Whistling Past the Graveyard by Jonathan Maberry Page A

flick of his hand. The others at the table watched as the paper spun on a vagary of air and then slid halfway across the polished hardwood surface, coming to a stop almost perfectly equidistant between Prospero and the soldier. Then everyone looked from the paper to Chief Warrant Officer Dashiell Faireborn like spectators at a chess match.
    Faireborn―known as Flint among his fellow Joes―had a face like a stone. His jaw was square and set, his nose straight, his eyes as uncompromising as those of a hunting hawk. Flint did not look at the paper, but he tapped the table in front of it.
    “That’s an Executive Order,” he said quietly. “‘Comfort isn’t part of the standard phrasing.”
    “This is my project.”
    “That’s not what it says on the pink slip. The U.S. government pays for two thirds of this, and the rest of the light bill is paid for by NATO. You’re an employee,” said Flint, “not a stockholder.”
    Prospero was as resolute as Flint. “This project would not even exist without me. I am the project.”
    Flint almost smiled. Almost. “Well, that means you must have the same tattoo on your ass that I have on mine.”
    Prospero frowned.
    “‘Property of Uncle Sam,’” explained Doc Greer, who sat to Flint’s right. He grimaced. “A little military humor.”
    “I’m not a soldier. I don’t work for the Army, I don’t work for GI Joe, and I certainly don’t work for General Hawk.” He loaded that last name with enough acid to melt tank armor.
    “That’s true,” admitted Flint slowly. General Hawk had warned him that he and Prospero were old political sparring partners with a relationship closely resembling a mongoose and a cobra. “However,” he said, “you work for the DOD.”
    “I’m a private contractor,” replied Prospero sharply. “I am not a rah-rah supporter of the military machine. My work is designed to save American lives, not find new wars in which to discard them.”
    “You’re building war machines—” began Greer, but Prospero wheeled on him.
    “What I’m building will ultimately take humans out of the combat equation. Does anyone in Washington actually read my reports?” When no one spoke, Prospero turned back to Flint. “Perhaps the real issue here is resistance in some quarters to projects that would deny certain persons the opportunity to pull triggers.”
    Flint said nothing for a moment. The small muscles at the corners of his jaw bunched and flexed. Before he could speak, Doc spoke. His voice was gentle, conciliatory.
    “This kind of debate isn’t productive, gentlemen,” he said. “Politics, ethics, and philosophy aside, the real truth is that we all answer to the man in the Oval Office. With the military budget coming under fire in the press and in Congress, the President needs to be able to justify the kinds of expenditures that have been allotted for Project Caliban.”
    “My reports are—”
    “Yes,” cut in Flint, “your reports are fine. Detailed, exhaustive, and to most of Congress, incomprehensible. There are no scientists in either the House or Senate, and what they don’t understand they won’t support. Sure, back in the Reagan years they’d line up to throw money at a project with a cool nickname, but nowadays everyone’s pinching pennies, and Department of Defense research projects are the first on the chopping block.”
    He bent forward and placed his forearms on the table.
    “Dr. Prospero, you’re not facing enemies here. I’m an advocate of your program. Hell, I’m an advocate of any program that will reduce the risk to men in the field. Cutting-edge drone programs like yours will save lives. American and Allied lives. Civilian lives, too. We all know that. But we need to have a clear evaluation statement that will convince Congress of that, or this program is going into mothballs. This isn’t a debate. The decision has been made by the President. NATO follows America’s lead when it comes to funding.”
    Prospero