sk.dreamcatcher-第47节

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s　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；　still　only　dared　to　look　at　him　from　the　corners　of　his　eyes。　The　sunglasses　were　wraparounds；　hipster…hodaddy　shades；　and　now　that　they　were　on；　you　couldn't　tell　where　the　boss　was　looking。　You　certainly　couldn't　trust　the　way　his　head　was　pointing。
　　　　The　Derry　News　lay　on　Kurtz's　lap　（MYSTERIOUS　SKYLIGHTS；　MISSING　HUNTERS　SPARK　PANIC　IN　JEFFERSON　TRACT；　read　the　headline）。　Now　he　picked　up　the　paper　and　folded　it　carefully。　He　was　good　at　this；　and　soon　the　Derry　News　would　be　folded　into　what　Owen　Underhill's　career　had　just　bee：　a　cocked　hat。　Underhill　no　doubt　thought　he　would　face　some　sort　of　disciplinary　action　…　Kurtz's　own；　since　this　was　a　black…ops　deal；　at　least　so　far　…　followed　by　a　second　chance。　What　he　didn't　seem　to　realize　（and　that　was　probably　good；　unwarned　usually　meant　unarmed）　was　that　this　had　been　his　second　chance。　Which　was　one　more　than　Kurtz　had　ever　given　anyone　else；　and　one　he　now　regretted。　Bitterly　regretted。　For　Owen　to　go　and　pull　a　trick　like　that　after　their　conversation　in　the　office　of　the　store　after　he　had　been　specifically　warned　。　。　。　　　　
　　　　'Who　gives　the　order？'　Underhill's　voice　crackled　in　Kurtz's　private　link。
　　　　Kurtz　was　surprised　and　a　little　dismayed　by　the　depth　of　his　rage。　Most　of　it　was　caused　by　no　more　than　surprise；　the　simplest　emotion；　the　one　babies　registered　before　any　other。　Owen　had　zinged　him　a　good　one；　putting　the　grayboys　on　the　squad　channel　like　that；　just　wanted　to　hear　if　any　of　it　had　changed　indeed；　that　was　one　you　could　roll　tight　and　stick　up　your　ass。　Owen　was　probably　the　best　second　Kurtz　had　ever　had　in　a　long　and　plicated　career　that　stretched　all　the　way　back　to　Cambodia　in　the　early　seventies；　but　Kurtz　was　going　to　break　him；　just　the　same。　For　the　trick　with　the　radio；　because　Owen　hadn't　learned。　It　wasn't　about　kids　in　Bosanski　Novi；　or　a　bunch　of　babbling　voices　now。　It　wasn't　about　following　orders；　or　even　the　principle　of　the　matter。　It　was　about　the　line。　His　line。　The　Kurtz　Line。
　　　　Also；　there　was　that　sir。
　　　　That　damned　snotty　sir。
　　　　'Boss？'　Owen　sounding　Just　a　tad　nervous　now；　and　he　was　right　to　sound　nervous；　Jesus　love　him。　'Who　gives…'
　　　　'mon　channel；　Freddy；'　Kurtz　said。　'Key　me　in。'
　　　　The　Kiowa；　much　lighter　than　the　gunships；　caught　a　gust　of　wind　and　took　a　giddy　bounce。　Kurtz　and　Freddy　ignored　it。　Freddy　keyed　him　wide。
　　　　'Listen　up；　boys；'　Kurtz　said；　looking　at　the　four　gunships　hanging　in　a　line；　glass　dragonflies　above　the　trees　and　beneath　the　clouds。　Just　ahead　of　them　was　the　swamp　and　the　vast　pearlescent　tilted　dish　with　its　surviving　crew　…　or　whatever　they　were　…　standing　beneath　its　aft　lip。
　　　　'Listen　now；　boys；　Daddy's　gonna　sermonize。　Are　you　listening？　Answer　up。'
　　　　Yes；　yes；　affirmative；　affirm；　roger　that　（with　an　occasional　sir　thrown　in；　but　that　was　all　right；　there　was　a　difference　between　forgetfulness　and　insolence）。
　　　　'I'm　not　a　talker；　boys；　talking's　not　what　I　do；　but　I　want　you　to　know　that　this　is　not　repeat　not　a　case　of　what　you　see　is　what