Catch Her If You Can (5 page)

“Must be. There’s more.”

Cash registers started ka-chinging in my head again and an excited note crept into my voice.

“Donati said the FBI was offering a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to Duarte’s capture and arrest.”

“
How
much?”

“A hundred thousand. You and Noel and I may be eligible to claim it.”

The silence was longer this time. Way longer.

“I’ll have to think about that,” Pancho said at last.

I hung up, wondering what there was to think about.

Only gradually did it dawn on Noel and me and the rest of FST-3 that claiming the reward might create the kind of nightmare that can only occur in bureaucratic circles. In short order, Noel and I progressed from making wish lists to speculating on whether we could accept a reward since we were in uniform, on duty, and conducting official business when Duarte lined us up in his sights.

“Maybe I can find something online.”

I pulled up the FBI website and skimmed down a long, scary list of “most wanteds.” I couldn’t find anything on how to collect on them, though, so I clicked on a tab for a program called Rewards for Justice. That took me to a different site. This one listed international terrorists and the amounts offered for information leading to their capture and arrest. The twenty-five-million-dollar bounty for Osama bin Laden made our hundred thousand seem like loose change!

I paged through the rest of the site and discovered it was funded by private donations. And there, in bold print, was a prohibition against payments to anyone who worked for the U.S. government in any capacity.

I clicked back to the FBI website, but couldn’t find a similar prohibition. That gave us a momentary boost—until Rocky reminded us of who we worked for.

DARPA has this strict code of ethics. It addresses in excruciating detail what employees can and can’t accept from companies or agencies seeking to do business with us. Demonstrations of new technologies are a yes. Free donuts and coffee during these demos are a no.

Who knew where a hundred grand in reward money fell on the list? I certainly didn’t. I went to bed later that evening wondering about it, though.

WHEN my phone pinged early the next morning, I checked caller ID and toyed briefly with the wild notion of asking my boss about the reward. That lasted only until I flipped up the phone, hit the video display, and saw the haunted expression on his face.

Poor Dr. Jessup. I’ve put him through the wringer several times in our professional association. I never
intend
to make him reach for the aspirin and Pepto-Bismol. And it’s not that I don’t like the man. I do! I also admire him tremendously. I mean, how many Harvard heavies with a mind-boggling string of degrees would take a zillion percent pay cut to work for the U.S. government?

Unfortunately for Dr. J, he arrived at DARPA the same week I did. We both suspect that’s how he got stuck supervising a lowly lieutenant minus even a master’s degree. He didn’t know enough to duck and run.

He’s had to duck a number of times since. Judging by the look on his face, this was evidently one of those times.

“Samantha,” he got out in a choked voice. “Tell me it’s not true.”

What wasn’t true? The shooting? The disembodied heads? Sergeant Cassidy’s gunshot wound? Since I couldn’t reassure him on any of the above points, I resorted to chewing on the inside of my cheek.

“Please,” he pleaded. “Please confirm you’re not testing a flesh-eating robot.”

“Well . . .”

“I knew it!” He let out a moan. “When they brought up Article Twenty of the Geneva Convention, I knew we were in trouble!”

I’d heard of the Geneva Convention, of course. Every military recruit is briefed on its general provisions and the Code of Ethics that evolved from it. Among other things, the code forbids U.S. military personnel from revealing more than their name, rank, and serial number if captured by the enemy. Unless—and this is a big caveat here!—we’re tortured beyond our ability to resist.

“Article Twenty?” I echoed in a hollow voice as visions of rubber hoses and electrified nipple clamps flitted through my head.

“The war crimes section.” Dr. J’s expression turned anguished above his red and white polka-dot bow tie. “Among other things, it prohibits desecration of the dead. Which, if the wild stories emanating from Texas are to be believed, your robot does.”

NEEDLESS to say, the moment I got off the phone with Dr. J I powered up my laptop and Googled the Geneva Convention. I was surprised to discover there are actually four of them, all setting standards of international law for the humanitarian treatment of victims of war.

The first treaty came about after the 1862 publication of a book titled
Memoir of Solferino
. Based on his own horrific experiences in battle, the author pushed for a permanent relief agency to aid war victims and a government treaty recognizing the neutrality of such an agency. That led to the founding of the International Red Cross and the original Geneva Convention. These momentous accomplishments won the author the co-honor of the first Nobel Peace Prize in 1901.

Subsequent treaties addressed members of the armed forces at sea, the protection of prisoners of war, and—after the 1949 Nuremberg Trials—crimes committed against civilians during wartime.

This was all extremely heavy reading for a second lieutenant. Particularly one whose closest exposure to a combat zone was her frequent shopping excursions across the Rio Grande. Swallowing hard, I spent several hours on the section dealing with collective punishments and reprisals for desecration of the dead.

 

I was still hard at it when the crap hit the fan.

I’m talking a huge mountain of it, fanned by the really big blower otherwise known as the wire services. Turns out both AP and Reuters picked up Junior Reporter’s story about a flesh-eating robot. Once that bombshell went out over the wires, news agencies and Internet addicts across the country jumped on it. The headlines and blog entries went from disbelieving to downright ghoulish.

The calls came fast and furious after that. I heard from reporters and magazine editors and bloggers and self-proclaimed vampires and one
very
scary necrophiliac. Him I turned over to Paul Donati. The rest I referred to the Public Affairs office at DARPA Headquarters as ordered.

With so much controversy swirling, DARPA felt compelled to issue a statement. In it they confirmed that the agency had funded neither the research for nor the development of SNFIR. Nor did it condone in any way a device that consumed human remains.

