Airwolf – Terminal Velocity
Chapter Nine.
"Congratulations, Major," Frank Campbell caught up with Roger Dobbs in the mess hall. He pulled out the chair beside Dobbs, turned it around and slung his leg over it casually. He sat down with a hearty sigh, grimacing, as he caught a whiff of Dobbs lunch. "I guess I should officially welcome you to our very exclusive little club."
Campbell swallowed down hard, and Dobbs, realising that he was probably feeling queasy after his stint in the 20g centrifuge, that he had been scheduled to take a ride in earlier that morning, regarded him casually.
He was instantly surprised to see the younger man looking pale, eyes darting around him nervously.
There was also a slight but unmistakable tremor in his hands, as he clasped them before him over the chair back.
However, as Dobbs him self had done more than his fair share of riding the centrifuge over the years, and was deeply aware of the feelings of nausea and vertigo and drunkenness it left the rider with, he felt little or no sympathy for the younger man, and continued to shovel forkfuls of scrambled egg and wholemeal toast into his mouth.
After his 'initiation' in the gym, into the very exclusive club that Campbell had just referred to, Roger Dobbs had showered and donned a cool, comfortable, light weight dark beige, all in one boiler suit, and had taken a brief tour around the lower levels of Project Thunderbird, wanting to familiarise himself with his new surroundings, and get his bearings, before heading to his quarters, where he found his kit bag, laid flat on the floor at the foot of his bed.
He had used the linen and blankets supplied to make up his bunk, and stowed his gear in the closet and drawers.
The room was small, containing two single beds, one on each side of the room, along with matching closet and night stand with small mirror, and three drawers.
A small fluorescent tube light was positioned on the wall above each bed head, and there was a metal framed chair for each of them, positioned against the wall, between bed and closet, and over which, his bunk mate, Frank Campbell had laid out his clean dress uniform, for later.
The room was clean and functional, and Roger Dobbs had had worse billets during his time in the Army.
He had taken pride in putting his gear away neatly and making sure that he could bounce a dime off the newly made bed, the linen tucked in tightly, as he had been taught in boot camp all those years ago.
Naturally, after so little sleep and all that physical activity, Dobbs was feeling pretty weary and sore, but he was also curious to learn as much as he could about his new home.
By the time he had finished exploring the accommodation level and then finished stowing his gear, he had begun to feel famished. A glance at his watch told him that it was almost noon, and previous experience of military life told him that the mess hall would soon be open for lunch.
With the lady doctor's reminder about keeping up his blood glucose levels still ringing in his ears, Dobbs had set about finding the mess hall, not a difficult task, as he followed a gentle trickle of personnel, and the aroma of strong coffee and freshly baked bread.
At the counter, he had helped himself to a healthy portion of scrambled eggs and wholemeal toast, and two cups of aromatic black coffee and had found a nice, quiet spot in the far corner, from which to watch the world go by, as he ate.
That was where Frank Campbell had found him, when he was just about half way through his meal.
"I guess you survived Psycho Sara," Campbell drawled, and then swallowed hard again, grimacing as Dobbs continued to tuck into his meal, chewing industriously. "Welcome aboard."
Campbell now eyed the second cup of untouched, cooling coffee, on the table beside Dobb's own, dubiously, obviously trying to decide if he should risk putting something into his stomach so soon after his testing in the centrifuge.
"Sir," he added as an after thought, suddenly remembering that he was speaking to a senior officer. "That lady might only have been here for a few days, but she sure has made a lasting impression!"
From his tone of voice, Roger Dobbs got the impression that it wasn't exactly the same kind of impression that the good doctor had made on himself, whilst storing the piece of information, that she too was a newcomer to the project, away for future reference.
One less suspect, he decided, with more than a little relief, then wondered why he was so pleased with the idea.
"Are you going to drink that coffee, or glower at it?" Dobbs sighed, pushing his now empty plate away and reaching out for his own coffee cup.
"Well, yes, thank you, if it's going begging?"
"Help your self," Dobbs sighed, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin before gulping down his own now cooling coffee. "Thanks for the warning, by the way," the sarcasm in his tone unmistakeable.
"They do say, Sir, that 'that which does not kill us, makes us strong' and from the way you put that grub away, I figure you ain't dead yet!" Campbell smirked, to hide the quiver in his voice, reaching out to sip, tentatively, at the cooling coffee, wrinkling his nose and swallowing hard as the stringent brew hit his stomach. "Man, that stuff is lethal!" He groaned.
