“A lot’s changed around here,” Groves added, shepherding them all out from under the chopper’s blades.
“I could see that from the air,” Slater replied. Indeed, as he looked around now, he could see that several walkways had been laid down, running between extra tents and aluminum Quonset huts. Aerials were poking up everywhere, and an additional battery of generators was humming away under a covered port. Several Coast Guardsmen were scurrying among the various structures.
“How’re you feeling?” Groves asked, but before he could even answer, Kozak interjected, “You are well, yes? You must be, or they would not have let you go.” The professor looked him up and down, and regardless of what he might have been thinking, said, “Yes, you appear very well.”
Slater smiled; Kozak was such a bad liar. He knew that he still looked like he’d just been in a bar brawl. The bruises on his face had faded to a faint blue, but many of the cuts and abrasions had yet to heal completely, and unless he walked carefully, his fractured ribs gave him a jolt.
“And Nika?” Kozak asked. “How is she?”
“On her way back to Port Orlov,” Slater replied.
“They are lucky that she is their mayor,” Kozak said.
“You can say that again,” Groves said, chuckling. “But she’ll be governor before you know it. There’s no stopping that one.”
And then, as if all of their thoughts had pivoted in the same direction like a covey of birds, there was a moment of deep silence.
“Dr. Lantos was a very brave woman,” the sergeant finally said, and Kozak, solemnly crossing himself, added, “And a very good scientist.”
“None better,” Slater agreed. Whatever else had been lifted from his shoulders, the death of Eva Lantos had not; it would always weigh heavy on his conscience.
Off in the direction of the cemetery, there was the rumble of heavy machinery—to Slater it sounded suspiciously like a cement mixer—but before he could ask about it, Rudy, the fresh-faced young ensign, hurried toward them.
“Welcome back, Dr. Slater,” he said, saluting quite unnecessarily. “Colonel Waggoner, the acting commander, has ordered that you report to HQ immediately upon arrival.”
Ordered. It was funny how little import the word carried for Slater now.
“Better make sure you straighten your tie and shine your shoes,” Groves said dryly.
Slater knew that there was no love lost between what was left of his own team and the new regime.
“It’s this way,” Rudy said, starting in the direction of the largest Quonset hut, where the lab tent—altogether gone now—had once stood. How, Slater wondered, had they disposed of the deacon’s remains? To do so safely, a host of critical precautions had to have been taken. But were they?
“Frank,” Kozak said, snagging his sleeve, “we must talk. As soon as you have time.”
Rudy stopped and called out, “Dr. Slater? I’m afraid it’ll be my ass in a sling.”
“It’s very important,” Kozak added, in a low but urgent tone.
Slater figured it probably had something to do with the geological studies he’d been completing, but what could be that pressing? The graveyard, he had been advised, had been cordoned off—for good this time—and the whole island made a secured site. But scientists, he also knew from experience, always assumed their own work to be critical. “First thing,” he assured him, before turning to follow his impatient escort.
The headquarters was bustling with activity, and the far end was reserved for Colonel Waggoner’s office. He had the square jaw, the square shoulders, and the square head that Slater had encountered all too often in his military career. He was standing up and on the SAT phone when Slater was shown in, and he motioned brusquely at a chair positioned across from his desk.
Shades of being sent to the principal’s office, Slater mused.
When Slater had been made to sit there long enough for the point to have been made, Waggoner ended his call and said, in an admonitory tone, “Guess you’ve noticed that we made a few changes. We run this operation pretty differently now.”
“You should have waited,” Slater said. “There are safety protocols that need to be observed.”
The colonel looked taken aback. “We have an AFIP officer on-site, handpicked by Dr. Levinson in Washington.”
“Who?”
“Captain Stanley Jenkins, M.D.”
“He’s a good choice,” Slater said, relieved. He’d never worked with him personally, but he’d read the man’s reports from the field and knew he was an up-and-comer. “Do whatever Captain Jenkins tells you to do and you won’t go wrong.”
Waggoner looked even more put off. “Dr. Jenkins is here in an advisory capacity only, and he takes his orders from me. Maybe you’ve forgotten how the military branches of our government work since your court-martial, Dr. Slater.”