and industrial machinery for the u.S. Defense Department.”
“Go on,” Castillo said. he’d stopped taking notes.
The boy, Jeffrey, still lay asleep in a bed across the room. At least he
looked asleep. Castillo wasn’t sure. The kid had dozed off a couple times
in the car, but for no more than a couple minutes. Probably needed to
sleep for a week . It had been a long day crisscrossing Pennsylvania to
search the local malls, convenience stores, and high schools. They’d
even checked out several local paintball fields. Shown pictures of the six
escapees and Dr. Jacobson to fifty-plus kids. Questioned various store
managers. Nothing.
he’d gotten maybe an hour of sleep himself. Maybe . he wasn’t sure.
Like that, his chronic insomnia had reverted from being a disorder
worth fighting back to an occupational advantage.
he’d pulled into the motel around 1900. Dyed and cut the Jacobson
kid’s hair. Wasn’t sure if DSTI or anyone else would be looking for him,
but the kid’s father had convinced him he was dead meat—a “liability,”
the kid had quoted—if he was caught. Maybe the boy took some comfort in the fact that Castillo hadn’t killed him yet. Castillo doubted it.
Since erdman hadn’t been particularly forthcoming with the knowledge
of Jeff Jacobson’s existence, Castillo felt no real compunction to share
with erdman what, or who, he’d found. for now, he’d get what he could
out of the kid and turn him back over to DSTI when the idea wasn’t so
repugnant.
If he could get anything at all, that is. The malls and paintball fields
had been a bust, and the kid’d looked catatonic throughout, in fullblown, understandable shock. After the haircut and dye job, Castillo
had had him look at some more of his father’s journals, see if anything
made any sense, and that hadn’t gone much better than the first time.
The boy barely read them, had mostly looked like he’d wanted to throw
up. Who could blame him? Castillo felt the same way and had never even
met Gregory Jacobson. While this lunatic was this fucking kid’s father
and the guy—
“Terngo’s prime shareholder,” Pete was saying, “is Plainview Inc.
I’ve no doubt you know them.”
“Intimately.” Castillo had lived within their version of reality for ten
years. everything from lodging and meals to laundry, Internet access
and gym equipment. They were halliburton’s little brother, but with
a forty-thousand-person staff, including foreign mercenaries, not by
much.
“Annual revenue of one hundred billion dollars,” Brody said, “including an additional ten billion a year from the u.S. Department of
Defense.”
“That’s a lot of money to trickle down.”
“‘Tis. DSTI is also partially and directly funded by Johns hopkins
university, which receives another two billion annually for federally
funded research and development. Mostly, again, from the DOD.”
“Incredible.”
“remember, Castillo, it’s simply a giant global shell game meant to
hide one thing from all of us: The money.”
“And the monsters,” Castillo said. “Anything else?”
“There’ve been some deaths.”
“Go on.”
“There was a plane crash ten years ago. Three DSTI geneticists
and a marketing VP. Twin-engine Beechcraft king Air over kentucky
heading to a conference in Nashville. The NTSB concluded likely cause
was the flight crew’s failure to maintain adequate airspeed, which led to
an aerodynamic stall. None of the other typical causes of a small-plane
accident—engine failure, icing, pilot error—appeared to have been
involved. The company plane was not required to have a cockpit voice
recorder.”
“Convenient.”
“And a couple of suicides.”
Castillo nodded against the phone, focusing his thoughts. A “couple” didn’t sound too bad, not when each year more vets killed themselves than died in actual combat. “how many?” he said.
“Three. Over the last twelve years. Above average for a company
that size,
“Go on,” Castillo said. he’d stopped taking notes.
The boy, Jeffrey, still lay asleep in a bed across the room. At least he
looked asleep. Castillo wasn’t sure. The kid had dozed off a couple times
in the car, but for no more than a couple minutes. Probably needed to
sleep for a week . It had been a long day crisscrossing Pennsylvania to
search the local malls, convenience stores, and high schools. They’d
even checked out several local paintball fields. Shown pictures of the six
escapees and Dr. Jacobson to fifty-plus kids. Questioned various store
managers. Nothing.
he’d gotten maybe an hour of sleep himself. Maybe . he wasn’t sure.
Like that, his chronic insomnia had reverted from being a disorder
worth fighting back to an occupational advantage.
he’d pulled into the motel around 1900. Dyed and cut the Jacobson
kid’s hair. Wasn’t sure if DSTI or anyone else would be looking for him,
but the kid’s father had convinced him he was dead meat—a “liability,”
the kid had quoted—if he was caught. Maybe the boy took some comfort in the fact that Castillo hadn’t killed him yet. Castillo doubted it.
Since erdman hadn’t been particularly forthcoming with the knowledge
of Jeff Jacobson’s existence, Castillo felt no real compunction to share
with erdman what, or who, he’d found. for now, he’d get what he could
out of the kid and turn him back over to DSTI when the idea wasn’t so
repugnant.
If he could get anything at all, that is. The malls and paintball fields
had been a bust, and the kid’d looked catatonic throughout, in fullblown, understandable shock. After the haircut and dye job, Castillo
had had him look at some more of his father’s journals, see if anything
made any sense, and that hadn’t gone much better than the first time.
The boy barely read them, had mostly looked like he’d wanted to throw
up. Who could blame him? Castillo felt the same way and had never even
met Gregory Jacobson. While this lunatic was this fucking kid’s father
and the guy—
“Terngo’s prime shareholder,” Pete was saying, “is Plainview Inc.
I’ve no doubt you know them.”
“Intimately.” Castillo had lived within their version of reality for ten
years. everything from lodging and meals to laundry, Internet access
and gym equipment. They were halliburton’s little brother, but with
a forty-thousand-person staff, including foreign mercenaries, not by
much.
“Annual revenue of one hundred billion dollars,” Brody said, “including an additional ten billion a year from the u.S. Department of
Defense.”
“That’s a lot of money to trickle down.”
“‘Tis. DSTI is also partially and directly funded by Johns hopkins
university, which receives another two billion annually for federally
funded research and development. Mostly, again, from the DOD.”
“Incredible.”
“remember, Castillo, it’s simply a giant global shell game meant to
hide one thing from all of us: The money.”
“And the monsters,” Castillo said. “Anything else?”
“There’ve been some deaths.”
“Go on.”
“There was a plane crash ten years ago. Three DSTI geneticists
and a marketing VP. Twin-engine Beechcraft king Air over kentucky
heading to a conference in Nashville. The NTSB concluded likely cause
was the flight crew’s failure to maintain adequate airspeed, which led to
an aerodynamic stall. None of the other typical causes of a small-plane
accident—engine failure, icing, pilot error—appeared to have been
involved. The company plane was not required to have a cockpit voice
recorder.”
“Convenient.”
“And a couple of suicides.”
Castillo nodded against the phone, focusing his thoughts. A “couple” didn’t sound too bad, not when each year more vets killed themselves than died in actual combat. “how many?” he said.
“Three. Over the last twelve years. Above average for a company
that size,
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