"From all the whining that you're doing, there, Frank, I guess your little jive in the centrifuge was fun," Dobbs smirked, and was taken aback by the sudden darkening of the young man's open, handsome, Nordic features.
What the hell was that all about?
Frank Campbell must have realised that there was something in his expression that was bothering his colleague, for he quickly pulled himself together.
"Your time will come, Major. Just you wait and see," he kept his tone even and his expression neutral now.
"Captain, you make it sound like the best I can hope for from this posting, is to be carried out feet first, in a wooden box!" Dobbs quipped, sipping at his coffee and noting the slight wince on his colleague's face as this remark found its mark.
"Well, they do seem hell bent on it, Major, "Campbell sighed, softly, and pushed his coffee cup away, in disgust, and just for an instant, Roger Dobbs thought he seemed to grow paler.
"And they are pretty creative about it too," he regarded Dobbs with a degree of suspicion, probably trying to decide what, if anything, the Major knew of the happenings, here, at Thunderbird, and debating as to whether he should give his Army colleague a 'sitrep', situation report.
"Tell me about it," Dobbs lamented, not wanting to make it sound like an invitation, or an order. He would much rather Campbell made that decision without any help from him.
Roger Dobbs watched the younger man's face carefully.
It was obvious that there was something on his mind, and Dobbs could clearly see the debate going on behind those watery green eyes.
Roger Dobbs knew the instant the younger man made his decision, almost able to see the shutters coming down, as the young Viking drew in a deep, shoulder raising breath and then expelled it slowly.
"One session with Psycho Sara is nothing, Major."
The opportunity to confide in his bunk mate about the goings on here at Thunderbird passed, and Frank Campbell kept his thoughts and his concerns to himself.
So be it, Dobbs thought to himself wearily. He would just have to be like the other guys, and find out for himself, as time went by.
Campbell's reluctance to open up could mean one of two things, either he was responsible for the so called accidents plaguing the project, and didn't want to reveal himself as a suspect, or, he was anxious not to voice his concerns, just in case he was the only one who had attributed so much importance to them, and the others considered the incidents to be nothing more than inconveniences, coincidences or accidents.
Then, Roger Dobbs realised that there was one other possible reason.
Campbell didn't yet know if he could trust him.
Naturally, as the new comer into an already established group, Roger Dobbs had anticipated that there might be a degree of hostility, even suspicion and was prepared for it.
He knew the way guys like these thought.
He had been through a similar process back there at Heatham the first time, a new face, a threat, on many levels, to the men already working on a project.
He could be a plant by the top brass to spy on the others and pass on information, or, he could be an accomplice to whomever it was who was causing the chaos at Thunderbird.
Or, he could simply be what he seemed, a new recruit to the project, completely ignorant of the goings on, and totally innocent of any wrongdoing.
"Seems to me, Frank, may I call you Frank?" The younger man nodded. "Seems to me that that's the only thing the Army has done consistently, since the day I joined," Dobbs sighed softly, regarding the younger man with a critical eye. "Try to kill me, I mean," he clarified. "In whatever creative way they can, but, the physical I just had doesn't quite compare to a day in Vietnam," Dobbs sighed again. "Although, it comes a pretty close second!" He half smiled now.
"Vietnam? You were there?" Frank Campbell could not hide his surprise, and Roger Dobbs found him self trying to smother a smile with his napkin, then thought better of it, needing to break the ice with the younger man.
"If you're thinking that I don't look old enough, I thank you for the compliment," he lowered the napkin and allowed the younger man to see his genuine smile now. "I was nineteen when I joined up, and got shipped out after eight weeks in boot camp. If I thought that my drill instructor was a sadist, and that boot camp was hell, then I soon learned that what I'd seen before I got to 'Nam, was like kindergarten in comparison."
"You flew Huey's?"
"Sure did," Dobbs confirmed, emptying his coffee cup and sitting back slightly from the table to regard his companion. "So, when do I get to meet the other guys?" He asked in as casual a tone of voice as he could muster.
"Any minute now …."
Campbell's voice trailed away as there was a burst of noise and laughter from the corridor just outside the mess hall door, and suddenly in marched a group of men, clad much like Dobbs, in the dark all in one coveralls and heavy work boots.
