Whistling Past the Graveyard by Jonathan Maberry Page B

said nothing, but he pursed his lips, clearly thinking it through.
    “And more to the point, Doctor,” said Flint, “there is a long list of other projects begging for the kind of dollars you’ve been given. If there is any hint of resistance or obstruction on your part, the money train is going to get switched to a different track and within six months the only thing that will be in development out here will be tumbleweeds and cacti.”
    Flint knew that this had hit home with Prospero. This facility, codenamed ‘The Island,’ was really a bunch of buildings built into the unforgiving Nevada desert. Twenty years ago there were more than fifty active projects in development out here. Now there was Prospero’s team and a few ancillary projects. It was an enormously expensive facility to maintain and only results could keep the lab open.
    The doctor looked at the others seated around the table. There were three members of the Joe team present―Flint, team medical officer Dr. Carl ‘Doc’ Greer, and flame-haired Shana O’Hara whose call sign ‘Scarlett’ was hardly a ‘covert’ choice. None of them had shared their real names with the team here at the Island. Even though this was not a combat mission, General Hawk had ordered that only rank and call-signs be used. Part his policy of professional detachment.
    The others at the table were members of Prospero’s staff here at the Island. To his immediate left was Professor Elsbeth Miranda, once his most promising grad student during his days at MIT, then his protégé, and now the most valuable senior researcher on staff. Her knowledge of unmanned combat systems was only slightly less profound than his own. She was tall, slim, and had that blend of pale skin and foamy dark hair that usually made Flint’s heart flutter like a jazz drum solo. She wore a lipstick that was a shade too bold a red for this kind of meeting, and her blouse was unbuttoned one button too low to have been anything but a deliberate move to attract attention. At first Flint thought that she was a hot-blooded woman who was taking a rare chance to attract something other than lab-coated geeks; but as the meeting progressed he changed his view. Her attention was clearly―and entirely―focused on Prospero; and it was at once possessive and protective.
    Office romance , he wondered. A May-December thing…or a female predator laying claim to the alpha in her environment. Had to be something like that.
    And yet he knew that the lipstick and the abundant cleavage she had on display was for his benefit―his and the other Joes.
    A distraction? Sure. But to distract them from what?
    He quietly studied the other scientists. Like Miranda they were lions in their fields―microsystems, software integration, computer engineering, nanotechnology, artificial intelligence, and tactical weapons sciences. None of them, however, were on Prospero’s level, and probably not on Miranda’s either. They were strong members of a pack. And, like Miranda and Prospero, they resented outside intrusion of any kind, and evaluations in particular.
    However no one spoke. Everyone was aware of who the true alpha―at least in terms of scientific genius―was. Allyn Prospero had graduated from high school at age fourteen, college at sixteen, and had earned his first PhD at nineteen. Since then he had lost track of the many degrees, awards, and accolades he had collected in fifty years as the leading light in cybernetic combat. He had pioneered more new fields of study than anyone alive, and was named on over six hundred patents. He had four times been senior researcher on teams that won the Nobel Prize.
    Flint knew all of this. He had Prospero’s resume memorized. It was in the scary realm somewhere between ‘impressive’ and ‘freaky,’though Flint tended toward the latter category.
    Prospero sighed.
    “Very well,” he said heavily. “When do you want to begin?”
    Flint kept a smile off of his face. “Now would be