Transformers Dark of the Moon (19 page)

Instead, he heard his own voice say, “What kind of government—” He choked. He didn’t want to say the last word and fought it desperately even as it hissed out of his mouth. “—sssssssecret?”

“A fifty-year-old alien secret that nobody ever told you.”

Simmons’s resistance dissolved like sodden tissue. “Dutch! Clear my schedule!” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Except for the Thai massage. I’m tight,” and he flexed his shoulder and winced.

“So you’re in?”
came Sam’s voice.

“Tell Megatron,” Simmons said, his heart pounding furiously with excitement, “let’s tango.”

Sam nearly tripped over his own feet running to the door of his apartment when the doorbell rang. He yanked it open, and standing there was Bruce Brazos, his face a mixture of emotions. He was working on trying to maintain his officious personality, but at the same time there was an air of barely contained excitement in his bearing. His nose had a broad bandage across it, and there was some swelling under his eyes. His gaze darted quickly around the apartment, clearly looking for something, and Sam knew what it was.

Brazos was holding up a thick accordion folder. “Procured your information, Witwicky,” he said.

Grabbing it out of Bruce’s hand, Sam said, “Fantastic. Thanks.” He tried to close the door in his face, but Brazos stuck his foot in the door, intercepting it. “Now,” Bruce reminded him, “there was a condition by which I do not sue you.”

“Yeah, you were gonna sue me for saving your life just because you got hurt while I was doing it. How do you think that’s gonna work out?”

“Considering people successfully do it to doctors all
the time, I’m liking my chances. At least doctors have malpractice insurance. How’s
your
liability protection, Sam?”

Sam hated to admit it, but he totally saw such a thing working out in Bruce’s favor. How could it be that he had helped to defeat Megatron but now he was being beaten by Bruce Brazos? Bowing to the inevitable, Sam sighed heavily and allowed Brazos in. Bruce looked around eagerly. “Lemme see one.”

Stepping to the side, Sam gestured behind himself. Brazos glanced where he was pointing, and suddenly he looked like a band geek who had been invited to be guest of honor at a cheerleaders’ convention.

Wheelie was babbling about something or other to Simmons, who was trying not to look bored and failing utterly. Brains was biting the heads off nails because they’d run out of screws. Simmons didn’t seem especially happy to see Brazos, but then again, Simmons rarely looked happy to see anyone. He was quite possibly the most dyspeptic man Sam had ever met. But he knew his stuff, and Sam was aware that this simply wasn’t going to get done without him. As for Brazos, he was a necessary evil, and Sam was determined to try to minimize his involvement as much as humanly possible.

“Freakin’ awesome,” said Bruce, slowly approaching them, unable to tear his gaze from them. Then, suddenly apprehensive, he said, “Are they going to try and kill me?”

“We don’t take requests,” Wheelie said.

Sam tried not to dwell on how unfortunate that was and instead dropped onto the floor opposite Simmons. He reminded himself that once upon a time he had felt as much revulsion for Simmons as he did for Bruce and that his feelings had changed over time. Now he could take Simmons in small doses and had gotten kind of
used to him. Perhaps eventually he would regard Brazos in the same way.

Somehow, though, he doubted it.

He sat on the floor opposite Simmons, and they started spreading out the materials pulled from the accordion folder. “Okay, Lunar Reconaissance Orbiter, NASA launched in 2009. Forensics show Wang may have messed with the code, preventing it from mapping a section on the far side … aka the dark side.”

Simmons was absorbed with the material Bruce had gathered from the late Jerry Wang’s office. “My whole career,” he said finally, “this is what I’ve been afraid of. They infiltrate us. Intimidate us. Coerce us to do their dirty work. And when they’re done?” He pointed his hand at his head, miming a gun. “
Ba-doosh!
Double tap to the cerebellum.” He thought about it a moment. “Kid, I don’t think this is about the Decepticons finding something on the moon.”

“No? Then what—?”

“I think it’s about something they wanted to hide.”

“Hey!”

Sam turned and saw Brains was busy munching on a small camera. Bruce was pointing in indignation, his finger trembling. “I … I was just trying to … and it grabbed …”

“What part of ‘no pictures’ did you not get when I told you they were here?” Sam said.