"Speak of the devil," Campbell rolled his eyes heavenward, and let out a soft groan, as the boisterous group of men made their way up to the counter, one of them breaking away from the others to saunter over to where Campbell and Dobbs were seated.
Roger Dobbs had been hoping for a few minutes with his bunk mate, to get a beat on the rest of the men on the project, before he met them, but it seemed that that opportunity had also passed them by.
Dobbs knew from personal experience that sharing close quarters with other men of similar age and ambition was not an easy thing, especially when, like himself, the man in question preferred solitude and his own company.
Stringfellow Hawke had been young, and more adaptable, and had shared most of his young life with his brother, St John, but even he had found it hard to get used to all the noise and the constant activity, the struggle to fit in with Army life and with a bunch of strangers, the constant negotiation and compromising that went on just to get a little peace and quiet and time to think, and the endless snipes and jibes and bickering that went along with a group of healthy young men trying to get the better of each other and handle the daily testosterone overdose that came with jostling for position in the group.
The trainees at Project Thunderbird were not youngsters, and could therefore, be relied upon to handle their hormones and their emotions much better than the teenagers that Stringfellow Hawke had found himself thrown in with, but, they were all different personality types, from different services and equally different backgrounds and they had been thrust together in these claustrophobic, subterranean confines, and Roger Dobbs wondered whether they were beginning to feel the effects of living so closely, if so called cabin fever was setting in.
He would not be surprised, especially if you added the uncertainty of each trainee's continued participation in the project, the anxiety of letting themselves and their branch of the service down, if they failed, and the possible threat of a saboteur or murderer being on the loose amongst them.
"Captain Campbell," The newcomer greeted Frank Campbell courteously, and nodded politely in acknowledgement of Roger Dobbs, before adding to Campbell. "Do you have a moment?"
"Certainly, Commander, but first, may I introduce Major Roger Dobbs, US Army. He's just arrived," Frank Campbell politely made his introductions and Roger Dobbs rose from his seat, offering the other man a crisp salute, and then offered his hand in greeting.
"Major, this is Lieutenant Commander Eugene Webber, US Navy," Campbell explained, a slight frown marring his brow, briefly, when the naval officer did not readily accepted the Army man's extended hand, however he did return the salute, briefly.
"Major," Webber's tone was polite, but cold. "My apologies for the intrusion, but I need to speak with Captain Campbell."
"Be my guest, Commander Webber."
"I will catch up with you later, Major. No doubt you will be joining us for classes, at some point."
"No doubt, Commander."
"Excuse me, Major," Frank Campbell threw Dobbs an apologetic look as he slipped out of his seat, and followed Eugene Webber to a table on the other side of the mess hall, where they carried on a brief, and animated conversation well out of even Roger Dobbs' sharp hearing.
Frowning slightly, Dobbs wondered what was going on, but then found him self being surrounded by the other noisy and boisterous trainees on Project Thunderbird, as they fetched up at his table, pulling out chairs and depositing trays of food and coffee cups, noisily, on the table around him.
"Don't mind us …."
"Man, I could eat the ass out of an elephant!"
"Don't think Frankie feels like eatin' much!"
"By the way, what do you call that lovely shade of green?"
"C'mon, ladies!" This from the first guy, now. "Calm down, and mind your manners, now. Gate crashed the guy's lunch, least we could do is introduce ourselves. I'm Major Guy Anders, USAF, and these two jokers are Major Malcolm Shaw, USAF and Lieutenant Commander Chuck McCrea, US Navy."
"Roger Dobbs, Major, US Army."
Dobbs acknowledged each man, then sat back in his seat and watched as they ploughed into their huge plates of food and cracked jokes, occasionally casting curious glances in the direction of Webber and Campbell, who were still engrossed in quiet conversation, before making some wise crack remark about the food or their instructors.
"You must be Bannerman's replacement."
"Bannerman?" Dobbs raised an eyebrow in query.
"Yeah, guy got a ruptured appendix."
"Ouch."
"Yeah, not pretty man!"
"Talkative, ain't ya?"
"Leave the guy alone, and eat your chow, Chuck," Anders grumbled. "No wonder they thought Bannerman only had indigestion, it's a pretty common complaint around here, seeing as we have to put up with you two acting like Laurel and Hardy at every damned meal!"