This avalanche of negative PR prompted a fierce rebuttal from Snoopy’s extremely agitated inventor. Farnsworth held a hastily convened news conference outside his barn/workshop in Idaho. Acres of brown potato fields formed the backdrop. An affiliate of Channel Nine covered the story, which they aired on the early evening newscast.

Once again all five members of FST-3 gathered in the D-FAC to watch. The air conditioner blasted us with chilled air while Farmer Farnsworth blasted us with charges ranging from carelessness to total incompetence.

“I included precise operating instructions with SNFIR,” he said indignantly. “Also a detailed appendix listing every potential fuel source.”

I ignored Dennis O’Reilly’s pointed look.

“All those people had to do was program SNFIR to identify and consume acceptable fuel sources while ignoring others,” the inventor continued with a disgusted shake of his head. “Any third grader could do it.”

Lips pooched, I glanced at the members of my team. One double PhD with an IQ somewhere out there in the stratosphere. Another PhD in the person of Rocky, our test engineer. A software genius with an ability to string together lines of code completely incomprehensible to ordinary mortals. A staff sergeant who’s racked up umpteen years of military service. The closest thing to a third grader in the group was me.

“If high-paid government scientists can’t figure out how to operate a simple device like SNFIR,” Farnsworth huffed, “this country’s in trouble.”

Ha! Showed what farmers knew about government employee pay scales. Thoroughly pissed on behalf of my team, I stalked over to my laptop.

“What are you doing?” Pen asked.

“Emailing a certain potato farmer to let him know I don’t appreciate his remarks.”

“Better not,” she advised, poking absently at her scalp with a chewed-on plastic straw. “You’ll only add fuel to the fire.”

I didn’t care. I don’t mind criticism. Probably because I’m on the receiving end of so much of it. But I was darned if I’d let Farnsworth bad-mouth my team. We might be mostly rejects from polite society, but we were professional rejects, dammit.

The email proved to be a little tricky to compose as Sheriff Alexander had asked us to retain possession of Snoop pending completion of his investigation. I was trying to balance my righteous indignation with an explanation of why we couldn’t return Farmer Farnsworth’s baby when the scene switched back to the Channel Nine newsroom. There was DeWayne in his navy blazer, riding his story for all it was worth.

“In a late-breaking development, the FBI has released the identities of all four victims in this bizarre case. The individual who died in the shooting is Victor Duarte, a career criminal and alleged contract killer suspected in at least a dozen murders for hire.”

The Bear’s mug shot flashed up on screen. Knowing what I now did about him, I have to admit I wasn’t sorry Pancho had taken dead aim on his midsection.

“The mutilated corpses have also been tentatively identified,” Junior Reporter informed us. “All three are Mexican nationals suspected of conducting a multimilliondollar drug operation in Wisconsin.”

I gaped at the screen in disbelief. Those of us living close to the border had grown used to hearing about the viciously warring cartels and major drug busts so close to us. But Wisconsin? Naive soul that I am, it shocked the heck out of me to know the sickness we saw so much of in the border regions had spread that far north.

“The details on the ring are still emerging,” DeWayne related solemnly. “We’ll update you as we get more information. In the meantime, we’ve learned the FBI had offered a substantial reward for information leading to Duarte’s capture or arrest.”

At that point, he jettisoned the objectivity he was trying so hard to project and gushed into the mike.

“Talk about winning the lottery! Someone’s gonna collect big bucks on this one.”

“Way to go, DeWayne.” Disgusted, I shook my head. “Splash it all over TV land, why don’t you?”

I still wasn’t sure whether Noel or I could claim any portion of the reward. With all the calls and controversy, I hadn’t had the time—or the nerve—to check with headquarters about that. This stuff about war crimes and desecration of the dead weighed a lot more heavily on my mind than a closet full of new shoes.

 

I stuck to my guns over the next few days and refused all requests for information or interviews, referring inquisitors instead to DARPA’s Public Affairs office.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t as successful at fending off my family. One of my cousins had read about the triple decapitation/shooting/reward on an ex-con’s blog and spread the word to the rest of the clan. My brother, Don, wasted no time in calling.

“I know this really good lawyer,” he advised.

Don is four years older than I am and, along with my mom, has been in AA for more than a decade. After a number of abrupt career transitions, he’s now a financial advisor in Ventura, California. And we wonder how the economy ended up in the toilet!

“I don’t need a lawyer, Don.”

“Yeah, ya do, Sammy. This lawyer is good. Remember the twenty grand in back taxes the IRS tried to stick me with a couple years back? He got ’em to accept less than five thousand.”

I chose not to remind him that taxes paid for roads and parks and the schools his five kids were yawning their way through.

“Give Nowatny a call,” he urged. “He’ll get you every penny of that reward.”

“Minus his fee, of course.”

“Of course. Bastard hit me up for forty percent of the amount IRS knocked off.”

“And what do you get out of this deal, Don?”

“You’re not going to begrudge me a small referral fee, are you? That’s how things work in the real world. Got a pencil? I’ll give you Nowatny’s number.”

The only pencil in sight was the one protruding from Pen’s lopsided bun. I didn’t reach for it, as I had no intention of contacting Lawyer Nowatny. I pretended otherwise, though, to get my bother off my back. He rattled off the number and issued a final warning.

“Better call him or you’ll have every leech and charity case in the family coming at you with their hands out.”

Riiiight.

 

DESPITE the hassles and outside interruptions, my team and I managed to complete the rest of our evaluations by Friday noon as scheduled. None of the remaining items on our list demonstrated potential for military application in a desert environment. I did see real utility, though, in a neat little iPhone-type application that zeroed in on the location of the nearest public rest-room.