front page. The pace of life in Elko County was rural, relaxed,
sensible, and no one felt a burning need to be breathlessly
up-to-the-minute on anything. The Sentinel was put to bed late in the
evening, for distribution in the morning; therefore, since no Sunday
edition was published, the story of the toxic spill and the closure of
I-80 did not appear until the edition of Monday, July 9.
But Monday's and Tuesday's editions were emblazoned with urgent
headlines: TOXIC SPILL CLOSES- 80, and ARMY ESTABLISHES QUARANTINE ZONE,
and NERVE GAS LEAKING FROM DAMAGED TRUCK?, and ARMY SAYS EVERYONE
EVACUATED FROM DANGER ZONE, and WHERE ARE EVACUEES?, and SHENKFIELD ARMY
TESTING GROUNDS: WHAT REALLY GOES ON THERE?, and
- 80 CLOSURE ENTERS FOURTH DAY, and CLEAN-UP ALMOST FINISHED; HIGHWAY
OPEN BY NOON.
For both Dom and Ginger, it was eerie to read about these events that
had transpired during days when they remembered nothing more than
relaxing quietly at the Tranquility Motel. As Dom read about the
crisis, he became convinced Ginger's theory was correct; it seemed
obvious that the mindcontrol technicians would have needed an extra week
or two in order to have incorporated this elaborate toxic-spill cover
story into the phony memories of both Elko County locals and
passers-through, and there was no way they could have kept the highway
closed and the area sealed tight for that long.
The edition of Wednesday, July 11, continued the saga: I80 OPENS!, and
QUARANTINE REMOVED: NO LONG-TERM CONTAMINATION, and FIRST EVACUEES
LOCATED: THEY SAW NOTHIN(;.
Editions of the Sentinel, distinctly a small-town paper, averaged
between sixteen and thirty-two pages. During those days in July, most
of its news space was given to reports of the toxic crisis, for this
event had drawn reporters from all over the country, and the low-key
Sentinel found itself at the center of a big story. Poring over that
wealth of material, Dom and Ginger discovered a lot that was pertinent
to their quest and that would help them plan their next move.
For one thing, the degree of security imposed by the United States Army
was soberly instructive of the lengths to which they would go to keep
the lid on the truth. Although it was not strictly within their
authority to do so, Army units attached to Shenkfield had established
roadblocks and closed a ten-mile stretch of I-80 immediately after the
accident; they had not even informed the Elko County Sheriff or the
Nevada State Police of the crisis until they had secured the quarantine
zone. That was a startling breach of standard procedure. Throughout the
emergency, the sheriff and state police complained with increasing
vehemence that the Army was freezing them out of every aspect of crisis
management and usurping civilian authority; state and local police were
neither included in the maintenance of the quarantine line nor consulted
on essential contingency planning for the possibility that increased
winds or other factors might spread the nerve gas beyond the initial
area of danger. Clearly, the military trusted only its own people to
keep the secret of what was actually happening in the quarantine zone.
Following two days of frustration, Foster Hanks, the Elko County
Sheriff, had complained to a Sentinel reporter that: "This here's my
bailiwick, by God, and the people elected me to keep peace. This is no
military dictatorship. If I don't get some cooperation from the Army,
I'll see a judge first thing tomorrow and get a court order to make them
respect the legal jurisdictions in this matter." The Tuesday Sentinel
reported that Hanks had, indeed, gone before a judge, but before a
determination could be made, the crisis was drawing to an end and the
argument about jurisdiction was moot.
Huddling over the newspaper with Dom, Ginger said, "So we don't have to
worry that all authorities are aligned against us in this. The state
and local police weren'tpart of it. Our only adversary is-"
"The United States Army," Dom finished, laughing at the unconscious
of the enemy.
She also laughed sourly. "Us against the Army. Even with state and
local police out of the battle, it's hardly a fair match,
is it?"
According to the Sentinel, the Army kept sole and iron control of the
roadblocks on I-80, the only east-west artery through forbidden
territory, and also closed eight miles of the north-south county road.
Civilian air traffic was restricted from passing over the contaminated
area, necessitating the rerouting of flights, while the Army maintained
continuous helicopter patrols of the perimeter of the proscribed land.
Obviously, substantial manpower was required to secure eighty square
miles, but regardless of expense and difficulty, they were determined to
stop anyone entering the danger zone on foot, on horseback, or in
four-wheel-drive vehicles. The choppers flew in daylight and after
dark, as well, sweeping the night with searchlights. Rumors circulated
that teams of soldiers, equipped with infrared surveillance gear, were
also patrolling the perimeter at night, looking for interlopers who
might have slipped past the big choppers' searchlights.
