Cyclops One by Jim DeFelice Read Free Book Online Page B

removed. He trudged up the hill now, his green T-shirt soaked with sweat. As soon as he got to the apex of the trail, he collapsed on the pile of rocks there. Fisher slid down from his vantage point and went over to him.
    “Hey, Doc. Hot down there?”
    The doctor grunted something. It was summer, but it was probably only about sixty degrees.
    “So, it was Williams, right?” asked Fisher, taking out his cigarettes. “Still strapped in, right?”
    “You’re Fisher.”
    “That’s what the cred says,” said Fisher. “Picture kind of looks like me, if you squint.”
    The doctor grimaced. “Those things’ll kill you.”
    Fisher held out the pack. “Want one?”
    The doctor hesitated, then reached for the pack.
    “Pretty gruesome, huh?”
    “Let’s just say severe trauma,” said the doctor. He took a long breath on the cigarette, held it nearly thirty seconds, then exhaled. “Autopsy’ll have the details.”
    “You think he was dead before the crash?” asked Fisher.
    The doctor’s hand shook as he brought the cigarette to his mouth and took a drag.
    “Was his body bruised?” Fisher prompted. “I’m kind of wondering, because if he was dead, well, then obviously that’s one line of expectations, and if he was alive, well, that’s another. It’d be pretty obvious on the face—”
    The physician turned abruptly and began to vomit. Fisher had never met a weak-stomached doctor before, and looked on with scientific interest.
    “You all right?” Fisher asked when the doctor finally stopped retching. He appeared to have had some sort of meat dish for lunch.
    “Ugh,” muttered the man. Fisher took out a handkerchief and gave it to him.
    “Not much left of the face,” managed the doctor.
    “Warm?”
    “I think he was alive at impact, yes,” said the doctor. “My g-guess would be unconscious. I’ve never seen such, such—The impact tore—”
    He turned away and began to retch again.
    “Fisher, what the hell are you doing? Why are you bothering my people?” demanded Bonham. “Why are you even here?”
    “You commandeered my helicopter, remember?”
    “ Your helicopter?”
    “I’m a taxpayer. When I remember to file.”
    “There’s a time and place for everything. Show some respect.”
    Fisher put his cigarette into his mouth, considering Bonham’s words. They seemed almost biblical.
    Psalm-like, actually.
    “So how do you figure the plane got so far north?” he asked Bonham.
    The general gave him as exasperated look.
    “Blacks out like Colonel Howe’s did, but then keeps flying?” asked Fisher. “Two hundred miles?”
    “It’s probably less than one-fifty,” said Bonham. “I’m sure the crash experts will be able to compute it.”
    “Yeah, they’re whizzes at this stuff. God bless ’em.” Fisher heard a helicopter arriving at the LZ and decided to see if he could hitch a ride back. “Keep the handkerchief,” he told the doctor. He looked up the hill for his bodyguard. “Come on, Johnson. Time for us to head home. I’m down to my last pack of cigarettes.”
     

    Flying back on the helicopter, Fisher got involved in a philosophical discussion with the crew chief about whether the inventor of lite beer ought to be hanged or simply jailed for life. Because of that, he wasn’t prepared for the attack that met him on the tarmac.
    “Fisher, who the hell do you think you are, screwing up a rescue operation?”
    “Hey, Jemma. You’re looking particularly pallid today. Wanna cigarette?” said Fisher, walking toward the pillbox that housed the elevator into the bunker complex.
    “You can’t smoke on this base,” said Jemma. “There’s all sorts of jet fuel and flammable materials.”
    “Write me up.” Fisher poked out a Camel and lit up. He had a hankering for a Marlboro, but his Indian suppliers didn’t go for the image, so they were hard to get. “How come you’re outside during the day? Aren’t you afraid of melting?”
    “Fisher, what the hell were you doing?”