Don Passman - Mirage

Gamma observed him through a square hole in the thick metal door. Duty required the guard to keep watching, even though he knew he'd dream about it for weeks. He always did.

Inside the windowless cinder block room, Oliver's khaki pants were soaked with perspiration and other bodily excretions. He twisted against the leather straps that pinned him to the bed, clanking metal hooks against welded bolts, and chafing his wrists to the bleeding point. Oliver's raw eyes, depleted of tears, scanned in terror for unseen attackers. His neck muscles strained into tight cords as he screamed in guttural yells.

Kenneth Combs, Director of the Mirage project, elbowed the guard aside and peered through the small opening. Gamma could hear Oliver whimpering like a dog with a broken leg.

Combs ran his hand over his bald head. His face betrayed no emotion as he studied the scene, then said, "Dispose of him in the usual way."

As Combs turned to leave, the guard said, "Sir." His voice cracked slightly.

Combs spun back and lasered his obsidian eyes into the man. Gamma looked down as he continued. "Based on some of the others, there may be a chance this patient-"

"Did I ask your opinion?"

Gamma cleared his throat. "No sir."

"You're aware there's an inspection in two hours?"

Combs walked away and spoke without looking back. "Dispose of him in the usual way."

General James Weston sat in the back of a black Chevy sedan. His driver was dressed in civilian clothes so as not to attract attention. A snowstorm whipped the car, oblivious to the pitiful efforts of the windshield wipers, and the wind whistled through an invisible seam somewhere in front.

"I'm sorry, General," said the driver. "I can't see the turnoff in this weather. I'll swing back around."

Weston grunted, adjusted his large frame on the seat, and pulled off the heavy wool overcoat. The shirt of his uniform, now soaked with perspiration, clung to his skin.

He looked out the window and could hardly see the aspen trees' bare limbs through the hazy gauze of snow flurries. Focusing on his reflection in the window, Weston studied his features intently, hypnotized by the rhythmic squealing of the windshield wipers. It seemed to him that his wrinkles were even more deeply creased than usual, and he was surprised by the spiderwebs of red veins in his eyes. Having to deliver this news wasn't helping.

"Here it is, sir," said the driver. The general was thrown against the door as the car turned sharply right. He could hear the chains on the tires crunch against the ice, and he felt the rear wheels fishtail.

About two miles down a rough road, Weston saw antitank barriers-giant piles of rusted metal girders sticking out of the ground like rifles stacked in a teepee formation. They surrounded the first of the checkpoints, which was a small booth with thick, bulletproof glass. Jutting across the road was a red and white striped pole, almost three feet in diameter.

A sentry approached the car. When the driver lowered the window, a cold gust assaulted Weston.

"Afternoon, General," said the sentry with a salute. His mustache was laced with ice.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but security doesn't allow your driver inside. We have a van to take you from here."

Weston hobbled out of the car, moving slowly to buy a little more time. The wind sounded like a huge bellows, and the sharp cold assaulted his skin as he climbed into the van. He dragged his overcoat behind him, leaving a rough trail in the snow.

They drove several miles in silence, clearing two more checkpoints. The road finally led into the mouth of a man-made cave. A six-story cavern that was an abandoned NORAD site, meant to withstand nuclear attack. Overkill for the current project, yet convenient enough for the required secrecy.

The van stopped in an open area that was bathed in a wash of halogen lights. The rock walls, cold and damp as though weeping, did little to shelter the workers.

"This way, General," said a pleasant young woman in a heavy wool coat. Her breath was visible when she spoke. "I'm called Dorothy here."

He followed behind her, aware of the icy echoes of his footsteps.

Combs sat in his office, fighting to remain calm now that General Weston was on the premises. He ran his hand over his bald head, worrying whether the fuzz had grown visible since yesterday's shaving. Then he began pacing across one of the few carpets in the facility.

By reputation, Weston was a tough scrapper, which was necessary to champion a controversial project like Mirage. Maybe today's visit meant he'd gotten enough money to kick the research into high gear. Combs certainly hoped so. Their breakthrough in the last few days had opened a whole new range of possibilities. The chance to tell the General about it personally was an unexpected plum.

He stood ramrod straight and examined himself in the mirror. His right shoe was scuffed on the side. There was no time to polish it, so he'd stand with his left to the General. He straightened his tie an eighth of an inch and smoothed the sharp creases in his white shirt. Finally, he examined his beard, making sure it was evenly trimmed.

