Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [87]
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘do you know anything about men being planted in units?’
‘What do you mean?’
Schofield hesitated. ‘When I found out Samurai had been murdered, I remembered something that happened a couple of years ago to a friend of mine. At the time, this friend had said something about people planting men inside his unit.’
Mother looked hard at Schofield. She licked her lips, didn’t speak for a very long time.
‘It’s not something I like to talk about,’ she said quietly. ‘But, yes, I have heard about it.’
‘What have you heard?’ Schofield stepped back into the storeroom.
‘Only rumours. Rumours that get bigger and bigger each time you hear ’em. As an officer, you probably don’t hear this shit, but I’ll tell you, if there’s one thing about enlisted men, it’s that they gossip like a bunch of old women.’
‘What do they say?’
‘Enlisted grunts like to talk about infiltrators. It’s their favourite myth. A campfire story designed by senior line animals to scare the booties off the junior troops and make them trust one another. You know, if we can’t trust each other, who can we trust, or something like that.
‘You hear all kinds of theories about where these infiltrators come from. Some folks reckon they’re inserted by the CIA. Deep-cover agents enlist with the armed forces with the sole purpose of infiltrating elite units – so that they can keep tabs on us, make sure we’re doin’ what we’re supposed to be doin’.
‘Others say it’s the Pentagon that does it. Others still say it’s the CIA and the Pentagon. I heard one guy – a real fruitloop named Hugo Boddington – say once that he’d heard that the National Reconnaissance Office and the Joint Chiefs of Staff had a joint subcommittee that they called the Intelligence Convergence Group, and that it was the office that was in charge of infiltrating American military units.
‘Boddington said the ICG was some kind of ultra-secret committee charged with hoarding intelligence. Charged with ensuring that only the right people in the right places knew about certain stuff. That’s why they have to infiltrate units like ours. If we’re on a mission and we find something we’re not supposed to – I don’t know, like an alien or something – those ICG guys are there to wipe us out and make sure that we don’t tell anybody about what we saw.’
Schofield shook his head. It sounded like a ghost story. Double agents among the troops.
But in the back of his mind there was a single doubt. A doubt that took shape in the form of Andrew Trent’s voice screaming over Schofield’s helmet radio from inside that Incan temple in Peru: ‘They planted men inside my unit! They planted fucking men inside my unit!’ Andrew Trent was no ghost story.
‘Thanks, Mother,’ Schofield said as he headed back for the door. ‘I better get going.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Mother said. ‘A unit to run. People to organise. Responsibility to take. I wouldn’t be an officer for all the money in the world.’
‘I wish you’d told me that ten years ago.’
‘Ah, yes, but then tonight wouldn’t have been anywhere near as much fun. You take care, you hear me, Scarecrow. Oh, and hey,’ she said. ‘Nice glasses.’
Schofield paused for a moment in the doorway. He realised that he was wearing Mother’s anti-flash glasses. He smiled. ‘Thanks, Mother.’
‘Hey, don’t thank me,’ she said. ‘Hell, the Scarecrow without his silver glasses, it’s like Zorro without his mask, Superman without his cape. It just ain’t right.’
‘Call me if you need anything,’ Schofield said.
Mother gave him a wicked grin. ‘Oh, I know what I need, baby,’ she said.
Schofield shook his head. ‘You never quit, do you?’
Mother smiled. ‘You know what,’ she said coyly. ‘I don’t think you realise it when someone has their eye on you, honey.’
Schofield raised an eyebrow. ‘Does someone have their eye on me?’
‘Oh, yes, Scarecrow. Oh, yes.’
Schofield shook his head, smiled. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’
‘Goodbye, Scarecrow.’
Schofield