“Gas range, huh?” The major spoke into his radio again. Tony, the cook, was directed to stand in front with Banks, Kuznetsov, and Scott. The soldier who’d been in the kitchen now began going around the dining room, closing and locking the windows and drawing the cowboy-patterned curtains over them.
“Listen up,” the major said in a harder voice. “Tappan and the others have been exposed to some unknown, apparently nonterrestrial virus. We’re here to decontaminate this base, check all of you for possible infection, and then evac you to a safe location.”
At that moment, the outside door opened and one of the three soldiers brought in the missing motor pool worker, along with Max. The young cook had dust on his T-shirt, and he was panting.
The soldier pushed the two inside with the barrel of his weapon. Looking over his shoulder, Banks could now make out one of the other two soldiers who’d been left outside, loading up the jeeps with laptops and scientific equipment. He was still moving fast, as if on a clock.
What the bloody hell was going on?
“Caught this one running,” the soldier told the major, indicating Max.
Terror is the best of guards. Now Banks remembered: that was an expression Noam Bitan had used on occasion. But why?
“All accounted for,” the soldier added.
“What the hell are you up to?” Wallensky demanded of the soldier who was closing and locking all the windows.
Something occurred to Banks. “If there’s some kind of biological emergency,” he asked the major, “why aren’t you wearing protective gear?”
“Not necessary, sport,” the major said with a friendly smile. Then he spoke quietly and quickly to the soldier who’d brought in the two strays. He nodded, disappearing out into the darkness once again. The soldier with the trigger finger took up position by the open door.
Now Banks heard crashing noises from outside. Looking past the soldier at the door, Banks could see two of the three others dumping all sorts of equipment from the Quonset huts—hard drives, notebooks, files, lockers for sample storage—into the empty space below the Airstream. Still at a dead run.
Wallensky, who was standing again, moved to block the soldier as he was locking a nearby window. “Answer my fucking question,” he said.
The soldier turned, raised his weapon, and fired a short burst. Wallensky was kicked backward, falling onto the table and sliding across it, leaving a bloody smear in his wake. Dishes and silverware hit the floor, the crash of crockery mingling with screams and cries of surprise as a dozen more people jumped to their feet.
“Pity,” the major said.
The soldier who’d run off into the darkness now returned. “You were right, sir,” he said. “About the location.”
“Stopcock open?” the major asked him as the other two soldiers covered the room.
“It is now, sir,” the man panted. “Wide open.” From outside, there was another crash as the two soldiers with armfuls of equipment returned, throwing more of the camp’s expensive stuff under the Airstream.
“Everybody, stay where you are,” the major said to the crowd in a warning tone.
“You shot him!” a woman cried.
“You’re not army!” said the man from the motor pool.
“We could rush you, motherfucker!” said a third, a helicopter pilot.
All three had spoken simultaneously. But it was the pilot the major turned to answer.
“You’d never make it, sport.” And he slipped his own automatic weapon off his shoulder as he spoke.
And now, Banks—having some trouble believing all this was not just a nightmare—recalled where Bitan’s quote came from. Three of Bitan’s grandparents had died in Nazi concentration camps. The fourth, who survived Buchenwald, passed on to a young Bitan a cruel motto the SS taught newly arrived recruits, explaining how so few could control and liquidate so many. Keep them moving, always moving. And afraid. Terror is the best of guards…
He wheeled around to grasp the major. But he was too late: the soldiers were already retreating out the door, machine guns held menacingly before them. The major glanced toward Banks, and their eyes met.
“Later, sport,” he said.
Then he slammed and locked the door. At the same moment, Banks smelled gas.
Gas range, huh?
Looks like a full house.
It is now, sir. Wide open.
All this flashed through Banks’s mind in a microsecond. And then he, like everyone else, was stumbling, clambering, clawing toward the locked door. Mindless screams deafened him. People began pounding on the windows with their fists. Through a gap in the curtains, he could see all six soldiers now back in the jeeps. The major was at the wheel of the lead vehicle. His automatic weapon was still out, and he was aiming it toward the back of the huge Airstream.