A Question of Intent

Mickey’s pal bobbed his head in vigorous agreement, as he always did.

Some forty minutes later, Jill slowed for the first checkpoint. The MP who came out of the modular booth that served as a guard shack recognized her in the glare of the spot angled down from the shack’s roof. The sergeant saluted respectfully but still asked for ID. Jill handed him a flat leather case, pleased that he hadn’t let her pass on mere visual recognition.

He aimed a small electronic sensor at her face, then ran it over her holographic ID. The flat, credit card size bit of plastic contained an astonishing array of photo imaging, retinal scan data, fingerprints, DNA information, and a special code signifying Jill’s level of access within the compound. The card also contained a built-in signal transmitter that allowed the Control Center to track the movements of the person carrying it. When the card reader gave two soft pings, the sergeant handed her back the leather case.

“You’re cleared for entry, Major.”

“Thanks. I’m escorting Dr. Cody Richardson to the site,” she told him, pointing a thumb at the vehicle behind hers. “He’s on your key personnel list.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The sergeant walked back to the idling SUV and requested the doc’s civilian ID. Angling his flashlight at Richardson, he scrutinized the physician’s face and compared it to the photo before taking the identification back into the guard post to check the access list. Tomorrow Jill would issue each of the cadre members a holographic ID similar to hers and considerably speed up the entry process.

After some moments the guard returned to Richardson’s vehicle and handed him back his ID. “Do you have a camera, computer, cell phone, or other electronic device in your vehicle, sir?”

“Just a cell phone.”

“Sorry, sir. I’ll have to take that.”

“Right.”

Reporting instructions had advised all cadre members not to bring their own computers or electronic notebooks. Encrypted versions would be issued to them. The same instructions had advised that personal cell phones used en route would have to be turned in on arrival. Any calls coming in to those phones would be routed through the Control Center to secure instruments on-site.

Once cleared, the doc followed Jill’s vehicle down another lonely five-mile stretch of road. The compound lights were mere pinpricks in the distance, almost indistinguishable from the bright wash of stars. Gradually, the pinpricks grew brighter and closer.

Jill stopped at a second checkpoint, this one guarding a cluster of prefabricated modular buildings and trailers surrounded by rolls of concertina wire. In the wash of lights mounted at regular intervals within the compound, the main site had all the charm and warmth of a lunar moonscape. There wasn’t a tree or a bush to be seen. White-painted rocks marked the roads and walkways between the buildings. Off in the distance, the hangar that would house Pegasus loomed over the rest of the structures like a big, brooding mammoth. Aside from a few picnic tables scattered among the trailers, everything was starkly functional.

Guards at the second checkpoint cleared Jill through. She waited once more for the doc, then drove across the compound to the trailer housing the commanding officer of the Pegasus test cadre. The Lincoln’s tires crunched on the hard-packed dirt as it pulled up beside her ATV. Cody Richardson climbed out, thudding the vehicle’s door shut, and gave her a questioning glance.

“These are Captain Westfall’s quarters,” Jill informed him. “He requested I bring you here.”

Nodding, Richardson followed her to the trailer. Jill’s knock brought Westfall to the door. The tall, spare Naval officer was still in his working khakis, which didn’t surprise her. The captain had only arrived on-site yesterday morning, but Jill had already formed the distinct impression he wasn’t the type to retire early or sleep late.

“This is Dr. Richardson, sir.”

She stepped aside, allowing the Public Health Service officer to brush by her and offer a crisp salute.

“Sorry I’m out of uniform, sir. I didn’t expect to report to you tonight.”

“Not a problem, Doc. Come in, come in.” Westfall speared Jill with one of his penetrating, steel-gray glances. “Thanks for delivering him, Major. Everything quiet out on the test range?”

“It is now.”

The captain raised a brow. Before Jill could elaborate, Richardson offered a cool explanation.

“The major and I ran into each other. Literally. I ate sand until she decided I was who I said I was.”

“Did you?” He tipped Jill an approving nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the in-brief.”

“Yes, sir.”

After an exchange of salutes, she made her way to her vehicle. Instead of driving back out to run the perimeter and check her patrols, however, she headed for the squat, dun-colored modular unit that served as her detachment’s headquarters and operations center.

A welcome blast of chilled air greeted her when she stepped inside, along with the even more welcome scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Rattler Control occupied the rear half of the unit; her cubbyhole of an office, the armory, and a small break area took up the front half.

