"Gator A-GO-GO" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dorsey Tim)Chapter EighteenTHE NEXT MORNING Bright sunshine. A camcorder panned toward a tall wooden wall on he beach, where the U.S. Army had set up their obstacle course. The wall had thick, knotted ropes running down the side. The filmmaker turned off his camera and approached a recruiter. Three church youth waited in the background. “Howdy! I’m Serge! Do you have any coffee?” “Uh, no.” “It’s okay, I brought my own. Essential for war.” He unhitched a canteen from his waist and chugged. He looked around. “Where’s the line?” “Line?” “For the obstacle course. I love obstacle courses! They’re just like life! Perfect metaphors for both obstacles and courses… Ooooooh! Are those trophies over there for the obstacle course? I’d give anything to win a trophy!” “Don’t you think you’re a little old?” Serge did stretching exercises. “Maybe in earth years.” He touched his toes. “That’s why I use the outer planets, where I’m still an infant.” “I mean the obstacle course is meant for people who still meet age requirements for service.” Serge twisted side to side. “There’s nobody here. The spectacle of my record-shattering technique is bound to fix that and draw an overflow crowd, boosting enlistment. What’s the harm?” The recruiter shrugged. “Then I guess you’re next.” “And I want a trophy.” Serge went over to the starting line, crouching and digging his toes into the beach. “You going to time me?” The recruiter raised a stopwatch. “Ready when you are,” said Serge. “On your mark… Get set… Go!” Serge blasted out of his sprinter’s stance with blazing speed, sand flying behind him. He raced past the tires, metal tubes, wooden ramps, water jump, monkey bars and finally the rope wall. Recruiters stared in disbelief as Serge launched himself into the air and dove across the finish line. He collapsed, catching his breath. “What’s my time?” “You didn’t do any of the obstacles. You ran around all of them.” “Exactly,” said Serge. “They’re “But you missed every one.” “Perfect score,” said Serge. “But you’re supposed to “That’s stupid.” Serge stood and brushed off his arms. “By definition, obstacles are things you avoid. Can’t believe nobody thought of that yet.” They just stared. Serge retrieved his canteen from a table. “Which one’s my trophy?” “You didn’t do any of the obstacles.” “We already went over that,” said Serge. “I think that’s the problem. You’re enlisted. I’m obviously officer material…” Farther up the beach, a large group of students circled some kind of attraction. In the middle, Coleman sat on the sand with a tangelo and syringe. He stuck the needle in the fruit and drew back the plunger. “The key is to extract an identical cubic centimeter volume as the agent you intend to introduce. That’s the most common mistake: Excess alcohol dribbles down your shirt, the authorities smell it and you’re history.” He squirted juice in the sand, then filled the syringe from a bottle of vodka and injected the tangelo. They heard yelling up the beach behind them. “ “What’s all that noise about?” asked Coleman, removing the hypodermic. One of the students stood and shielded his eyes against the sun. “Looks like those army guys are throwing some dude out in the water.” “Here’s another trick,” said Coleman. “One of the most important turbo-partying tools that everyone overlooks. Only ninety-nine cents.” He reached in his pocket and dramatically held aloft a serrated orange plastic device. Students took a closer look. “Isn’t that a kid’s citrus sipper from those roadside souvenir stands?” Coleman carefully twisted the cutting edge into the tangelo. “Most people try to suck the doctored fruit through an unsecured aperture. Mistake number two. Big mess and more heat from the Man.” Coleman stuck the sipper in his mouth and squeezed the tangelo to a flat peel. “Ahhhh! That was refreshing. And not a single valuable drop lost.” Murmurs rippled through the crowd. “ Behind the last row of onlookers, a trophy-less Serge walked by, filming. “Coleman?” Another direction: “Coleman? Where’d you go?” Shuffling down the shore. “Coleman?” BOSTON Bedlam at the airport. The blizzard was over. At twenty-six inches. Plows worked the runways. Travelers pitched heated battles with ticket agents. Their win-loss record: zero to infinity. Others stared up in defeat at overhead departure screens. Status columns flashed. All flights delayed. Unless they were canceled. The low-pressure front finally passed, but planes that had already taxied from the terminal were stacked twenty deep at de-icing machines by the foot of each runway. At every gate, rows of vinyl chairs connected in single racks. All taken. A stress farm. Babies wailed, complainers complained, others phoned relatives to whine in different time zones. Candy bars, laptops, handheld video games. Some tried catching winks on the floor. In a remote corner of the airside, a rare patch of empty seats, where agents formed an alert perimeter around Patrick McKenna, sitting with a floppy hat pulled down over his face. The sign at the gate’s departure desk: ANCHORAGE. Ramirez paced with a cell phone to his head. University administration in Durham. On hold. Another agent walked over. “Any luck?” “Campus security turned up something,” said Ramirez. “Found one kid at the dorm feeding pets.” “Didn’t Oswalt already talk to that guy?” “Something new-” He returned his attention to the phone. “Yes, Sergeant, I’m still here… Under sedation? What’s he doing in the infirmary?… I see. Did he say anything before-… One second…” Ramirez flipped open a notebook and clicked a pen. “Fire away…” Other agents strained for a glimpse as Ramirez scribbled in unrecognizable shorthand. “Thanks, Sergeant. I owe you.” The rest were waiting: “Get the name of the hotel?” “And the room. Holiday Isles, registered to one Kyle Jones.” He stuck the notebook in his pocket. “We’re splitting up. Johnson, Malone, Polaski: You take McKenna. The rest of us are going to Florida. Hatfield, check with the airlines.” He opened his phone again. “Who are you calling now?” “We’re not going anywhere soon with this snow. I’m getting some local people to that hotel before Madre’s crew can beat us there.” Travelers grumbled. A plow went by the windows. Agent Hat-field finally returned, waving three electronic tickets. “Last seats, Atlanta.” “Atlanta?” said Ramirez. “Everyone’s rebooking. It’s the closest I could get without waiting till tomorrow.” “Aren’t any of the bureau’s own planes available?” asked another agent. “They “Gate’s at the other end of the terminal,” said Hatfield. The agents began walking. At the other end of the terminal: “Atlanta?” said Guillermo. “Closest they had,” said Pedro, waving tickets. “Everyone’s trying to get out.” “Which is our gate?” “That one.” They took seats, facing dim windows. Guillermo was back on his cell. “Yes, I’m trying to reach Andy McKenna, room five forty-three… He hasn’t checked in yet?… But five forty-three is his room number, right?… Thanks for your help.” “Do we even know what the kid looks like?” asked Raul. “Saw him once with his dad.” Guillermo stuck the phone in his jacket. “Back in the day.” “Fifteen years ago?” “Right, we have no idea what he looks like. That’s why I just made that phone call. Ensure we have the right room.” “But if we don’t know what he looks like, how can we be sure we get the right one?” Guillermo gave him the same look he’d gotten just before they’d gone in that convenience store. “Oh.” A row away, three agents settled into seats with newspapers and magazines. “So Madre’s people already visited the campus?” asked Hatfield. Ramirez nodded. “That kid who feeds the pets was pretty shaken. Means they’re close.” “How close?” Behind them, Raul offered an open foil bag to Guillermo. “Chex Mix?” A TV hung from a bracket between the gates. The G-men and Guillermo’s crew looked up. “ |
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