Dorothy arrived with the General, and Combs rushed to greet him. The General lowered himself slowly into an armchair that barely contained his girth.

"General, I'm told you like two sugars, no milk," said Combs, handing him a steaming coffee.

"Your spies informed you correctly," said Weston. He cupped his hands around the mug and blew across the top of the liquid. Then he sat back and took a sip.

After an awkward silence, Combs spoke. "Sir, I want to be respectful of your time. Shall we start the inspection?"

Combs drummed his fingers behind his back. "Our biggest frustration is that we can't discuss what we've achieved. I'm looking forward to telling you everything."

Combs thought the General looked as if he were sitting on something uncomfortable.

"Major Combs-" began the General.

Combs whispered. "Sir, I'm sorry, but here I'm only called the Director. Even in my own office. The security-"

"Yes, yes, sorry. Son, the problem is . . . well . . ." Weston grimaced, then took another sip of the coffee. "The problem is . . . I've got to shut you down."

It took a beat for the words to register. When they did, Combs felt as if he had been punched in the solar plexus. He leaned against his desk for support. "Shut us down?"

"I'm here to see that everything is dismantled by tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred. There'll be vans for the equipment, and buses for the personnel. All the documents have to be shredded by then."

"Sir, we've had some astounding breakthroughs. Have you seen the reports?"

"Of course I've seen the reports. The problem is Peterson, that bleeding-heart pinko senator from California. He got wind of what you're doing up here. You've got a Judas in your ranks, son. That's the only way he could've found out."

"Yes sir. Peterson went to the Finance Committee and threatened to go public if the plug wasn't pulled in forty-eight hours."

Combs's belly felt like it was on fire. He mentally scanned the faces of his personnel, trying to divine the traitor. His voice was tight when he spoke. "There must be a way-"

"There isn't. It's over, son. You got to retreat when you're licked."

The room seemed to swirl around Combs. The only sound was the low hum of a floor heater.

Weston continued, "You still divided into three sectors?"

"Keep the divisions physically isolated. And only the top dogs do the shredding." Weston pushed himself up, using the arms of the chair to support his large frame. "I'll be here at oh-seven-hundred for a final walk-through."

"You mean we have to start now?"

Within an hour, the personnel had been ripped from their duties and assigned to packing. Combs walked the facility in a daze. The scene was like an animal carcass being picked apart by buzzards. His top men reduced to filling cardboard boxes with years of research. Others wrapping lab equipment in tissue paper. Vans and buses parked outside, waiting like hearses.

He almost lost it when they wheeled in the four shredders. One for each of his Section Chiefs. And one for Combs himself. The boxes of paperwork from each division were sent to three separate staging areas, where each Chief had to personally shred his own material. They wheeled Combs's shredder right into his office. Strangers! Waltzing right into his most private space!

Just after 9:00 p.m., Section Chief Delta sneaked away from his shredding and dialed the number. He knew that security prohibited outside calls, but since they were shutting everything down, fuck 'em.

"Honey, I've got to work late," he whispered. "I won't be able to make it."

"Oh, no," pouted Penny, the twenty-something ski instructor he'd met when he fell down her slope. "I'm leaving tomorrow for three weeks."

"Believe me, I'm sorry."

"I bought a short nightie and some jasmine oil that's supposed to heighten your sexual livid-or something like that. The store said it's better than the oil from India. You remember the Indian oil?"

He remembered all right. That Indian oil had lit up his balls like Christmas bulbs. "If there is any possible way, I will get there."

"It's going to be awfully cold if I'm alone tonight," she purred. "I'm lying on the bed and reaching my hand into my panties."

It took all of Delta's willpower to hang up and go back to the shredding. He had at least six more hours of ripping up this shit, by which time Penny would be ice cold and he'd have blue-balls.

How could they give a menial shredding job to someone of his rank? Hell, the way things were divided up, no one could make heads or tails out of this crap anyway. So why did it have to be him? Did he accidentally piss off Combs or something?

Combs sat with his companion, Jack Daniel's. Although he rarely drank, tonight he was halfway through the bottle and finally getting numb. It was the warmest he'd ever felt inside this Ali Baba cave.

The most confidential materials were locked in his office. Since Combs was the only one who had access, he was the only one who could shred them. It had been more than four hours since they'd brought in the shredder, yet he hadn't been able to start.

