Brodie looked at the man. “Congratulations, Captain. You’ve created the world’s first farting robots.”
No one laughed at that. Not even Taylor. Tough crowd.
Spencer added, “The other byproduct is a small amount of solid organic matter residue that accumulates on the oxygen cathode surfaces and must be cleaned from time to time.”
Brodie wanted to ask if the robots could wipe themselves but thought better of it. He looked around the room and did not notice any surveillance cameras. “How is this place monitored?”
“It isn’t surveilled, if that’s what you mean,” Major Klasky said. “But every entry and exit is logged. The fobs used by the members of DEVCOM are coded to the individual. And as we noted, no one can enter this facility alone.”
Taylor said, “One member of DEVCOM, and one Ranger. Maybe two, if there are always two guys assigned to sentry duty at the Vault. Three people is not a large conspiracy.”
No one replied to that.
Brodie addressed Sergeant Mendez. “Does your team control the logs?”
“No, sir. DEVCOM does.”
Captain Spencer said, “I can give you access to all of the logs, and whatever else you need.”
Brodie looked at him. “Thank you, Captain.” He turned to Colonel Howe. “Take us to the crime scene.”
CHAPTER 8
CORPORAL EWING RETURNED TO GUARDduty, and everyone else walked from the Vault down a paved road toward the DEVCOM lab. They passed a wide three-story brick building of modern construction, unlike the rest of the Sixties-era structures around them.
Colonel Howe said, “That’s the barracks. Most of Camp Hayden’s original structures could be rehabbed and repurposed, but the original barracks were deemed inadequate and were torn down.”
Brodie observed the building. He estimated it could house over a hundred individuals, and was intended for enlisted, unmarried soldiers. He commented, “We spotted some family housing on the way in.”
Howe replied, “There are no families at Camp Hayden. For the enlisted men, it was a condition of service that only unattached individuals would be stationed here. The houses you saw are primarily for officers. Most of us are single as well, except for General Morgan, who is here with his wife.” She added, “This is an isolating and intense eighteen-month commitment. We cannot afford distractions.”
Or security breaches, though Colonel Howe didn’t say that. The military does not like to appear as though they don’t trust civilians.
So, no spouses, no kids, no local town to blow off steam, no R&R. Not even conjugal visits. It was little wonder that some of these guys were using speed, and whatever else. Maybe Colonel Howe and the other senior officers had forgotten that they were working with humans in addition to robots.
Taylor stated the obvious: “This is hardship duty.”
“This is privileged duty,” said Howe, who was increasingly getting on Brodie’s nerves. The colonel was either all-in on her mission here at Hayden, or she was laying it on extra thick because she had something to hide.
They arrived at the DEVCOM lab, a single-story white stucco building with a few small windows and an asphalt shingle roof that was curling and cracking from decades in the desert sun.
Captain Spencer pressed his fob to a security plate next to the metal door, and they all entered.
The laboratory consisted of a large open-plan room cluttered with metal tables, desks with computers, and storage racks overflowing with bins of equipment. On one table Brodie spotted a pile of titanium alloy plates like the ones that covered the D-17s. A shelving unit was stuffed with rotors, a bin full of circuit boards, and spools of electrical wiring. In the far back of the lab was another, smaller room, visible through a large glass window. It held a long table that resembled a medical gurney, as well as a large computer console.
The lab was empty, except for a woman at the far end of the room who stood from her desk and turned to them.
Colonel Howe said, “Ms. Dixon, you are not supposed to be here.”
The woman walked toward them. She was in her mid-thirties, with a pale complexion and dark-brown hair in a ponytail. She wore oversize glasses, a white blouse, and khaki slacks.
She ignored the colonel and smiled at Brodie and Taylor as she extended her hand. “Caroline Dixon, senior researcher at DARPA.”
Brodie and Taylor shook and introduced themselves, and Taylor asked, “Are you stationed here full-time?”
Dixon nodded. “I am. I worked closely with Major Ames.”
Caroline Dixon was a real looker, and Brodie imagined she got more attention than she wanted at this isolated camp.
