Strangers (63 page)

After Brenda Hennerling explained the filing system to them and left them alone to do their work, Ginger said, “I’m so caught up in our problems that I keep forgetting you’re a famous author.”

“So do I,” Dom said, reading the labels on the filing cabinets that held issues of past
Sentinels. “
But of course, I’m not famous.”

“Soon will be. It’s a shame: With all that’s happening to us, you’re getting no chance to savour the publication of your first novel.”

He shrugged. “This isn’t a picnic for any of us. You’ve had to put an entire medical career on hold.”

“Yes, but now I know I’ll be able to go back to medicine once we’ve dug to the bottom of this,” Ginger said, as if there was no doubt they would triumph over their enemies. By now, Dom knew that conviction and determination were as much a part of her as the blueness of her eyes. “But this is your
first
book.”

Dom had not yet recovered from his embarrassment at being treated like a celebrity by the receptionist. Now Ginger’s kind comments kept a blush on his cheeks. However, this was not the mark of embarrassment; it was an indication of the intense pleasure he took in being the object of her concern. No woman had ever affected him as this one did.

Together, they went through the file drawers and removed the pertinent back issues of the
Sentinel.
They would not need to use the microfilm reader, for the newspaper was running two years behind in the transferral to film. They withdrew a full week’s editions, beginning with Saturday, July 7, of the summer before last, and took them to one of the desks, where they both pulled up chairs.

Although the unremembered event that they had witnessed, and the possible contamination, and the closure of I-80 had happened on Friday night, July 6, the Saturday paper carried no report of the toxic spill. The
Sentinel
was primarily a source of local and state news and, though it included some national and international material, was not interested in fast-breaking stories. Its halls would never ring with that dramatic cry, “Stop press!” There would be no last-minute recomposition of the front
page. The pace of life in Elko County was rural, relaxed, sensible, and no one felt a burning need to be breathlessly up-to-the-minute on anything. The
Sentinel
was put to bed late in the evening, for distribution in the morning; therefore, since no Sunday edition was published, the story of the toxic spill and the closure of I-80 did not appear until the edition of Monday, July 9.

But Monday’s and Tuesday’s editions were emblazoned with urgent headlines:
TOXIC SPILL CLOSES I
-80, and
ARMY ESTABLISHES QUARANTINE ZONE
, and
NERVE GAS LEAKING FROM DAMAGED
TRUCK?,
and
ARMY SAYS EVERYONE EVACUATED FROM DANGER ZONE,
and
WHERE ARE EVACUEES?,
and
SHENKFIELD ARMY TESTING GROUNDS: WHAT REALLY GOES ON THERE?,
and
I
-80
CLOSURE ENTERS FOURTH DAY, AND CLEAN-UP ALMOST FINISHED; HIGHWAY OPEN BY NOON.

For both Dom and Ginger, it was eerie to read about these events that had transpired during days when they remembered nothing more than relaxing quietly at the Tranquility Motel. As Dom read about the crisis, he became convinced Ginger’s theory was correct; it seemed obvious that the mind-control technicians would have needed an extra week or two in order to have incorporated this elaborate toxic-spill cover story into the phony memories of both Elko County locals
and
passers-through, and there was no way they could have kept the highway closed and the area sealed tight for that long.

The edition of Wednesday, July 11, continued the saga:
I
-80
OPENS!,
and
QUARANTINE REMOVED: NO LONG-TERM CONTAMINATION,
and
FIRST EVACUEES LOCATED: THEY SAW NOTHING.

Editions of the
Sentinel,
distinctly a small-town paper, averaged between sixteen and thirty-two pages. During those days in July, most of its news space was given to reports of the toxic crisis, for this event had drawn reporters from all over the country, and the low-key
Sentinel
found itself at the center of a big story. Poring over that wealth of material, Dom and Ginger discovered a lot that was pertinent to their quest and that would help them plan their next move.