"Ooooh!" Laurel and Hardy jeered and then fell about laughing once more, leaving Roger Dobbs to ponder on just how long his nerves would be able to stand their antics, before he felt like punching their lights out.
Every unit had them.
Jokers.
Wise guys, excitable types, who thought that it was their mission in life, to play pranks, and goof around, no matter how dangerous, or serious, the true nature of their profession.
In almost every case, they always thought that they were funnier than they really were, and pretty soon their antics wore thin with the rest of the guys.
Shaw and McCrea seemed to have an established repartee, but if the look on Guy Anders' face was anything to go by, they were quickly reaching the stage where they were becoming irritating rather than amusing.
"You may not believe this, Major, but they can be serious, sometimes," Anders tone of voice was cool, his expression tight and unforgiving as he glared at his two colleagues, especially his fellow Air Force colleague, Shaw.
"Sure we can, but let's face it, Anders, this place would be like a morgue if we didn't have a little fun and inject a little humour into things."
"I'll inject my boot up your ass, if you don't quit with the joking around, and finish your chow."
Anders' gaze briefly drifted over to where Webber and Campbell were finishing up their chat, Webber rising to his feet now, before turning to walk toward the food counter to help himself to his lunch.
"Who died and made you Webber's understudy?" McCrea hissed.
"What's the hurry? We get a siesta before the next class."
"We might, but me thinks our new recruit here, gets to go get his head examined by Dr Van Doom. Now, you tell me, why the hell does it matter, today, if I wet the bed when I was four years old, for cryin' out loud!"
Dobbs watched the proceedings with mild interest, wondering if this was one of Anders' attempts at humour now, and curious to know why he was now encouraging them, whilst also recalling that he did indeed have an appointment for a psychiatric evaluation after lunch.
He took the time to familiarise himself with each man, committing their faces to memory and calling up the information he had read in the files provided for him by Archangel.
Guy Anders, aged about twenty seven, measuring about six feet tall, broad shoulders, deep chest and big, strong hands and wrists, he had deep red hair and watery blue eyes in an angular, clean shaven face.
Malcolm Shaw, also measuring roughly six feet tall, narrower in the shoulder and chest area, and sporting a thin mousy brown moustache, to match the thinning hair on his head. He had warm, friendly brown eyes and a ready smile, and Dobbs estimated his age to be nearer twenty five.
Charles, 'Chuck' McCrea was also around twenty five or six years old, shorter than the others, at about five feet eleven inches tall, thin and wiry and with surprisingly big feet, a tawny blond with piercing blue eyes, he too was clean shaven and appeared to have suffered quite badly from acne at one time, if the pockmark scars on his chin and forehead were any indication.
"Because," Shaw affected a very bad German accent now. "It indicates some deep rooted inadequacy."
"I'd be inclined to be more worried, if you still wet the bed!" Chuck McCrea quipped now and Shaw let out a groan of protest at being beaten to the punch line.
It was at this point that Frank Campbell rejoined them, sitting down with a heavy sigh in the seat he had vacated, beside Roger Dobbs.
"Hey Frankie, how's it hanging?"
"I hear it very nearly wasn't!"
"Surprised you ain't singin' soprano now, kid!"
"Thought you'd at least be wearing your nuts as a necklace!"
"Don't you guys ever take anything seriously?" Campbell sighed, obviously not up to one of the comedy duo's jibes.
"You ok, Frank?" This, from Guy Anders now, in a more understanding tone of voice.
"Yeah," Frank Campbell brushed off the other man's concern.
"So, wanna fill the rest of us schmucks in?" Chuck McCrea asked, watching as Eugene Webber placed the last of his dishes on his tray and turned to see if there was a place for him at their table.
"Yeah Frank, tell us what it was like," Shaw invited, leaning in now so that he could hear better.
"What am I missing?" Roger Dobbs asked innocently, regarding the looks being passed between all the other trainees.
"The way we hear it, the centrifuge threw a fit," Chuck McCrea advised.
"It was a minor malfunction," Campbell corrected.
"Man, the damned thing nearly flew off its moorings!"
"Yeah, damned near smeared you up the walls!"
"Frank?" Dobbs arched an eyebrow inquisitively, as he turned to face his bunk mate. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Didn't want to put you off your lunch, Major, besides which, you'd just got through with your own torture session with Psycho Sara," Campbell forced a weak smile to his lips.
