Chapter 18 Chapter 17

Starkey was in front of monitor 2, keeping an eye on Frank D. Bruce of Technical 2.When we last see Bruce, his face is dipped in a soup bowl.Nothing changed except for a positive identification.The situation is normal.Stuckey, hands behind his back thoughtfully, like his childhood idol General Brock reviewing troops, walked to Monitor 4, where things had changed.Dr. Edzwick was still on the floor, and the centrifuge had stopped.The night before, at 19:40, the centrifuge began to emit plumes of fine smoke.At 19:55, the Ezwick lab pickups come out with a whoo-ooh-ooh-ooh, which in turn turns into a fuller, deeper, more satisfying bang!Bang!Bang!At 21:17, the centrifuge made a final bang and slowly stopped. The "blue project" was completely stopped.Starkey was very happy.The centrifuge was the last sign of life, and he had asked Steffen to check how long the centrifuge was expected to run through the main computer database.The answer obtained in 6.6 seconds is: ±3 years, the area that may fail in the next two weeks is 0.009%, the bearing accounts for 38%, the main engine accounts for 16%, and the others account for 54%.It was a neat computer.After Edswick's centrifuge burned up, Starkey had Steffen check the computer again.The computer confirmed that the bearings of the centrifuge had indeed burned out.

That's when Stucky's pager began beeping rapidly behind him. He returned the call and pushed the button to turn off the pager. "I am, Ryan." "Billy, I got an emergency from a group in a small Texas town called Sebor Springs. The town is about 400 miles from Arnett. They said they had to talk to you, which is A decision of the command." "What's the matter, Lane?" he asked quietly.He has taken 16 "tranquilizers" in the last 10 hours and overall feels fine. "media." "Oh, my God," Starkey said, "get over them."

A low howl of static accompanied by unintelligible conversation. "Just a moment, please," Ryan said. The static slowly cleared away. "I am the Lion...Lion Team, can you hear me, Blue Base? Can you hear me? 1...2...3...4 I am the Lion Team..." "Got it, Team Lions," Stucky said. "This is Blue Base One." "For questions, please consult the emergency manual, code-named 'flower pot', repeat, 'flower pot'." The voice was very small. Stuckey said, "I know what a fucking flowerpot is, so tell me what's going on?"

The small voice from Sepospring spoke in one breath for about 5 minutes.The circumstances themselves don't matter, Stuckey argues, because the computer knows that this will happen (in some form) by June two days earlier. 88% chance.The specifics don't matter.If it has two legs and a belt buckle, it must be a pair of pants.The color doesn't really matter. A doctor in Sebo Springs made some good guesses, and two reporters from the Houston Journal compared what was going on in Sebo Springs with Arnett, Verona, Comus, and Kansas. What happened in the small town of Boxton was connected.In those places, the problem developed very seriously and spread so fast that the army had to be sent in for quarantine.A computerized list shows 25 other towns in 10 states that have begun to leave signs of blue work.

There's nothing unique about the situation at Sepo Springs, so it doesn't really matter.What matters is that this "situation" ends up on something other than military yellow letterhead; it matters, anyway, unless Starkey does something about it.But he hasn't decided whether to take action.But after this small talk, Starkey realized that he had made a decision after all.He may have made the decision 20 years ago. The key is to prioritize.It's not actually the disease that matters, the integrity of Atlanta has been inexplicably compromised, and they're going to have to redirect the entire preventive effort to Stowington, Vermont, which has poorer facilities.

"The important thing is..." "Again, Blue Base 1," said the voice urgently, "we have no copies." "The important thing is that the unfortunate accident has happened." Starkey suddenly returned to 1968, 22 years ago.He was at an officers' club in San Diego when news came in about Cali and what had happened at Mele 4.Stuckey was playing poker with four others, two of whom now sit as joint chiefs of staff.They began to discuss how the military—not a department, but the military—would be affected in an atmosphere of witch hunts, and the game of cards was completely forgotten.One of them set down the poker carefully on the green carpet table and said, "Gentlemen, an unfortunate accident has occurred. When an unfortunate accident occurs involving various branches of the United States military, it is not investigated. Investigate how we can better prune these sectors. The military sector is our bread and butter. If you find out your mother was raped or your father was robbed, before you call the police or start an investigation Before. You would cover their naked bodies. Because you loved them."

Stucky, back and forth, had never heard anyone speak so well. Now, he unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk, and took out a thin blue book tied with a red ribbon.The cover reads: If the strap breaks, notify all security immediately.Starkey snapped the strap. "Are you there, Blue Base 1?" came the inquiring voice again, "We didn't make a copy of you. Repeat, we didn't make a copy." "Here I am, Lion," Starkey said.He flicked to the last page of the book, and pointed to the column marked "Strict Confidentiality Measures". "Lion, did you hear that?"

"I heard you, Blue Base 1." "Troy," Stucky said deliberately, "I repeat, Lion: Troy. Please answer." There is no sound.There is a distant, vague static.Stuckey suddenly remembered the walkie-talkie they had made as kids out of two soda cans and a 20-yard piece of waxed cord. "I'll say it again..." "Oh my God!" came the choked-up voice of a very young man from Sebospring. "Repeat, boy," Stuckey said. "T-Troy," came the voice, and then, more forcefully, "Troy." "Very well," Stucky said quietly, "God bless you, boy. Over."