For one thing, the degree of security imposed by the United States Army was soberly instructive of the lengths to which they would go to keep the lid on the truth. Although it was not strictly within their authority to do so, Army units attached to Shenkfield had established roadblocks and closed a ten-mile stretch of I-80 immediately after the accident; they had not even informed the Elko County Sheriff or the Nevada State Police of the crisis until they had secured the quarantine zone. That was a startling breach of standard procedure. Throughout the emergency, the sheriff and state police complained with increasing vehemence that the Army was freezing them out of every aspect of crisis management and
usurping civilian authority; state and local police were neither included in the maintenance of the quarantine line nor consulted on essential contingency planning for the possibility that increased winds or other factors might spread the nerve gas beyond the initial area of danger. Clearly, the military trusted only its own people to keep the secret of what was actually happening in the quarantine zone.

Following two days of frustration, Foster Hanks, the Elko County Sheriff, had complained to a
Sentinel
reporter that: “This here’s
my
bailiwick, by God, and the people elected
me
to keep peace. This is no military dictatorship. If I don’t get some cooperation from the Army, I’ll see a judge first thing tomorrow and get a court order to make them respect the legal jurisdictions in this matter.” The Tuesday
Sentinel
reported that Hanks had, indeed, gone before a judge, but before a determination could be made, the crisis was drawing to an end and the argument about jurisdiction was moot.

Huddling over the newspaper with Dom, Ginger said, “So we don’t have to worry that
all
authorities are aligned against us in this. The state and local police weren’t part of it. Our only adversary is—”

“The United States Army,” Dom finished, laughing at the unconscious element of graveyard humor in her assessment of the enemy.

She also laughed sourly. “Us against the Army. Even with state and local police out of the battle, it’s hardly a fair match, is it?”

According to the
Sentinel,
the Army kept sole and iron control of the roadblocks on I-80, the only east-west artery through forbidden territory, and also closed eight miles of the north-south county road. Civilian air traffic was restricted from passing over the contaminated area, necessitating the rerouting of flights, while the Army maintained continuous helicopter patrols of the perimeter of the proscribed land. Obviously, substantial manpower was required to secure eighty square miles, but regardless of expense and difficulty, they were determined to stop anyone entering the danger zone on foot, on horseback, or in four-wheel-drive vehicles. The choppers flew in daylight and after dark, as well, sweeping the night with searchlights. Rumors circulated that teams of soldiers, equipped with infrared surveillance gear, were also patrolling the perimeter at night, looking for interlopers who might have slipped past the big choppers’ searchlights.

“Nerve gases rate among the deadliest substances known to man,” Ginger said as Dom turned a page of the newspaper they were currently perusing. “But even so, this much security seems excessive. Besides, though I’m no expert on chemical warfare, I can’t believe
any
nerve gas would pose a threat at such a distance from a single point of release. I mean, according to the Army, it was only one cylinder of gas, not an
enormous quantity, not a whole tanker truck as Ernie and Faye remembered it. And it’s the nature of gas to disperse, to expand upon release. So by the time the stuff spread a couple of miles, it would’ve been diluted to such a degree that surely the air would’ve contained no more of it than a few parts per billion. In three miles…not even one part per billion. Not enough to endanger anyone.”

“This supports your idea that it was biological contamination.”

“Possibly,” Ginger said. “It’s too early to say. But it was certainly more serious than the nerve-gas story they put out.”

By Saturday, July 7, less than one day after the interstate was closed, an alert wire-service reporter had noted that the uniforms of many of the soldiers in the quarantine operation bore—in addition to rank and standard insignia—an unusual company patch: a black circle with an emerald-green star in the center. This was different from the markings on the uniforms of the men from Shenkfield Testing Grounds. Among those wearing the green star, the ratio of officers to enlisted men was high. When questioned, the Army identified the green-star soldiers as a little-known, super-elite company of Special Forces troops. “We call them DERO, which stands for Domestic Emergency Response Organization,” an Army spokesman was quoted by the
Sentinel. “
The men of DERO are superbly trained, and they’ve all had extensive field experience in combat situations,
and
all of them carry top-security clearances, as well, which is essential because they may find themselves operating in highly classified areas, witness to sensitive sights.”

Dom translated that to mean DERO men were chosen, in part, for their ability and willingness to keep their goddamn mouths shut.