"So what happened?" Dobbs asked in gentler tones now, but the look he aimed at Campbell was meant to leave the younger man in no doubt that the two of them would talk more on the subject, later.
"No-one's really sure. One thing they are sure of, that damned thing isn't supposed to be able to pull more than 20g's."
"We hear you clocked up 25g's"
"Man, don't remind me!"
A visible shudder ran down the length of the Nordic god's spine and this drew curious and sympathetic looks from the others around the table, just as Eugene Webber arrived to take up the empty place beside Guy Anders.
"No wonder you looked a little piqued," Dobbs sighed, watching as Eugene Webber, a huge, mountain of a man compared to the others seated around the table, measuring roughly six feet four inches tall and tipping the scales at the very least at least hundred and ninety pounds of pure muscle, deposited his dishes on the table and tucked into a thick, bloody steak with gusto.
Roger Dobbs estimated him to be a little older than the others, probably no more than thirty, though, which made Dobbs himself the eldest man on the project, just as he had suspected he would be. Webber was also blond, although not quite so Nordic as Campbell in appearance, his eyes were a piercing, blue and were now regarding him with suspicion, and something else that Dobbs could not quite figure out, as he tried to picture the man squeezing his bulk into a fighter jet's cockpit.
"Piqued, he's lucky he ain't pushing up daisies!" Shaw quipped and Roger Dobbs threw Frank Campbell a look that told him that he now understood the younger man's remarks about the project finding creative ways of killing them.
"Me thinks that makes Daisy a lucky gal!" McCrea chipped in and this elicited a groan from the others.
"That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" Webber spoke up in a reasonable tone of voice now. "There is no doubt that it was a serious malfunction, but you can rest assured, they have their top people looking into it. Nothing like that will happen again."
"It shouldn't have happened, period!"
"Alright, settle down, guys. It happened, but Frank is ok, and there will be an investigation into why the centrifuge malfunctioned. Accidents happen, machinery fails and people make mistakes. We all know that. None of you can tell me that you haven't made mistakes, we all do, its human nature," he paused to take another mouthful of food and chewed for a few moments.
"And after that cheery word from our union spokesman …."
"Look guys, all I am saying is, things go wrong. People do make mistakes. Nothing is perfect. If it were, we wouldn't be here, because they wouldn't need us guinea pigs to test stuff out on now, would they?" He reasoned, throwing Malcolm Shaw a cold, hard glare.
"And I'd be the first one to agree with you, if it were only a one off thing," Chuck McCrea grew serious now and drew another cold, hard glare from Webber this time in his direction. "What? You don't think our new friend, Dobbs, here has a right to know what's going on?"
"There is nothing going on," Webber sighed heavily and set down his cutlery with a loud clatter.
"Man, two people have died!"
"In unfortunate accidents, but, accidents, nevertheless."
"You think someone was trying to kill Frank? Specifically Frank?" This, from Guy Anders now who suddenly seemed to grow uncomfortable, under the sudden, intense scrutiny, of his fellow trainees.
"No-one is saying anything of the sort," Webber said in a firm voice. "You have got to stop thinking that way, guys. Or else, before you know it, we get to thinking that the project is jinxed, and then we get to making mistakes …. Fatal mistakes," he warned.
"I've seen it happen before. Guys get to thinking that they are going to get killed, and end up making it a reality, because they panic, or get sloppy or just freak out at the wrong moment. You've all got to pull yourselves together and quit thinking that something bad is going to happen," he turned his gaze on Campbell now.
"I'm sorry, Frank, but let's face it, it could have been any one of us in the centrifuge today, and the only way to look at it is, you came out of it unhurt. A lesson will have been learned, and procedures will be put into place to ensure that it doesn't happen again."
"Ok," Campbell sighed, a little reluctantly, or so Dobbs thought, but it seemed to satisfy Webber, whom he also realised, seemed to be their unofficial leader.
"Good man."
"So, Major Dobbs, what exactly have they told you about us, here at Thunderbird?" Webber asked, shovelling carrots and peas and mashed potato onto his fork and directing it into his mouth.
"Not a lot."
"Good," Webber swallowed and prepared another forkful of food before looking up to regard Dobbs with undisguised dislike, leaving Dobbs with no doubt that the other man was already considering him as a threat to his position as top dog of the group, no doubt because of his age and experience. "Better to learn on the job, I always say."
