Читать книгу Black Mad Wheel - Josh Malerman, Josh Malerman - Страница 12

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 tape. No voices.

“What does that mean?” Philip asks.

“That means that we believe the frequency somehow … robbed our most powerful defense weapon of its … power.”

“How do you know—” Philip begins.

“And there’s more,” Mull says.

“Oh, I bet there’s more,” Duane says.

Mull breathes deep.

“Once the alarm was sounded, the notification that the warhead had been sterilized, an MP drew his gun and quickly discovered it, too, had been rendered useless.”

Philip imagines an entire army with impotent weapons. How different they would look.

“So,” Mull continues, an ear on the muffled voices from the speakers, “a matter of national security indeed. A weapon like that could make us all … the whole country … vulnerable.”

“Listen,” Larry says. “We may have served, but we were only in the band.”

“That’s what makes you gentlemen ideal.”

Some silence. Big thinking.

“And it’s up to us to find out where it is?” Duane asks, but still far from committing. Philip is surprised his drummer hasn’t walked out the door. All this feels like the top of a slide. A return to the army, the life they’ve left behind, is waiting for them at the bottom.

“Yes,” Mull says. “But, of course, there’s a bigger question than where.”

“What?” Ross asks.

“Who.”

“Hey,” Duane says, having finally heard enough.

Mull removes earplugs from his jacket pocket. He places them firmly in his ears.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen. The sound is about to begin and I can’t stomach hearing it another time. Please forgive me in advance.”

“What?” Philip asks.

Mull adjusts his earplugs.

“Hang on a minute,” Duane says, holding out a black palm toward Mull. “How bad can it be?”

Philip looks to Ross as Ross falls to his knees by the playback speaker.

“Ross?”

He looks back to Mull, sees the military man has adopted a new expression, one of study.

Philip throws up.

He hardly felt it coming and he looks to his lap, sees the bronze sheen of booze. He grips the soft arms of the control room chair.

The sound, Philip understands, has begun.

But does he hear it?

He feels sick. Drunk sick. Worse. Stronger. Like his skin is now made of leather. He’s sweating. Colors, gray and black, snake in his belly. He’s bringing a hand to his forehead.

The others are covering their ears. Larry looks like he’s been hurt.

Philip opens his mouth to say something and saliva pours from his lips. Feels like he’s going to vomit again. Larry gets up to leave the control room but can’t bring his hands from his ears long enough to open the door. He wobbles, falls against the wall for support. Vertigo.

Duane is on his side on the ground.

Mull leans back in the engineer’s chair, patient, with folded hands. His eyes reveal that he knows exactly what the Danes are experiencing. He’s experienced it himself.

The inimitable sensation of fingertips in Philip’s ears. He turns fast. Nobody there.

Mull smiles without mirth. Nods.

What do you think it is? he seems to ask. What is it, Philip?

Philip is shaking his head no.

I don’t know. I don’t understand. It’s not a sound. It’s a feeling.

But it is a sound. Listen.

Philip strains for it … an ear to the speakers …

… there is a sound.

It’s more than one note, Philip thinks, staring Mull in the eye. A chord.

He’s trying to raise his fingers to play the chord on an unseen piano before him. But he can barely move, barely lift his arm.

The sound is more of a flood than a reverberation. More like something coming toward him than a song. As if the air it travels upon is scorched, rendered black, leaving a trail as wide as the studio, and maybe the entire city beyond the studio walls.

Larry falls to his knees by the front door. Ross rolls to his side on the carpeted floor of Wonderland.

Are they speaking? The other Danes? Are they telling Mull to turn it off?

From the ground, Ross reaches for the control panel.

Mull watches all of this. Silent. Patient.

Philip throws up again.

Duane rolls onto his belly. Ross’s fingers are contorted, arthritic bones testing the flesh of his hands …

Philip hears a chord, three successive half steps played at once, as if someone has flattened their hand upon a piano. He’s done it himself, drunk, playing for girls, trying to make them laugh; a flat hand was funnier than a melody; but it’s a mean sound, the three notes no superstitious musician will play at once.

Philip tries to say that, tries to open his mouth. Then—

The sound stops.

And for a beat there is only the silence of men trying to process what they’ve endured.

The vertigo has passed. The sickness is gone.

“Jesus Christ,” Larry says, getting again to his feet. “No way. I’m out.”

Mull nods. He’s expected this response.

Ross brings the wastebasket close like he’s going to puke. He gags instead.

Duane is standing unsteadily in the center of the room.

“What was that?” he asks, out of breath.

Mull looks to Philip.

“Private Tonka said it’s a chord. Did you all hear it that way?”

Philip is shaking his head no.

“I didn’t say that.”

Mull smiles coldly.

“Sure you did.”

“No, Secretary. I didn’t.” Philip is sitting up. “I didn’t say that at all. I thought it.”

Mull shakes his head no.

“You made a sound, Private Tonka. And I heard it. Am I wrong? Did you not think it was a chord?”

Philip looks from bandmate to bandmate, finally back to Mull.

“I did,” he says. “I heard a chord.”

As the other Danes debate what they heard, Philip stares Mull in the eye.

You made a sound, Private Tonka. And I heard it. Am I wrong?

Philip breathes deep and thinks of Africa. Thinks of two platoons, unable to find a sound that changes how a man feels, changes how he listens, changes how he speaks, too.

“Three hours,” Mull says, rising, handing each a small pile of documents. The military man’s number is written in pen on the papers. “Three hours to tell me whether or not you’re going to Africa.” He removes the reel from the machine and tucks it into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “I’ve already told Private Tonka that we plan to pay you for this mission. But perhaps I failed to say how much.”

The Danes, still recovering, wait.

“One hundred thousand apiece,” Mull says. “Four hundred thousand for the band.” He adjusts his suit coat. “I’m not one for theatrical exits, but the stakes here are rather high. If it is a weapon, maybe the four of you can stop it from being used.” He steps to the door. “Three hours, gentlemen. We expect a decision by then.”