He poured himself another shot, and threw it down the back of his throat. Then he stood up and found himself wobbly. Combs stumbled over to the shredder, pushed the green button, and the machine whirred to life. After fishing out his three-sided key, he unlocked the file cabinet and took out the oldest folder.

As he walked toward the shredder, he felt as though he were about to violate a sacred oath. Combs stopped and looked through the file. The very first experiment. He smiled at the na?vet? it reflected. Especially compared to where they were now.

The rage began to build again. He'd hoped the booze would lower the flames, yet his anger seared right through. Those sonsofbitches. They didn't even bother to find out where he was before they pulled the gallows trapdoor.

Combs stood in place a long while before putting the folder into the shredder. As it tore up the paper, he felt as though his skin was being flayed. He sat down for another shot of advice from Jack, who told him that he had to get through this. No one else could see the material.

No one else could see the material. The germ of an idea took hold and started to grow. He was the only one with the whole picture. And while the research and data were voluminous, the conclusions were relatively simple. No one could shred what was in Combs's head, and once he destroyed these documents, no one could even get that.

Combs grabbed an armload of files and whistled as he fed them into the shredder.

Delta's fingers were slick and greasy from shoveling printed pages into the machine. The image of Penny fondling herself kept replaying in his head, and the piles of documents didn't look any smaller. He was already cramming in such large batches that the shredder had jammed four times in the last half hour.

Shit. Make that five.

He cleared the machine's blades and walked into the hall to work off some of his frustration. Delta strode down the corridor in long steps, his fingers fidgeting for lack of a cigarette. The place was buzzing with people in white jumpsuits loading pallets of equipment. He glanced into the open door of a lab and saw Private Green neatly laying out his equipment on a workbench. The man handled each piece like it was a newborn infant. He remembered Green as one of those geeky types who always had his nose in a book. The kind that worked late even when there wasn't any overtime pay.

Delta stepped inside and sidled up next to Green. Green smiled, proud of his work. This guy would be perfect.

"Green, come with me a minute."

"Sir, I can't leave the lab."

"It's okay. I'm giving you an order."

Green glanced around the room, looking for a rescuer. "I'm not supposed-"

"I said I'm giving you an order."

Green trailed reluctantly behind Delta to the shredding room.

Green stopped at the door. "This is a classified area. My clearance doesn't permit-"

Delta put his arm around Green's shoulder and dragged him along. "You're with me. And I'm giving you permission." Green resisted, like a stubborn horse being pulled from a barn.

"I'm redeploying you, Green. From now on, you shred these materials."

"I'm supposed to pack up the lab."

"You the only one in the lab?"

"Then start shredding."

"I don't think I can do that without the Director's-"

"Fuck the Director. All the rules went out the window when they decided to shut down this Roach Motel."

"I still have two years to go in the Army, sir, and-"

Delta leaned in close. "Look, Private. Lemme give you a real-life lesson about the Army. You can refuse me, and I can put something in your record about insubordination. Or you can take care of this shredding and nobody will know but us." Delta was bluffing of course. He didn't even know Green's real name.

"Sir, with all respect-"

Delta whispered conspiratorially. "Kid, you gotta learn how to grab opportunities when they drop in your lap. Shredding is a helluva lot easier than packing up lab equipment. And a lot less dangerous than some of those chemicals."

Green hesitated. "I don't know . . ."

"I got a hundred dollar bill in my pocket that says you make the right decision. Think, kid. A hundred dollars, or a demerit."

"Colonel Delta, I don't think it's right to accept money. If this is important to you, I'll take care of it."

Delta grinned. What a sucker. "Atta boy. Now I owe you one. See how it works?"

Green tentatively picked up a handful of papers.

Delta pulled on his coat. "Don't you read any of this shit, you hear?" He slapped Green on the back, then left with his mind and groin already soaking in jasmine oil.

For the next two hours, Green fed papers into the ravenous shredder, which gnashed its teeth as if calling for more. Just to change the monotonous routine, he went to the opposite side of the room and grabbed a handful from the boxes stacked there. On his way back to the shredder, his eye caught the heading on one of the pages. He looked around to be sure no one was near, then closed the door and began reading.

Green found himself involuntarily shaking his head, as if to deny what was on the paper. Still stunned, he locked the door and continued reading through the files.

This was absurd. No one would really do this. It must be one of those diversionary operations, where they pretend something happened just to confuse the enemy.