"God bless you too, sir. Over." Crack, then loud static, then another crack, silence, then Ryan Creighton's voice. "Billy?" "Yes, Ryan." "I copied the whole situation." "That's right, Lane," Stucky said wearily. "Of course, please make a report if you want." "You don't know, Billy," Lane said, "what you're doing is right. Don't think I don't." Stucky closed his eyelids, and the sedative temporarily lost its effect. "God bless you too, Lane," he almost yelled.He flipped the switch off and returned to standing in front of Monitor 2.He had his hands on his hips, like Brock Jack Pershing reviewing troops.Gaze upon Frank D. Bruce and where he finally fell.After a while, he was calm again.

From the southeast of Seber Springs, take National Highway 36 and go to Houston, which takes a day's drive.The fastest car on the road is a 3-year-old Pontiac, with speeds as high as 80 mph.It nearly caused a crash when it drove up a high hill and saw an unspeakable Ford sprawled across the road. The driver, a 36-year-old special correspondent for a major daily newspaper in Houston, slammed on the brakes, the tires screeched, the front of the car first tipped down toward the road, and then began to veer to the left. "My God!" the photographer in the passenger seat yelled, dropping the camera on the floor of the car, messing up the seat belt in the middle of the body.

The driver lifted the brakes, shoulder to shoulder with the Ford, and he felt the left wheel start to sink in the mud.He stepped on the gas, and the car squeaked louder, out of the mud and back on the road.Puffs of blue smoke rose from under the tires.The radio yelled incessantly: Baby, are you satisfied with your man, He's a man of integrity, baby, can you satisfy your man! He slammed on the brake again, and the car came to a stop, gasping for air, followed by a series of violent coughs.He lost his temper, shifted into reverse, and backed toward the Ford, which had two people standing behind it. "Listen," the photographer said nervously.He's a fat guy who hasn't had a fight since middle school. "Look, maybe we'll be better off…" The special correspondent once again let the car screech and slam the brakes, throwing the grumbling fat man forward, pushed the gear lever to neutral, pulled the handbrake at the same time, and sprang out of the car. He walked towards the two young men behind the car, his hands clenched into fists. He served in the military, served as a soldier in the army for 4 years, a volunteer.When they pulled the gun out of the trunk of the Ford, he just identified it as a new M-3A submachine gun. He stood stunned in the hot Texas sun and wet his pants. He started crying and tried to turn and run back to the car, but his feet wouldn't work.They shot at him and the bullets exploded in his chest and stomach.As he dropped to his knees, his hands limply spread out begging for his life, a bullet hit him an inch above his left eye, ripping off his skull. The photographer, huddled in the back seat, was horrified by what he saw, when the two young men approached the correspondent's body and approached him with a gun.He lay down on the car seat with hot saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth.The key is still in the ignition.He hit the car, and just as they were shooting, it squeaked out.He felt the car tip to the right, as if a giant had kicked the rear left, and the steering wheel began to vibrate wildly in his hands.The photographer jumped onto the road with the car, falling and falling due to a flat tire.Then the giant kicked again on the other side of the car.The jitter got worse.Sparks flew from the asphalt.The rear tires vibrated and flapped like black rags.The two young men ran back to their Ford, the serial number of which was listed among the numerous numbers at the Pentagon's Military Vehicles Department, and one of them took a sharp turn and a right turn in the car.When the car pulled off the shoulder, the front of the car jumped up and flew over the dead body of the special correspondent.The sergeant in the passenger seat surprisingly sneezed through the windshield. Up front, the Pontiac's two flat rear tires spin like a washing machine, bouncing its nose up and down.The fat photographer behind the steering wheel scanned the approaching black Ford in the rearview mirror.He put the pedal to the floor, but the Pontiac wasn't going faster than 40 mph, and the car was still on the road.Larry Underwood on the radio was replaced by Madonna.Madonna is claiming she is a practical girl. The Ford swerves in front of the Pontiac, and for the obvious half-hope the photographer wants to drive the car straight down, disappearing into that barren horizon, whatever. Then the Ford backed away, and the Pontiac vibrated like crazy and hit its fender.There was a harsh sound of scraping iron sheets.The photographer's head slammed forward against the steering wheel, blood gushing from his nose. He turned his rattling neck in panic, glanced back, and quietly stepped over the plastic seat, which was warm and greased, and got out from the passenger side of the car.He ran to the side of the road.There was a wire fence with hooks and he jumped over it.Like a speedboat, driving faster and faster, he thought, "I want to succeed, I can run forever...". On the other side of the wire fence his leg caught on the hook and he fell.He was trying to get the hook out of his trousers and the exposed white flesh with a gut-wrenching roar when the two young men came to the side of the road, guns in hand. He tried to ask them why, but all that came out of him was a low, desperate cry, and then his brains rushed out of his head. There were no reports of illness or other problems in Seborah Springs, Texas that day.