By John Shirley
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She looked at his name tag. SPRAGUE. “I remember you,” Adair said. ” Mason shot her a Be cool, I’m holding! look. But Deputy Sprague smiled at her. “Hey, I remember—you were the one calling me that. Where was it, over at Quiebra High, right? ” “That’s what I heard. Listen, you kids need to get on home. ” Waylon blurted. “Deputy, a black helicopter just landed and some spooky guys just got out. ” Deputy Sprague chuckled and shook his head. “Son—” “Waylon’s sort of excitable about stuff like that,” Adair said, and instantly regretted it when Waylon shot her a look.
Never surprised by snafu, just surprised when there isn’t one. Well, two hours is no good. ” He lowered the walkie-talkie and looked appraisingly at Nick. “So you’re a salvage diver? We don’t have a diver on the boat we have here, and the boat coming with a diver doesn’t have working grapples—not that’ll work on something heavy as a satellite. ” “I, uh . ” Nick cleared his throat, playing for time till he could think this out. A satellite? “You sure there’s anything left to pull up? I mean, if it came from space—and hit a dock .
The Defense Intelligence Agency. That’s the military’s CIA. And they’re keeping it quiet. “Anyway,” the taller marine said, irritated with his pal’s reproach, “I’ll have to run it by Sergeant Dirkowski. They put him in charge till—” Nick snapped his fingers just as if he really recognized the name. “Dirkowski! ” Nick patted his pockets. “Shit! I’ve got a fax here somewhere. ” A stocky man in a Green Beret uniform—ruddy-faced guy with pale blue eyes, pig-shaven under the beret—strode over to them, looking sharply at Nick as he came.