Читать книгу Black Mad Wheel - Josh Malerman, Josh Malerman - Страница 16

You won’t be alone, of course. That wouldn’t be any good for anybody.”

A silent soldier is driving the brown express van. Mull is sitting in the passenger seat, but he’s turned almost entirely toward the Danes, who occupy the two benches in back.

“Three others will join you. A photographer named Jonathan Stein. He’s a spectacular photographer, especially at close range. Uses a mobile dark room. You’ve also got a soldier who knows the history of the area. Private Gordon Greer. And of course, a platoon leader, a veteran of World War II as well. Sergeant Billy Lovejoy.”

“Lovejoy?” Larry asks.

“Yes. You’ve heard of him.” This is not a question.

“Who hasn’t? Lovejoy was a legend in basic training.”

“The bogeyman,” Ross says. “The Mad Blond.”

Mull smiles.

“He’s deserving of every nickname you can give him. Bogeyman certainly works. He’s also a brilliant and patient tactician.”

“What do we need that for?” Philip asks. “We’re not going to war, Secretary.”

Mull tents his fingertips.

“No, you’re not. But that doesn’t exclude danger. It never does.”

Philip can feel Duane’s uneasiness beside him.

“I saw Lovejoy in action once,” Ross says. “He was wearing clown makeup while he punished his platoon. That’s a true story.”

Mull smiles again.

“He’s an interesting man, no doubt. And absolutely the right one for the job.”

“Did he lead the first two teams out?” Philip asks.

“No.” Mull shakes his head. “Nobody has returned to Africa. Nobody who went there for this reason.”

The driver carefully takes a sharp turn and the tarmac and plane come into view. A second brown van is approaching from the other side of the concrete.

Mull is removing documents from a briefcase. He hands them to Philip.

“Please, take one of these and pass them along.”

Philip does. He’s looking at a photo, an aerial view of the Namib Desert. Behind the Danes, packed into a small trailer hitched to the van, is all their gear, supplies, clothing, bedding, etc. Ninety percent of the space is occupied by recording gear, top-line stuff that the Danes have dreamed of owning for their studio. Two Ampex model 350 quarter-inch two-tracks. Five Behringer ECM8000 condenser mics. Three RCA 88-As. An Electro-Voice EV C100. Four GPP 73 preamps. A rare signature Glasgow eight-channel mixing console. A Koz Copicat echo chamber. A Boris 5 compressor. Two 678 Michael governors. The other 10 percent is for living out there; the Namib’s western end is bordered by the Atlantic Ocean, and temperatures drop mightily at night.

“It says here it’s uninhabited by humans,” Ross says.

“The area you’ll be going to, yes.”

Larry smiles. “Someone’s making that sound.”

“Likely,” Mull says, and the sadness remains in his blue Superman eyes.

Ahead, through the glass, the second brown van with a second trailer is parking near the plane. Philip watches as the driver’s-side door opens and the driver steps down to the tarmac. He walks to the back of the van.

Back to the photo. The Namib. He reads the notes:

Sand seas. White gravel plains. Mountains. A perpetual layer of mist where the Benguela Current and the Hadley Cell meet.

“A lot of fog,” Philip says.

Mull agrees.

“Good thing your mission is to listen.”

They’ve reached the plane. The driver parks the van. Through the glass, Philip sees a second soldier emerging from the open side door of the second van. Mull points.

“There’s Lovejoy now.”

A dark silhouette with patches of wiry blond hair partially protecting a balding head emerges through the open sliding door. Slumped shoulders. Heavy feet. He looks something like a musician himself, Philip thinks. An old and tired bluesman.

“Is he gonna be okay out there?” Larry says. “Could be a lot of walking.”

Mull watches Lovejoy, too. It’s hard not to. Philip recognizes that there’s something immediately magnetic about the man. The physical makings of an army rogue, a legend. Perhaps it’s the fact that he looks nothing like a legend at all.

“He’ll be fine,” Mull says.

The Danes and Secretary Mull exit the van. The drivers of both vehicles and the pilots of the small plane assist in transferring the gear from the trailers. It’s a long process. And despite the warm air, Lovejoy rests on a brown suitcase, crouched upon it, a scarf wrapped over his shoulders.

“Jesus,” Ross says, thumbing toward Lovejoy. “We’re going to have vultures circling us out there.”

“He looks like a vulture himself,” Larry says.

A third van appears, speeding. The Danes watch its arrival silently. As the last of the gear is loaded onto the plane, the third van parks and two soldiers emerge from the sliding side door.

One, small and squat, with glasses and short black curly hair, struts with confidence toward the others. The second, tall, thin, smiling, his brown hair blown back by the wind, pulls a camera from a case slung over his shoulder.

He snaps a photo of the Danes on the tarmac.

“A rock and roll band,” the photographer says, “about to deploy.” He extends his hand. Philip shakes it. “I’m Private Stein. Jonathan Stein. And I’m excited as hell to meet you guys. Mind if I get a close-up?”

The Danes are used to photo requests. It’s common in Detroit.

“Could be our next album cover,” Ross says.

“Oh, hey,” Stein says. “Don’t even joke about that. I would be thrilled.”

“Photos are bad luck,” Private Greer says, wiping his glasses clean.

“Oh yeah?” Stein says, smiling, bringing the camera to his eye. “Says who?”

The Danes look into the lens.

“Some cultures believe that when you take a photo, you’re saying this period, this phase, is over with,” Greer explains. “So if you enjoy your life as it is, mourn. Because now it will be as it was.”

Stein snaps the group photo.

Lovejoy rises from the suitcase.

“Gentlemen,” Mull says, clasping his hands together. “All aboard.”