“I knew we gave off electricity.”
“Same thing in this case. Call it electromagnetic radiation, also known as thermal, or infrared, radiation. Thermal radiation only transports heat and indicates the temperature of its source. Different people at different times give off differing amounts of radiation. But these differences just indicate who is hotter, and not who is fatter, taller, sadder, or more saintly. Thermal images of a person captured using an infrared camera provide the temperature of the person’s skin.
“What we’ve done,” Marsh continued, getting to the point when he saw Rathman’s eyes drifting, “is take the principle of this infrared camera one step further. The Zarim, Colonel, give off electromagnetic radiation within a different, a higher bandwidth. Not very dramatic, but pronounced enough to be distinct and detectable to the cameras we’ve constructed. And they’re not so much cameras as sensing devices programmed to alert our Tracker teams in the event the presence of one is identified in the immediate proximity.”
“I’m picturing men driving in trucks with mini-satellite dishes on top.”
Marsh smiled tightly. “It sounds like you’ve seen them.”
“Have I, sir?”
“In all probability, yes. Everyone has. But our vans are always concealed in the guise of delivery, maintenance, or local cable vehicles.”
“And they just cruise the streets, what, listening?”
“More like recording readouts, Colonel,” Marsh told him. “It’s a methodical, painstaking process, but necessary and well worth the effort. You’d be surprised at the level of success we’ve managed, less so over the years because there’s less of them left to target. But that doesn’t make our job any less challenging or important. You know what gets me through, keeps me going?”
Rathman’s eyes beckoned him on.
“The possibility that someday, someday, we might lock onto the Zarim who killed my father. I’d like you to be the one to bring him to me, Colonel. I think you’re up to that task.”
“I need to know what’s expected of me, sir, the precise parameters of my mission.”
The walkie-talkie feature on Marsh’s phone beeped before he could answer the big man and he held a hand up to signal a pause, then turned and raised the phone to his ear. Marsh listened to the report, spoke nothing in response. He swung back around, as he fit the phone back into its belt holster.
“We’ve got a blip, Colonel.”
“A blip, sir?”
“An anomaly suggesting alien involvement. It would seem you have your first assignment. There’s a jet fueled and ready.”
“Bound for where, sir?” the big man asked, appearing even taller and broader in that moment.
“San Francisco.”
SIX
MONTER_Y MO_T_R INN
In three words I can sum up everything
I’ve learned about life: it goes on.
—ROBERT FROST
38
BLUE PLATE SPECIAL
ALEX AND SAM DROVE south through the night until the clouds covered the moonlit sky and then broke apart, avoiding the 101 in favor of the Pacific Coast Highway. Fog wafting in from the ocean made the difficult drive even more precarious. But the scenic nature of the PCH belied the fact that it also passed through areas of near-desolation and small, little-known towns all the way to Santa Cruz.
Sam drove with her fingers so tight on the Beetle’s wheel her hands began to ache, then her forearms, and finally her shoulders. She kept starting sentences, only to have no words emerge. Just air, which was fine since the drive commanded all of her attention. The road was like a winding black ribbon shifting over a coastline so close below that she could hear the waves crashing against the rocks. She welcomed the sight of her headlights reflecting off guardrails, held her breath through the most dangerous curves when there were no guardrails at all.
Every time she looked toward Alex in the passenger seat, he was staring straight ahead out the windshield as if it were a blank screen. A few times when she looked over, the angle of the streetlights bounced his reflection back off the glass. He didn’t seem to be blinking, and Sam couldn’t tell if he was even breathing.
“Should we go to the police, FBI—somebody?” she managed to ask finally, her voice trailing off to barely a whisper at the end as the road ahead blackened anew, thick blankets of fog wafting across it.
No response.
Minutes passed.
“Is there somewhere you want to go?”
Nothing.
“Someone you can call?”