CODE ELDRITCH

Chapter VII

The Dunwich

If you've never been in a helicopter before, allow me to personally congratulate you. It's bumpy, noisy and uncomfortable, especially when crowded.

The military jet that took off from Slo-Town's very own defunct airport was comfortable enough. Acceleration was rough in that eye-pressing, throat-sucking sense, but cruising south over cornfields and flyover towns was almost relaxing.

No one spoke much until we'd left US territory. Buzz slouched in one seat, one eye open. It didn't take any words for the hierarchy in this crowd to become clear. The others very clearly perched below him. Banks stared out of the window, ceaselessly, detached from his surroundings.

If no one else would talk, then I sure as hell wouldn't go out on a limb to be the first. I got the feeling these people knew each other pretty well — they'd been cohesive enough in what was called Task Prep in CCTEA lingo — but most of all that they weren't fond of outsiders.

Which I was.

Trying to catch some sleep with one eye half-open, I found my seat here more comfortable by orders of magnitude than the beds I had slept in the two nights previous. Maybe it was because I didn't secretly worry that it would choke me in my sleep, like I'd half-thought one of the beds would.

Every member of this Apprehension unit, myself included, had received a little circular cell phone-like module that carried a number of necessities on internal memory synced with its particular owner. We could access what data was available via satellite link to the CCTEA, most notably the log that Supervisor Martell — who was also our pilot — kept running.

I was given no formal or informal training, just strapped into gear and handed the equipment.

Maybe that's what irked the rest of the crew.

We took down somewhere in central Chile (or at least near the border). Private airstrip, middle of the night. It was all very cinematic and convoluted, even though Banks insisted the CCTEA was no sucker for theatricality.

On the ground, men in unmarked black clothes met us and shepherded us along through the small building complex attached to the flight tower. Buzz — whose call name was Cent — and Supervisor Martell maintained a muted conversation with one of our hosts.

The Official had mentioned that the CCTEA was an umbrella for a bunch of different organizations working cooperatively but not (if I'd gotten the gist of his mumble-jumble correctly) really part of the same group.

//

So, the helicopter. We shoved ourselves in via the rear while Martell took the front, acting as our catch-all pilot. Rotor blades tore into the air, screaming. I thought it was cramped, bordering in claustrophobic. Buzz and Banks sat on each respective side, and they're not exactly XS.

I've always liked airplanes. They're comfortable enough once they take off, and there's enough space to get up and stretch your legs. Stuck between Mr. Muscle 1 and Mr. Muscle 2, I had no choice but to chafe anxiously against the sloped inside wall. I mean, sure, military helicopters might not be built for comfort so much as utility, but what the hell?

I remember picking that circular module out of my pocket, mostly absentminded.

Also recall being really perplexed when it clattered out of my hand. My eyes turned left, to Buzz, whose hand just slowly went back into his pocket.

"You don't need to be snooping around in that, PO" he muttered. "Should just leave it be."

"Maybe mind your own pockets instead," I shot back, picking it up.