She stopped at the armory first to turn in her rifle and ammo clips. That done, she made a beeline for the coffee. Filling a jet-black mug emblazoned with her unit’s self-designed crest—a rattlesnake coiled around the crossed Revolutionary-War-era pistols designating the MP Corps—she stuck her head inside the control center.

“I’ll be in my office for a while.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The lanky Oklahoman at the dispatch console spun his chair around. “That was some takedown out there.”

“Nothing like putting one of our own facedown in the dirt,” Jill agreed.

Specialist First Class Denton grinned. “I’m guessing that Public Health weenie will think twice before taking you on again.”

“I wouldn’t exactly classify Dr. Richardson as a weenie,” she replied, remembering the breadth of the man’s shoulders.

“Whatever he is, he’s the first to get a taste of Rattler venom. Good goin’, Major.”

Jill bowed to the inevitable. She knew the story of her brief confrontation with Cody Richardson was going to be repeated—and greatly exaggerated—by every one of her troops. Which wasn’t necessarily all that bad. She was long past the point of having to prove herself to either her people or to herself, but a little Marshal-Matt-Dillon-style action never hurt a cop’s image.

“I’ll be in my office,” she repeated, retreating while her invincible aura still glowed bright and strong.

Once in her closet-size cubbyhole, she wedged behind her desk and placed her mug on the red blotter. A quick click of the keyboard activated her computer. The sleek laptop was state-of-the-art, its hard drive encrypted and shielded against penetration by everyone from Kremlin spies to everyday, average teenage hackers.

The screen hummed to life and blinked open to a screensaver featuring an Army tank in full attack mode. Jill entered her access code, pulled down the menu marked Personnel and zeroed in on Dr. Cody Richardson. Mere seconds later his file painted across the screen. A click on the thumbnail sketch of his picture enlarged it to screen size.

There he was, glasses, white lab coat and all. With the same annoyed expression he’d worn earlier this evening. And the same square chin, which she’d somehow overlooked before. The guy was a Clark Kent, she decided, seemingly innocuous looking in his everyday work disguise. Very different out of it and in the flesh.

Irritated with herself for forming a preconceived concept based on a sterile looking lab environment and a white coat, she opened the doc’s background file. His credentials had impressed her the first two times she’d read them. They still impressed her.

“Graduate of the University of North Carolina,” she muttered under her breath, “with honors in chemistry and biology. M.D. from Duke. Completed an internship and residency in internal medicine, with a follow-on fellowship in clinical pharmacology and infectious diseases at Johns Hopkins. Masters in Public Health from Harvard.”

Scrolling down the screen, she skimmed over Richardson’s professional associations, publications and work history. He’d spent several years practicing medicine before going to work for a major pharmaceutical company. If Jill was reading all this technical stuff correctly, he’d then moved into the forefront of the battle against AIDs and Ebola. Three years ago, he’d jettisoned his job with the pharmaceutical giant to join the Public Health Service.

Jill didn’t know all that much about the PHS, except that it was a corps of approximately six thousand uniformed officers within the Department of Health and Human Services. These highly trained health professionals operated within all divisions of HHS, including the Center for Disease Control, the National Institute of Health and the Food and Drug Administration. They also served as a mobile force to provide primary health care to medically under-served rural and Native American populations. Cody Richardson had joined their ranks three years ago.

“Bet you took one hell of a pay cut when you made that move,” Jill murmured.

If so, he was still living off the proceeds of his former life. Lincoln Navigators and flashy gold Rolexes didn’t come cheap. She made a mental note to check into the corporation the Lincoln was registered to and continued scrolling through his file.

Heading a team of researchers at the National Institute of Health, Richardson had helped isolate the West Nile virus. He also, Jill saw, worked closely with the military services to test and field counter-toxins to various biological agents. Because of that work, he’d been hand selected to test the nuclear, biological and chemical defenses installed in Pegasus. In addition, he and a small staff would provide on-site medical care for the test cadre.

Richardson’s personal data was considerably more concise. Parents alive and living in North Carolina. No siblings. Wife deceased. No children.

Leaning back in her chair, Jill took a long swig of her coffee. Dr. Richardson’s file painted a portrait of a dedicated, hardworking physician who was also a brilliant research scientist. Nothing in what she’d read suggested a predilection for stargazing.

She’d keep an eye on the doc, she decided. A close eye. Shutting down the screen, she finished her coffee and went back to the Control Center to check the status of her deployed patrols. Just after 1:00 a.m., she called it a night.