“It was just for me!”

Brains spit the remains of the camera out, and Brazos looked down at the pieces in dismay.

“That’s just for you, too,” Sam said, trying not to sound as pleased as he felt.

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside, and then Carly walked in, her bag slung over her shoulder. In her free hand she was carrying a blue sequined cocktail dress covered in plastic that she had just picked
up from the dry cleaner; once again her “early bird catches the worm” mind-set had her well into her internal to-do list, even this early on a Saturday morning. She stopped in her tracks and looked around, confused and annoyed. “What’s going on?”

“Who are you?” said Simmons, and he turned to Sam. “Who is that? Get her out of here.”

“You get out of here!” Carly said, slamming her bag down on the counter. “I live here! Sam …?” She looked to him for an explanation.

“Carly, it’s okay.” He uncoiled from the floor and walked toward her, shaking his right leg a bit because it had started to fall asleep. “I’m at work. We’re on to something here.”

The temperature in the room seemed to dip precipitously when she spoke. “Oh. Of course. You’re at
work.
”

She stalked past him and headed into the bedroom. Sam watched her go, and Simmons said, “Trust me, kid: Nothing good is gonna come from talking to her right now.”

He had the distinct feeling that Simmons was correct, but he couldn’t leave matters like this. Besides, it was not as if she’d walked in on him doing something
wrong
. He was on the side of the angels here, working to protect humankind. She should be thanking him. She should be understanding.

So why the hell did he feel so guilty?

He walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. She had laid the dress down on the bed, and before he could say anything, she turned and snapped, “It’s Saturday, remember?”

“Of course I remember! Which means it’s my day off. So don’t I have a right to do what I feel like?” He put his hands on his hips as if daring her to disagree.

She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Today is the party,
remember? I told you about it. I even”—she pointed to a piece of paper taped to the bedroom mirror—“wrote down the time and place and put it up here so you’d remember it! We’re supposed to be going to Dylan’s party. For my job. My
real
job.”

He realized she was right. It had totally slipped his mind.

“Oh. Saturday. Right, of course I remember.” When he saw her skeptical glare, he decided he needed to take the offensive. “C’mon! After what just happened to me yesterday?”

“You know what I liked about your war stories, Sam? They were stories. As in, ‘in the past.’ All your life-and-death stuff was over.”

“These are my friends! They need my help!”

“Who, those guys?” she said, pointing in the direction of the living room. “The boss you can’t stand? That obnoxious guy with the big nose? The little pervert robots?”

From the living room, Bruce called, “Y’ know we can hear you through the door, right?”

“And I’ll have you know my nose is aquiline!” came Simmons’s indignant voice.

“I meant the Autobots,” Sam told her.

“We love ya too, man!”

“Shut up, Wheelie!”

Carly ignored them. “The Autobots need your help? Because of the Decepticons?”

“Of course, because of the Decepticons!”

“What, the Autobots, the CIA, and the military can’t handle this on their own? Do you boys have code names? Secret handshakes?”

He knew he should be lowering his voice since they were obviously audible to the group in the living room, but her sarcasm angered him and prompted him to get louder instead. “Look, did I ask to be attacked by a Decepticon?
I’m back in the middle here! You think this is what I wanted?”

She hesitated, and then her features hardened. “Yes. Yes, I do. I think this has nothing to do with Decepticons or even the Autobots and everything to do with you. I think you not only wanted this, I think you needed it.”

“That’s ridiculous! Why would I need it?”

“Because …” And for just a moment her lower lip trembled. “Because I wasn’t enough.”

“Oh, what? Now you’re talking in the past tense? That’s what we are? Past tense?”

She bit the lip to stop it from trembling and then grabbed the dress. “I don’t know.” The giant plush rabbit was lying on top of the neatly made bed. She took that as well and headed for the door.

And Sam hurled at her the only thing he could think of: “You said you’d never leave me.”

She stopped at the door, her hand resting on the knob. Very quietly, so much so that he almost couldn’t hear her, she replied, “You’ve chosen your path, Sam. And it’s not with me. The truth is … you left me first.” Then she threw open the door. Brains, who had his head pressed against it, fell in and she stepped over him.