"Nerve gases rate among the deadliest substances known to man," Ginger
said as Dom turned a page of the newspaper they were currently perusing.
"But even so, this much security seems excessive. Besides, though I'm
no expert on chemical warfare, I can't believe any nerve gas would pose
a threat at such a distance from a single point of release. I mean,
according to the Army, it was only one cylinder of gas, not an enormous
quantity, not a whole tanker truck as Ernie and Faye remembered it. And
it's the nature of gas to disperse, to expand upon release. So by the
time the stuff spread a couple of miles, it would've been diluted to
such a degree that surely the air would've contained no more of it than
a few parts per billion. In three miles ... not even one part per
billion. Not enough to endanger anyone."
"This supports your idea that it was biological contamination."
"Possibly," Ginger said. "It's too early to say. But it was certainly
more serious than the nerve-gas story they put out."
By Saturday, July 7, less than one day after the interstate was closed,
an alert wire-service reporter had noted that the uniforms of many of
the soldiers in the quarantine operation bore-in addition to rank and
standard insignia-an unusual company patch: a black circle with an
emerald-green star in the center. This was different from the markings
on the uniforms of the men from Shenkfield Testing Grounds. Among those
wearing the green star, the ratio of officers to enlisted men was high.
When questioned, the Army identified the green-star soldiers as a
little-known, super-elite company of Special Forces troops. "We call
them DERO, which stands for Domestic Emergency Response Organization,"
an Army spokesman was quoted by the Sentinel. "The men of DERO are
superbly trained, and they've all had extensive
field experience in
combat situations, and all of them carry topsecurity clearances, as
well, which is essential because they may find themselves operating in
highly classified areas, witness to sensitive sights."
Dom translated that to mean DERO men were chosen, in part, for their
ability and willingness to keep their goddamn mouths shut.
The Sentinel quoted the Army spokesman further: "They're the cream of
our young career soldiers, so naturally many have attained the rank of
at least sergeant by the time they qualify for DERO. Our intention is
to create a superbly trained force to deal with extraordinary crises,
such as terrorist attacks on domestic military installations, nuclear
emergencies on bases housing atomic weapons, and other unusual problems.
Not that there's any aspect of terrorism involved in this case. And
there's no nuclear emergency here, either. But several DERO companies
are stationed around the country, and since one was near when this
to insure public safety." He refused to tell reporters where this DERO
company had been stationed, how far they had been flown, or how many
were involved. "That's classified information."
Not one of the DERO men would speak with any member of the press.
Ginger grimaced and said, "Shmontses!"
Dom blinked. "Huh?"
"Their whole story," she said, leaning back in her chair and rolling her
head from side to side to work out a cramp in her lovely neck. "It's
all just shmontses."
"But what's shmontses?"
"Oh. Sorry. Yiddish word, adapted from German, I guess. One of my
father's favorites. It means something of no value, something foolish,
absurd, nonsense, worthy of contempt or scorn. This stuff the Army put
out is just shmontses." She stopped rolling her head, leaned forward in
her chair, and stabbed one finger at the newspaper. "So this DERO team
just happened to be hanging around here in the middle of nowhere
precisely when this crisis arose, huh? Too damned neat.
Dom frowned. "But, Ginger, according to these stories, although the
roadblocks on I-80 were set up by men from Shenkfield, the DERO team
took over little more than an hour later. So if they didn't just happen
to be nearby, the only way they could've gotten here so quickly was if
they were airborne and on their way before the accident ever happened."
"Exactly."
"You're saying they knew in advance there'd be a toxic spill?"
She sighed. "At most, I'm willing to accept a DERO team might've been
at one of the nearest military bases ... in western Utah or maybe up in
southern Idaho. But even that's not near enough to make the Army's
scenario work. Even if they dropped everything and flew in here the
moment they heard about the spill, they couldn't have been manning those
roadblocks within an hour. No way. So, yeah, it sure looks to me as if
they had a little advance warning that something was going to happen out
at the western end of Elko County. Not much warning, mind you. Not
days. But maybe a oneor two-hour advance notice."
"Which means the toxic spill couldn't have been an accident. In fact,
probably wasn't a spill at all, neither chemical nor biological. So why
in hell were they wearing decontamination suits when they were treating
us?" Dom was frustrated by the elaborate maze of this mystery, which
twisted and turned inward but not toward a solution, toward nothing but
twistier and more complex pathways that led into ever deeper puzzlement.
