sk.dreamcatcher-第42部分

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fully　parading　brainwashed　pilots　before　the　international　press；　made　recovering　Tommy　Callahan　a　priority。
　　　　The　searchers　had　been　about　to　give　up　when　Callahan　contacted　them　on　a　low…frequency　radio　band。　His　high…school　girlfriend　gave　them　a　good　ID　marker；　and　when　the　man　on　the　ground　was　queried；　he　confirmed　it；　telling　them　his　friends　had　started　calling　him　The　Pukester　following　a　truly　memorable　night　of　drinking　in　his　junior　year。
　　　　Kurtz's　boys　went　in　to　get　Callahan　in　a　couple　of　helicopters　much　smaller　than　any　of　the　ones　they　were　using　today。　Owen
　　　　Underhill；　already　tabbed　by　most　（including　himself；　Owen　supposed）　as　Kurtz's　successor；　had　been　in　charge。　Callahan's　job　was　to　pop　some　smoke　when　he　saw　the　birds；　then　stand　by。　Underhill's　job　…　the　phooka　part　of　it　…　had　been　to　yank　Callahan　without　being　seen。　This　was　not　strictly　necessary；　so　far　as　Owen　could　see；　but　was　simply　the　way　Kurtz　liked　it：　his　men　were　invisible；　his　men　rode　the　Irish　horse。
　　　　The　extraction　had　worked　perfectly。　There　were　some　SAMs　fired；　but　nothing　even　close　…　Milosevic　had　shit；　for　the　most　part。　It　was　as　they　were　taking　Callahan　on　board　that　Owen　had　seen　his　only　Bosnians：　five　or　six　children；　the　oldest　no　more　than　ten；　watching　them　with　solemn　faces。　The　idea　that　Kurtz's　directive　to　make　sure　there　were　no　witnesses　might　apply　to　a　group　of　dirtyface　kids　had　never　crossed　Owen's　mind。　And　Kurtz　had　never　said　anything　about　it。
　　　　Until　today；　that　was。
　　　　That　Kurtz　was　a　terrible　man　Owen　had　no　doubt。　Yet　there　were　many　terrible　men　in　the　service；　more　devils　than　saints；　most　certainly；　and　many　were　in　love　with　secrecy。　What　made　Kurtz　different　Owen　had　no　idea　…　Kurtz；　that　long　and　melancholy　man　with　his　white　eyelashes　and　still　eyes。　Meeting　those　was　hard　because　there　was　nothing　in　them　…　no　love；　no　laughter；　and　absolutely　no　curiosity。　That　lack　of　curiosity　was　somehow　the　worst。
　　　　A　battered　Subaru　pulled　up　at　the　store；　and　two　old　men　got　carefully　out。　One　clutched　a　black　cane　in　a　weather…chapped　hand。　Both　wore　red…and…black…checked　hunting　overshirts。　Both　wore　faded　caps；　one　with　CASE　above　the　bill　and　the　other　with　DEERE。　They　looked　wonderingly　at　the　contingent　of　soldiers　that　descended　upon　them。　Soldiers　at　Gosselin's？　What　in　the　tarnal？　They　were　in　their　eighties；　by　the　look　of　them；　but　they　had　the　curiosity　Kurtz　lacked。　You　could　see　it　in　the　set　of　their　bodies；　the　tilt　of　their　heads。
　　　　All　the　questions　Kurtz　had　not　voiced。　What　do　they　want？　Do　they　really　mean　us　harm？　Will　doing　this　bring　the　harm？　Is　it　the　wind　we　sow　to　bring　the　whirlwind？　at　was　there　in　all　the　previous　encounters　the　flaps；　the　flashlights；　the　falls　of　angel　hair　and　red　dust；　the　abductions　that　began　in　the　late　sixties　…　that　has　made　the　powers　that　be　so　afraid？　Has　there　been　any　real　effort　to　municate　with　these　creatures？
　　　　And　the　last　question；　the　most　important　question：　Were　the　grayboys　like　us？　Were　they　by　any　definition　human？　Was　this　murder；　pure　and　simple？
　　　　No　question　in　Kurtz's　eyes　about　that；　either。


