this cold in the summer?”
Philip said that. And his voice was splintered wood.
Because she hesitates to respond, Philip knows Delores is surprised to hear him speak.
“Would you like me to close the window?”
“No,” Philip says, still staring to where the wall meets the ceiling. “Just … strange weather.”
“Well,” Delores says. And before she says what she’s about to say, Philip knows he’s fooled her. “Nobody said Iowa was reasonable.”
Iowa.
“Iowa,” he repeats.
And he can see her now, her features in his field of vision. She’s brought a hand to her lips, as if questioning herself, debating quickly whether or not she was supposed to tell him where he was.
“I’ll close the window partway.”
She crosses by the foot of the cot. As Philip hears the window sliding half shut, he’s making connections. Bodily. And in mind.
Iowa.
It isn’t just that he’s fooled Delores into telling him their location; he’s gotten her to show him that whether or not Iowa was a secret, there are secrets in here.
Things kept from him. The look on her face tells him so.
As his body mends, stitching itself together, temporarily or not, Philip wonders at his new identity, his new scared self, how the hospital has secrets, and how he must keep secrets of his own. And he thinks of his former self, too, an aloof drunk in Detroit, a musician soldier who once believed that a man was defined by how much awe he struck in others.
But exactly when did that mind-set change? Was it when Secretary Mull opened the door to the bar? Was it when Sergeant Lovejoy pointed to the prints in the desert and said “this way”?
Was it when someone warned him, in a voice he still can’t place, the only detail he can’t remember from the desert?
I wouldn’t do that if I were you …
As Delores passes by the foot of the cot again, Philip is almost able to shake his head no.
No. Not those times. Not those places.
It happened when he was with his best friends. In a place he felt more comfortable than any other in the city. At a time when he felt on top of the world.
Philip changed forever, got unconnected, the first time he listened to the sound.
Will I be court-marshaled if I record this?” Ross asks.
Secretary Mull smiles. But shakes his head yes.
“That’s against the rules, Private Robinson.”
“A recording studio probably isn’t the best place for a clandestine meeting,” Larry says. Like Duane, Larry hasn’t sat down. As if the pair won’t commit even that much yet.
Mull nods. Papers he’s brought rest upon the mixing console.
“But we do what we can,” he says.
He’s likable. Philip doesn’t like that. Mull’s full black hair brings out the blue shine in his eyes. If not for the sadness in those eyes, and the wrinkles on his strong face, he might look something like Superman.
Mull removes the quarter-inch reel from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“Mind playing this?” he asks Ross.
“That’s the mystery sound?” Philip asks.
“It is,” Mull says. Still seated in the engineer’s chair, he hands the reel to Ross. “Thank you.”
The Danes are suspicious. With good reason. Secretary Mull has proposed they fly to a desert in Africa to “identify the source of a dangerous sound.”
A new weapon? The United States Army thinks so.
Mull leans forward, places his elbows on his knees, rubs his hands together.
“You can roll the tape,” he tells Ross. “There’s quite a bit of headway and discussion before the sound begins.”
Ross threads the reel and presses play. He looks at Philip.
What’s going on? his expression asks.
“We first heard the sound in ’48,” Mull begins. “Came through a routine radio check conducted in Tallahassee, Florida. We understood it was a disturbance but we didn’t consider it a threat. We asked our radio men to isolate the frequency. The problems started to surface immediately. We weren’t able to determine what it was. And of course we’re not in the business of ignoring unknown signals. Rather quickly it became a priority in our offices. Then the Pentagon got involved. Audio experts removed the static, isolated the tone, got it as clear as they could get it. But at some point it became clear that if we wanted to know what was making this noise, we’d have to go find it. We’ve already sent two platoons. All soldiers. No musicians. That’s why we’re interested in you.”
Voices on the tape. Muffled. Military men. Philip can almost see the dimensions of the conference room in which the tape was recorded. The echo is tight, suggesting low ceilings, long walls.
“The only positive ground we made was determining its relative location. Partially. The Namib Desert. Africa. But that still doesn’t tell us what’s making it.”
“Hang on,” Larry says, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re telling us there’s a sound coming from somewhere in all that desert and you want us to find it?”
“Yes. That’s it exactly. We think sending in experts, live, to experience the sound live—”
“Did either of the first two platoons have any luck?” Philip asks.
Mull nods slowly.
“Some.”
“What’s some?” Duane asks.
“It’s buried,” Larry says. “Beneath the sand. That’s obvious, right? If soldiers go looking for a sound in the desert, and they can’t find it, that thing’s gotta be buried. Right?”
“The Pentagon doesn’t get involved unless they have to,” Duane says.
“Right,” Ross says, his elbow just inches from the revolving reels. “Until it’s a matter of national security—”
“The sound,” Mull says without looking any of the Danes in the eye, “inoculated one of our nuclear warheads.”
A moment of static on the