Sam followed her out to the car—that superb car dear old Dylan had lent her, parked in the driveway—trying to put some distance between them and the guys in the living room. He tried to get her to stop, tried to think of what to say to avert this.

She was in the driver’s side, and Sam leaned in through the passenger side. The rabbit was wedged into the seat next to Carly. In a single move, she grabbed the rabbit and tore the foot off it. Then she thrust it through the window and handed it to Sam.

“Good luck,” she said as sincerely as she could. Then
she pulled the car back out of the driveway and, moments later, was heading off down the street.

He heard a footfall behind him. Simmons draped an arm around him like an old grizzled veteran of many battles. “Better off this way, kid. The warrior’s path is a solitary one; take it from me.” Then, sounding intrigued by the idea, he added, “We’ll figure out code names and secret handshakes later.”

“Sounds great,” Sam said hollowly.

“Sure does.” He patted Sam on the back. “Now let’s go solve this Decepticon space thing.”

A caravan of Autobots took Exit 3 off the Jersey Turnpike, merged onto Route 168, and headed for Route 42, which would take them to the Atlantic City Expressway. This was fortunate since they were, in fact, heading toward Atlantic City.

It had been no effort for Bumblebee to summon backup. Simmons, riding in the backseat of his silver Maybach, turned around to make sure that the rest of their caravan was still behind them. Sure enough, the sports car and the Corvette that were the disguised Mirage and Sideswipe were following Bumblebee in his Camaro form. Simmons couldn’t help noticing that the distance between them was precise, each exactly one car length behind the one in front of it. Perfect.

“Nothing like going to a gig with Autobot backup,” he said cheerily, “right, Dutch?”

“Yes, sir,” Dutch said from up front in the driver’s seat.

Simmons turned to Sam, who was seated next to him. “Right, Sammy?”

Sam said nothing. He’d been barely verbal since D.C. and hadn’t said a word since Delaware. “Kid?” Simmons prompted him. When he still didn’t reply: “Kid, you gotta stop thinking about her and get your head in the game. On the off chance she comes crawling back, it won’t do you any good if you’re dead.”

“Whatever,” Sam said.

“Oh, good, he speaks.” Simmons hadn’t brought Sam up to speed yet because the kid seemed so disengaged that he felt it would be best to give him some distance. But now that they were drawing close to their destination, it was time to get down to business. “So … okay: Brains came up with three USSR cosmonauts back in ’72. Claimed some conspiracy shut down their scheduled manned program to the dark side of the moon. They spoke out, then went into hiding. Defected under Brezhnev. But my Dutchman”—he pointed at his manservant, who tossed a wave from the front seat—“former NSA cybersleuth extraordinaire, tracked ’em down to Atlantic City. Remember, the thing about Russians is they never like to talk.”

“Isn’t that going to be a problem?”

“Nah.” Simmonssmiled. “I have a way with people.”

At the end of the boardwalk, with all the cars parked and three out of the four of them waiting for something to happen, Sam looked on in astonishment as Simmons and Dutch unloaded their gear from the trunk of Seymour’s car. He’d always known that Simmons was a bit overzealous and maybe even kind of crazy, but this was just beyond the pale. He’d traded Carly for this guy?

Sam started picking through the equipment: wireless communications, scopes, night-vision goggles. Night vision? It was broad daylight.

“Is, uh … is all of this stuff necessary?”

“Yes, very necessary,” Simmons said firmly. “It’s gonna take a little of the ‘international language.’ ”

Sam heard a few authoritative clacks of rounds being chambered. Guns made noises like nothing else, and sure enough, Dutch was busy locking and loading several guns. His expertise was evident; he was whip-fast
and professional in his movements. It was quickly becoming clear to Sam that when Simmons had mentioned the international language, he wasn’t referring to love.

Then Dutch turned and held out a gun to Sam, butt first. Sam held up his hands defensively as if Dutch were threatening him with it. “Whoa! Hey. Hang on.”

Dutch looked to Simmons for instructions as to what he should do. Simmons stepped forward, took the gun from Dutch’s hand, and shoved it into Sam’s. It felt cold and heavy. “You hang on to your cojones,” he said, unsympathetic to Sam’s discomfort. “Lemme show you how the dirty, filthy espionage game is played.”