He had the irrational urge to tear the newspapers to shreds, as if, by
ripping them to pieces, he would also be ripping apart the Army's lies
and would somehow find the truth revealed, at last, in the resultant
confetti.
With a note of frustration that matched his own, Ginger said, "The only
reason the Army called in a DERO company to enforce the quarantine was
because the men patrolling the zone would have a view of something
highly classified, something absolutely top-secret. The Army felt they
couldn't trust ordinary soldiers who didn't have the very highest
security clearance. That's the sole reason the DERO team was used."
"Because they could be trusted to keep their mouths shut."
"Yes. And if it'd been nothing more than a toxic spill out there on
I-80, the DERO men wouldn't have been required for the job. I mean, if
it was just a spill, what would there've been to see except maybe an
overturned truck and a damaged, leaking canister of gas or liquid?"
Turning their attention once more to the newspapers spread before them,
they found additional evidence indicating the Army had had at least some
warning that unusual and spectacular trouble would erupt in western Elko
County that hot July night. Both Dom and Ginger distinctly remembered
that the Tranquility Grille had been filled with a strange sound and
shaken by earthquake-like tremors about half an hour after full darkness
had settled on the land; and because sunset came later during the summer
(even at 41 degrees North Latitude), the trouble must have started
approximately at eight-ten. Their memory blocks began at the same time,
which further pinpointed The Event. Yet Dom spotted a line in one of
the Sentinel's stories stating that the roadblocks on I-80 had been
erected almost at eight o'clock on the dot.
Ginger said, "You mean the Army had the highway closed off five or ten
minutes before the 'accidental' toxic spill even happened?"
"Yeah. Unless we're wrong about the time of the sunset."
They checked the weather column in the July 6 edition of the Sentinel.
It painted a more than adequate portrait of that fateful day. The high
temperature had been expected to hit ninety degrees, with an overnight
low of sixty-four. Humidity between twenty and twenty-five percent.
Clear skies. Light to variable winds. And sunset at seven-thirty-one.
"Twilight's short out here," Dom said. "Fifteen minutes, tops. Figure
full darkness at seven-forty-five. Now, even if we're wrong to think it
was half an hour after nightfall that trouble hit, even if it came just
fifteen minutes after dark, the Army still had its roadblocks up first."
"So they knew what was coming," Ginger said.
"But they couldn't stop it from happening."
"Which means it must've been some process, some series of events, that
they initiated and then were unable to control."
"Maybe," Dom said. "But maybe not. Maybe they weren't really at fault.
Until we know more, we're just speculating. No point to it."
Ginger turned the page of the Sentinel's edition for Wednesday, July 11,
which they were currently examining, and her gasp of surprise directed
Dom's attention to a headand-shoulders photograph of a man in an Army
officer's uniform and cap. Although Colonel Leland Falkirk had appeared
in neither Dom's nor Ginger's dreams last night, they both recognized
him at once because of the description that Ernie and Ned had supplied
from their nightmares: dark hair graying at the temples, eyes with an
eerie translucency, a beakis
h nose, thin lips, a face of flat hard
planes and sharp angles.
Dom read the caption under the picture: Colonel Leland Falkirk,
commanding officer of the company of DERO troops manning the quarantine
line, has been an elusive target for reporters. This first photograph
was obtained by Sentinel photographer, Greg Lunde. Caught by surprise,
Falkirk was angry about being photographed. His answers to the few
questions asked of him were even shorter than the standard "no comment."
Dom might have smiled at the quiet humor in the last sentence of the
caption, but Falkirk's stony visage chilled him. He instantly recognized
the face not only because of Ernie's and Ned's description, but because
he had seen it before, the summer before last. Furthermore, there was a
ferocity in that hawklike countenance and in those predatory eyes that
was dismaying; this man routinely got what he wanted. To be at his
mercy was a frightening prospect.
Staring at the photograph of Falkirk, Ginger softly said, "Kayn
aynhoreh. " Aware of Dom's puzzlement, she said, "That's Yiddish, too.
Kayn aynhoreh. It's an expression that's used to . . . to ward off
the evil eye. Somehow, it seemed appropriate."
Dom studied the photograph, half mesmerized by it.
After a moment, he said, "Yes. Quite appropriate."
Colonel Falkirk's sharply chiseled face and cold pale eyes were so
striking that it seemed as if he were alive within this photograph, as
if he were returning their scrutiny.
While Dom and Ginger were examining the back-issue files at the Elko
Sentinel, Ernie and Faye Block were working in the office of the
Tranquility Motel, trying to contact the people whose names were on the