5

The　snow　lightened；　the　day　brightened；　and　exactly　thirty…three　minutes　after　ordering　the　stand…down；　Kurtz　gave　them　a　go。　Owen　relayed　it　to　Conklin　and　the　Chinnies　revved　hard　again；　pulling　up　gauzy　veils　of　snow　and　turning　themselves　into　momentary　ghosts。　Then　they　rose　to　treetop　level；　aligned　themselves　on　Underhill　Blue　Boy　Leader　…　and　flew　west　in　the　direction　of　Kineo。　Kurtz's　Kiowa　58　flew　below　them　and　slightly　to　starboard；　and　Owen　thought　briefly　of　a　troop　of　soldiers　in　a　John　Wayne　movie；　bluelegs　with　a　single　Indian　scout　riding　his　pony　bareback　off　to　one　side。　He　couldn't　see；　but　guessed　Kurtz　would　still　be　reading　the　paper。　Maybe　his　horoscope。　'Pisces；　this　is　your　day　of　infamy。　Stay　in　bed。'
　　　　The　pines　and　spruces　below　appeared　and　disappeared　in　vapors　of　white。　Snow　flew　against　the　Chinook's　two　front　windows；　danced；　disappeared。　The　ride　was　extremely　rough　…　like　a　ride　in　a　washing　machine　…　and　Owen　wouldn't　have　had　it　any　other　way。　He　clapped　the　cans　back　on　his　head。　Some　other　group；　maybe　Matchbox　Twenty。　Not　great；　but　better　than　Pearl　Jam。　What　Owen　dreaded　was　the　Squad　Anthem。　But　he　would　listen。　Yes　indeed；　he　would　listen。
　　　　In　and　out　of　the　low　clouds；　vapory　glimpses　of　an　apparently　endless　forest；　west　west　west。
　　　　'Blue　Boy　Leader；　this　is　Blue　Two。'
　　　　'Roger；　Two。'
　　　　'I　have　visual　contact　with　Blue　Boy。　Confirm？'
　　　　For　a　moment　Owen　couldn't；　and　then　he　could。　What　he　saw　took　his　breath　away。　A　photograph；　an　image　inside　a　border；　a　thing　you　could　hold　in　your　hand；　that　was　one　thing。　This　was　something　else　entirely。
　　　　'Confirm；　Two。　Blue　Group；　this　is　Blue　Boy　Leader。　Hold　your　current　positions。　I　say　again；　hold　your　current　positions。'
　　　　One　by　one　the　other　copters　rogered。　Only　Kurtz　did　not；　but　he　also　stayed　put。　The　Chinooks　and　the　Kiowa　hung　in　the　air　perhaps　three　quarters　of　a　mile　from　the　downed　spacecraft。　Leading　up　to　it　was　an　enormous　swath　of　trees　that　had　been　whacked　off　in　a　slanted　lane；　as　if　by　an　enormous　hedge…clipper。　At　the　end　of　this　lane　was　a　swampy　area。　Dead　trees　clutched　at　the　white　sky；　as　if　to　snatch　the　clouds　open。　There　were　zig…zags　of　melting　snow；　some　of　it　turning　yellow　where　it　was　oozing　into　the　damp　ground。　In　other　places　there　were　veins　and　capillaries　of　open　black　water。
　　　　The　ship；　an　enormous　gray　plate　nearly　a　quarter　of　a　mile　across；　had　torn　through　the　dead　trees　at　the　center　of　the　swamp；　exploding　them　and　casting　the　splintery　fragments　in　every　direction。　The　Blue　Boy　（it　was　not　blue　at　all；　not　a　bit　blue）　had　e　to　rest　at　the　swamp's　far　end；　where　a　rocky　ridge　rose　at　a　steep　angle。　A　long　arc　of　its　curved　edge　had　disappeared　into　the　watery；　unstable　earth。　Dirt　and　bits　of　broken　trees　had　sprayed　up　and　littered　the　ship's　smooth　hull。
　　　　The　surviving　grayboys　were　standing　around　it；　most　on　snow…covered　hummocks　under　the　upward…tilted　end　of　their　ship；　if　the　sun　had　been　shining；　they　would　have　been　standing　in　the　crashed　ship's　shadow。　Well　。　。　。　clearly　there　was　someone　who　thought　it　was　more　Trojan　Horse　than　crashed　ship；　but　the　surviving　grayboys；　naked　and　unarmed；　didn't　look　like　much　of　a　threat。　About　a　hundred；　Kurtz　had　said；　but　there　were　fewer　than　that　now；　Owen　put　the　number　at　sixty。　He　saw　at　least　a　dozen　corpses；　in　greater　or　lesser　states　of　red…tinged　decay；　lying　on　the　snow…covered　hummocks。　Some　were　facedown　in　the　shallow　black　water。　Here　and　there；　startlingly　bright　against　the　snow；　were　reddish…gold　patches　of　the　so…called　Ripley　fungus　。　。　。　except　not　all　of　the　patches　were　bright；　Owen　realized　as　he　raised　his　binoculars　and　looked　through　them。　Several　had　begun　to　gray　out；　victims　of　the　cold　or　the　atmosphere　or　both。　No；　they　didn't　survive　well　here　not　the　grayboys；　not　the　fungus　they　had　brought　with　them。