"I guess you got the welcome to Thunderbird speech from the old man?"
"Sure did."
"So where were you before you came to USS Neptune?"
"Army Aviation Branch, at Fort Riley, Alabama. I was a senior instructor on Huey's, Apache attack choppers, Black Hawks, Kiowa Scouts and Cobra Light's, under the Army Helicopter Improvement Programme, AHIP."
"And before that?"
"Here and there," Dobbs shrugged, vaguely.
"And Vietnam," This, from Frank Campbell now, and Dobbs gave him one of his withering glares, wondering if he had thought that he was doing him a favour by bringing that into the conversation.
"How many tours did you do?"
"Three. '69 through '72."
"Wow!" Shaw and McCrea said together and then grinned at each other.
"Yeah, well, the war's been over for a long time. The Army moved on, and so did I."
Dobbs regarded the pair of jokers and could not help wondering if their double act was a cover for something a little more sinister. They acted like jokers, mischief makers, but maybe it was to hide their true purpose? To hide the true mischief they were here to make?
"How's it going to feel, being one of the trainees, instead of the instructor?"
"Different, but, I'm sure I'll handle it," Dobbs assured, feeling a definite chill emanating from Eugene Webber, as the other man continued to chew his food meticulously.
"Which do you prefer? Fixed wing or choppers?"
"Do I have to choose?" Dobbs grinned at Guy Anders now. "Could you, Air Force?" He arched an eyebrow quizzically, and the other man shook his head gently in response. "I just love to fly."
"That's the one thing we all have in common," Eugene Webber added now. "That, and the fact that we're all damned good at it."
"Amen to that!"
The rest of the lunch time conversation was centred round the day's scuttlebutt, a rumour that one of the ground crew maintaining the training jets was engaged in a romantic relationship with one of the female computer programmers, and the speculation that his wife would take him to the cleaners when she found out about it.
Roger Dobbs sat back and listened, pretending interest, when what he was really interested in was the group of men around the table, and how they interacted and worked as a group.
They seemed pretty comfortable and at ease in each other's company, and had seemed to accept him quite readily, for now, but only time would tell what they really thought of him.
"Ok guys, time to rock and roll," Eugene Webber informed after a particularly raucous joke from Malcolm Shaw, and rose from the table, stacking his dishes on his tray once more.
The others quickly followed suit, and before long only Dobbs and Campbell remained at the table. When he made to rise, Dobbs stopped Campbell by gently taking his forearm.
"You ok? Really?" He asked with genuine concern.
"Sure."
"Frank,"
"I'm ok, Major, really."
"Sure you are, and I'm Peter Pan," Dobbs growled. "Look, I know I'm the new face around here, and we haven't really gotten acquainted yet, but, if you need to talk to someone …."
"Thanks."
"I mean it, Frank. We're bunk mates, and we wear the same uniform. In a tight spot, I know which of these guys I want in my corner."
"Thanks." Campbell responded succinctly.
"Captain, I just heard that at least two people working in connection with this project have died, and that possibly someone tried to kill you, now if you won't talk to me, maybe I should go rattle Colonel Jardine's cage?"
"That won't be necessary, Major," Campbell sighed deeply, in resignation now.
"Frank, I'd really appreciate a heads up, that's all. I don't want to pull rank on you, but I think I have a right to know what I've walked into here, and I think you are the only one who is going to tell me anything worth a damn."
Campbell gave Dobbs a look that told him that he appreciated his overtures of concern, but that he was still unsure just what he could impart, and just how much he could trust the newcomer, same uniform in common, or no.
"Just how bad was it?"
"Bad enough," Campbell sighed deeply now, and ran his hand through his fine white blond hair, and there was still a noticeable tremor there, Dobbs noted. "But like Webber said, I walked away from it."
"Tough guy," Dobbs rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Ok, Frank, but …."
"I know, Major. Look, we're all scheduled to take a rest break until 16.00hrs. We can talk in private when we get back to our quarters," The young man offered, reluctantly. "Then I have to go to check in with Psycho Sara, just to make sure that there are no lasting effects from the centrifuge incident, so I'll show you the way to Dr Van Dam's office," Dobbs saw from the look on his face that he had made his decision about what he could tell his colleague.
