what occurred here.”
Dr. Nitchie stops and waits for Anderson to acknowledge this in some way, but the latter simply shakes his head no.
The doctor continues, “Well, so far, I have been assigned a number of what I would deem ‘tedious’ responsibilities to conduct. Mostly trivial tasks . . tasks that seemed to me, well, somewhat . . superfluous.”
“Superfluous?”
“Yes, superfluous,” Nitchie explains. “You know . . like unnecessary, redundant.”
“Gotcha,” Anderson nods.
Nitchie looks hesitant for a moment before continuing, “I suppose that might be expected given the fact I replaced a member who had fallen ill and was unable to join her other team members in the investigation. So I guess you could call me the new guy on the team, but, well . . um, I feel-”
“What is it, Doctor?” Anderson prods.
Anderson detects a note of embarrassment in the man’s voice as he explains, “I feel I’m being underutilized. I mean, I have a PhD in forensic pathology, in addition to a PhD in-”
Anderson cannot restrain himself, “You’re a modest fellow, huh?”
Dr. Nitchie sighs, not one to boast of his academic accolades, but he certainly can recognize sarcasm when he hears it.
“I’m sorry, Private Anderson, I don’t mean to sound so conceited, but-”
“That’s okay, Doc,” Anderson interrupts, knowing the doctor was not trying to be boastful or arrogant. “I was just needling you a bit.”
Nitchie emits a brief chortle, but it sounds more like a pig snort. “Yes, I know, Private Anderson, I’m just trying to explain myself.”
Anderson continues to eye the doctor, but he says nothing. His suspicion of the doctor has lessened since being spooked by him in the shadows, but Anderson still does not know what to make of him.
Likewise, the doctor gazes at Anderson expectantly.
“May I ask who is in charge of the investigation at the site?” Nitchie inquires.
“Well, as far as I know,” Anderson responds, “that would be General Cozey, on orders from the President himself.”
The air seems to go out of Dr. Nitchie and once again, the paranoia begins to dance wildly in the doctor’s eyes.
“That is what I thought,” the doctor says in a rather resigned voice. “But . . you arrived here with General Parker, right? He is one of the highest-ranking military officers in the country, is he not?” he asks hopefully.
“He is,” Anderson confirms, “and he is overseeing the investigation of the entire attack. General Cozey is in charge of the on-site investigation, and of course he answers to General Parker, but it is still General Cozey’s show around here.”
Again, the doctor’s shoulders seem to slump forward and he appears extremely disheartened. Anderson finally grows tired of beating around the bushes.
“Dr. Nitchie,” he says sternly, “I don’t have a lot of time to keep playing twenty questions. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
The doctor’s voice lowers to a whisper, but the urgency in his tone cannot be mistaken. “General Cozey’s assistants, I overheard them talking. It seems that Waterston, the head of our team, was supposed to debrief General Parker some time ago, but he’s been . . indisposed. They mentioned delaying him from speaking with Parker as long as possible. Well, I think I might know why.”
“And why’s that, Doc?” Anderson plays along.
The doctor hesitates, and then continues, “Because nothing is what it appears to be here, Private Anderson.”
Frustrated by the cryptic conversation and roundabout question-and-answer with the doctor, Anderson loudly blurts out, “Give me something to work with here, Doc.”
The doctor shushes him again, looks around warily, and then turns back towards Anderson.
“Since I arrived here,” he explains, “I have been virtually ignored by the rest of the team, been told nothing, have not even spoken to Dr. Waterston, and been given responsibilities an intern could do.
“I have seen other members of the team working, but not really working. They analyze something, then they fail to record what they have observed. Pieces of evidence are scattered around, nothing seems to be labeled or catalogued properly, and I even witnessed one colleague drop an item from the site on the floor of the lab and leave it there. There is something very wrong here, Private Anderson, and I am not entirely sure what.”
“Well,” Anderson suggests, “maybe these guys are getting tired, even a little sloppy. Maybe they feel a little under the gun, like we all do, and are just trying to do their jobs as fast as they can. It does not mean there is anything wrong, Doc.”
Nitchie looks at him skeptically and firmly states, “Every member of a CST or SRU team knows proper protocol and procedures when it comes to evidence-gathering and processing. What I witnessed was bungling and carelessness of the highest order.
“Now, I do not know for certain what is going on here, but I do know that General Cozey’s aides-”
“Bason and Stringer,” Anderson offers.
“Right, Bason and Stringer,” Nitchie confirms. “They appear to be thick as thieves, and they are not allowing information to reach General Parker or anyone else for that matter. Not that the information would be all that accurate.”
“What do you mean?” Anderson asks, his curiosity piqued.
Nitchie looks at Anderson before asking his own question, “Did you hear that an unusual type of radiation was found at the site?”
Anderson nods, “Yeah, I heard Augie, um, Lieutenant Colonel Hermann, talking to General Parker about it on the plane ride over here. Something about a form of unknown radiation not found on Earth.”
Nitchie nods as the conversation veers into more familiar territory for him. “Something like that, Private Anderson. And they’re even lucky they received that piece of information. I overheard Bason and Stringer saying that an administrative assistant inadvertently scanned this information to someone at the Pentagon, who passed it on to the President and some of his closest advisers, as well as General Parker and Lieutenant Colonel Hermann. Apparently, the admin acted on her own, without direct orders from her superior. In any case, I heard the phrase, ‘damage control,’ and how they could allow nothing else to get through.”
“But the radiation thing is true?” Anderson asks.
“Yes and no. How familiar are you with extraterrestrial solar radiation?”
Anderson shoots the doctor a wry grin, “Doctor, my education stopped at the twelfth grade.”
“Well,” the doctor continues without missing a beat, “don’t think about little green men or anything like that quite yet. Extraterrestrial solar radiation is simply the solar radiation outside of Earth’s atmosphere.”