　　　　Could　this　stuff　actually　spread？　He　just　didn't　believe　it。
　　　　'Blue　Boy　Leader？'　Conk　asked。　'You　there；　boy？'
　　　　'I'm　here；　shut　up　a　minute。'
　　　　Owen　leaned　forward；　reached　under　the　pilot's　elbow　（Tony　Edwards；　a　good　man）；　and　flicked　the　radio　switch　to　the　mon　channel。　Kurtz's　mention　of　Bosanski　Novi　never　crossed　his　mind；　the　idea　that　he　was　making　a　terrible　mistake　never　crossed　his　mind；　the　idea　that　he　might　have　seriously　underestimated　Kurtz's　lunacy　never　crossed　his　mind。　In　fact；　he　did　what　he　did　with　almost　no　conscious　thought　at　all。　So　it　seemed　to　him　later；　when　he　cast　his　mind　back　and　reexamined　the　incident　not　just　once　but　again　and　again。　Only　a　flip　of　the　switch。　That　was　all　it　took　to　change　the　course　of　a　man's　life；　it　seemed。
　　　　And　there　it　was；　loud　and　clear；　a　voice　none　of　Kurtz's　laddie…bucks　would　recognize。　They　knew　Eddie　Vedder；　Walter　Cronkite　was　a　different　deal。　'…here。　Il　n'y　a　pas　d'infection　ici。'　Two　seconds；　and　then　a　voice　that　might　have　belonged　to　Barbra　Streisand：　'One　hundred　and　thirteen。　One　hundred　and　seventeen。　One　hundred　and　nineteen。'
　　　　At　some　point；　Owen　realized；　they　had　started　over　counting　primes　from　one。　On　the　way　up　to　Gosselin's　in　the　bus；　the　various　voices　had　reached　primes　in　the　high　four　figures。
　　　　'We　are　dying；'　said　the　voice　of　Barbra　Strelsand。　'On　se　meurt；　on　crève。'　A　pause；　then　the　voice　of　David　Lettertman：　'One　hundred　and　twenty…seven。　One　hundred…'
　　　　'Belay　that！'　Kurtz　cried。　For　the　only　time　in　the　years　Owen　had　known　him；　Kurtz　sounded　really　upset。　Almost　shocked。　'Owen；　why　do　you　want　to　run　that　filth　into　the　ears　of　my　boys？　You　e　back　and　tell　me；　and　right　now。'
　　　　'Just　wanted　to　hear　if　any　of　it　had　changed；　boss；'　Owen　said。　That　was　a　lie；　and　of　course　Kurtz　knew　it　and　at　some　point　would　undoubtedly　make　him　pay　for　it。　it　was　failing　to　shoot　the　kids　all　over　again；　maybe　even　worse。　Owen　didn't　care。　Fuck　the　phooka　horse。　If　they　were　going　to　do　this；　he　wanted　Kurtz's　boys　（Skyhook　in　Bosnia；　Blue　Group　this　time；　some　other　name　next　time；　but　it　always　came　back　to　the　same　hard　young　faces）　to　hear　the　grayboys　one　last　time。　Travelers　from　another　star　system；　perhaps　even　another　universe　or　time…stream；　knowers　of　things　their　hosts　would　never　know　（not　that　Kurtz　would　care）。　Let　them　hear　the　grayboys　one　last　time　instead　of　Pearl　Jam　or　Jar　of　Flies　or　Rage　Against　the　Machine；　the　grayboys　appealing　to　what　they　had　foolishly　hoped　was　some　better　nature。
　　　　'And　has　it　changed？'　Kurtz's　voice　crackled　back。　The　green　Kiowa　was　still　down　there；　just　below　the　hanging　line　of　gunships；　its　rotors　beating　at　the　split　top　of　a　tall　old　pine　Just　under　it；　making　it　ruffle　and　sway。　'Has　it；　Owen？'
　　　　'No；'　he　said。　'Not　at　all；　boss。'
　　　　'Then　belay　that　chatter。　Daylight's　wasting；　praise　Jesus。'　Owen　paused；　then　said；　with　careful　deliberation：　'Yes；　sir。'


6

Kurtz　sat　bolt…upright　in　the　Kiowa's　right　seat　…　'ramrod…straight'　was　how　they　always　put　it　in　the　books　and　movies。　He　had　donned　his　sunglasses　in　spite　of　the　day's　niild　gray　light；　but　Freddy；　his　pilot；