The
Sentinel
quoted the Army spokesman further: “They’re the cream of our young career soldiers, so naturally many have attained the rank of at least sergeant by the time they qualify for DERO. Our intention is to create a superbly trained force to deal with extraordinary crises, such as terrorist attacks on domestic military installations, nuclear emergencies on bases housing atomic weapons, and other unusual problems. Not that there’s any aspect of terrorism involved in this case. And there’s no nuclear emergency here, either. But several DERO companies are stationed around the country, and since one was near when this nerve-gas situation arose, it seemed prudent to bring in the best we had to insure public safety.” He refused to tell reporters where this DERO company had been stationed, how far they had been flown, or how many were involved. “That’s classified information.” Not one of the DERO men would speak with any member of the press.

Ginger grimaced and said,
“Shmontses!”

Dom blinked. “Huh?”

“Their whole story,” she said, leaning back in her chair and rolling her head from side to side to work out a cramp in her lovely neck. “It’s all just
shmontses.
”

“But what’s
shmontses
?”

“Oh. Sorry. Yiddish word, adapted from German, I guess. One of my father’s favorites. It means something of no value, something foolish, absurd, nonsense, worthy of contempt or scorn. This stuff the Army put out is just
shmontses.
” She stopped rolling her head, leaned forward in her chair, and stabbed one finger at the newspaper. “So this DERO team just happened to be hanging around here in the middle of nowhere precisely when this crisis arose, huh? Too damned neat.”

Dom frowned. “But, Ginger, according to these stories, although the roadblocks on I-80 were set up by men from Shenkfield, the DERO team took over little more than an hour later. So if they didn’t just happen to be nearby, the only way they could’ve gotten here so quickly was if they were airborne and on their way
before the accident ever happened.
”

“Exactly.”

“You’re saying they knew in advance there’d be a toxic spill?”

She sighed. “At most, I’m willing to accept a DERO team might’ve been at one of the nearest military bases…in western Utah or maybe up in southern Idaho. But even that’s not near enough to make the Army’s scenario work. Even if they dropped everything and flew in here the moment they heard about the spill, they couldn’t have been manning those roadblocks within an hour. No way. So, yeah, it sure looks to me as if they had a little advance warning that something was going to happen out at the western end of Elko County. Not much warning, mind you. Not days. But maybe a one-or two-hour advance notice.”

“Which means the toxic spill couldn’t have been an accident. In fact, probably wasn’t a spill at all, neither chemical nor biological. So why in hell were they wearing decontamination suits when they were treating us?” Dom was frustrated by the elaborate maze of this mystery, which twisted and turned inward but not toward a solution, toward nothing but twistier and more complex pathways that led into ever deeper puzzlement. He had the irrational urge to tear the newspapers to shreds, as if, by ripping them to pieces, he would also be ripping apart the Army’s lies and would somehow find the truth revealed, at last, in the resultant confetti.

With a note of frustration that matched his own, Ginger said, “The only reason the Army called in a DERO company to enforce the quarantine was because the men patrolling the zone would have a view of something highly classified, something absolutely top-secret. The Army felt they couldn’t trust ordinary soldiers who didn’t have the very highest security clearance. That’s the sole reason the DERO team was used.”

“Because they could be trusted to keep their mouths shut.”

“Yes. And if it’d been nothing more than a toxic spill out there on I-80, the DERO men wouldn’t have been required for the job. I mean, if it was just a spill, what would there’ve been to see except maybe an overturned truck and a damaged, leaking canister of gas or liquid?”

Turning their attention once more to the newspapers spread before them, they found additional evidence indicating the Army had had at least some warning that unusual and spectacular trouble would erupt in western Elko County that hot July night. Both Dom and Ginger distinctly remembered that the Tranquility Grille had been filled with a strange sound and shaken by earthquake-like tremors about half an hour after full darkness had settled on the land; and because sunset came later during the summer (even at 41 degrees North Latitude), the trouble must have started approximately at eight-ten. Their memory blocks began at the same time, which further pinpointed The Event. Yet Dom spotted a line in one of the
Sentinel
’s stories stating that the roadblocks on I-80 had been erected almost at eight o’clock on the dot.