads-up displays provided both a forward-looking and an air-to-ground view from altitude. Beneath them, an assortment of lighted buttons and knobs blinked along with their duties. Each operator wore a headset and had an ergonomic joystick mounted between his legs.
The setup reminded Beatrice of a futuristic airliner cockpit or perhaps that of a small science-fictional spacecraft, but it was nothing new to her. She took a seat in a plush office chair situated behind and in between the operator chairs and folded her legs, recalling all the times she’d perched in this same position before in other UAV ground control stations in other countries, conscripted with other employers. “Good morning, gentlemen. Are we well rested and geared up for today’s merriment?”
The two operators sent each other sideways glances.
The man on the right, the payload operator, spoke first. “Well rested and ready, yes, ma’am. But I fail to see the correlation between merriment and a precision munitions strike on multiple hostile targets. There’s nothing fun about any of it. It’s just business.”
Beatrice raised a brow, reaching for a pack of cigarettes in her shoulder bag. “I’m sorry, I heard you say well rested, but did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, sugar?”
“No, ma’am, I’m—”
“Then do you subscribe to some infantile inner dispute with levity? Lack a sense of humor?”
“No, neither. I was only making a point, a valid one. This isn’t my first time operating in this capacity and—”
“Shh,” Beatrice shushed him, snapping her fingers. “Enough. Mind your panel. If you want all business, that’s how it will be, all business.”
As she went to light her cigarette, the aircraft operator to the left said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here.”
Smirking, Beatrice flicked her Bic, setting fire to the Virginia Slim, and drew in. “Actually, I can.” She blew out the inhaled smoke from her lungs directly into the pilot’s face. “See?”
The pilot coughed and fanned at the cloud. “No—what I meant was that you aren’t allowed to—”
Beatrice cut him off. “Hush, now. I think it’s time for you to mind your panel as well. If you want to tattletale, you can do so after this