He had reached the conclusion, it seemed, that if nothing else, the new comer had a right to know of all the dangers, including those from areas where he might not otherwise have expected them, outside of those involved in the testing procedures.
"Thanks," Dobbs smiled warmly now, in appreciation.
They cleared away the debris of their meal and then walked together in thoughtful silence, tagging along a little ways behind the rest of the trainees, following them through the twisting air conditioned corridors, before bidding farewell to the others, as they parted company with them, and retired to their quarters.
Once they were inside, Frank Campbell pulled off his boots and tossed them onto the floor at the end of his bed, then flung himself down on his cot, which groaned in protest to his sudden weight upon it and let out a deep sigh.
Roger Dobbs also sat down on the edge of his bed, bending down to untie the laces of his heavy boots, before easing them off and placing them neatly beneath the chair beside his bed.
"So …." Frank Campbell began with a note of reluctance in his voice, eyes closed, as he rested his head back on his folded arms, and crossed his ankles.
"Ok," Dobbs also let out a soft sigh now, as he too lay back on his bed and scrutinised the ceiling over head. "Take your time, Frank, but tell me everything that you can."
Frank Campbell filled Dobbs in on what had gone on before he arrived, and the incident involving him self and the centrifuge that morning, keeping his voice low and even, but it was not hard for Dobbs to hear the anxiety in his voice as he spoke.
However, none of it was really news to Dobbs, only going over ground he had already covered with Archangel and Dr Weeks.
The incident in the centrifuge seemed to be the only new incident that had occurred in the interim, and was probably just coincidental that it had happened on the same morning he had reported for duty at Thunderbird.
"Thanks Frank. I appreciate your candour," Dobbs spoke in a low voice at last.
"I don't know what's going on around here, Major, but I guess you have the right to know what the rest of us know," Campbell sighed. "Which, I guess, isn't a whole helluva lot."
"It could just be bad luck," Dobbs pointed out. "Or poor management," he added. "But …." he allowed his voice to trail away.
"I really hate that little word!"
"Me too. It has such vast implications. What about the other guys?" Dobbs asked in neutral tones, but this drew a suspicious look from Campbell now. "I don't mean, do you suspect any of them, Frank. I mean, what do they make of it?"
"They don't talk much about it," Campbell informed. "At least, not to me. I guess the others talk to their bunk mates, speculate, that kind of thing, but if we get to talking over chow, or in class, Webber usually jumps in and puts a stop to it. You saw for yourself just now. Says that it's bad for moral."
"More like burying your head in the sand and making like it isn't happening."
"Yeah. That's it exactly. If it ain't happening, then he don't have to deal with it."
"But something is going on."
"Maybe," Campbell didn't sound convinced.
"Or, like I said, it might just be bad luck and poor management, and I guess it's just as likely to be down to human error. Accidents do happen, and the law of averages says that in a project like this, there are more opportunities for accidents to occur," Dobbs grew thoughtful for a moment. "But, you don't think so, do you, Frank?"
"No, Sir."
"You know, Webber is right about one thing, people get to thinking that something is jinxed, that they are bound to get killed, and pretty soon they turn it into a reality. They don't fight back, just give in, because they think it is inevitable. Beyond their control."
"Yeah."
"So what do you think, Frank? Really?"
"I think someone doesn't want this project to succeed, Major, but as to the whom, and the why? Well, I guess the why is simple. Something like this new jet could give our side a major advantage in any war, with any given enemy, not just the Soviet Union, so it would be in everyone's best interests, if the project doesn't get off the ground. But the who? Russia, China, Libya, Cuba? You name it. There are a lot of countries out there that are pretty pissed with us right now," Dobbs nodded in silent agreement.
"But, as to any specific person, here at the base? No Siree, not a clue. Whoever he or she is, they've been pretty careful about not leaving any clue as to their identity. I'd even go so far as to say that they've been pretty clever in making everything look accidental or coincidental, so no-one really knows for sure what is going on."
"So, why you, Frank? You ticked off anyone in particular lately?"
"No Sir. I'm Mr Congeniality around here," Campbell grinned now.
"So again, friend Webber was right about it being any one of us in the centrifuge, not specifically you, Frank."
"I guess."
"Then we can take some comfort in that, at least. Everyone is equally vulnerable. All of us as likely a target as any other," Dobbs mused. "So it isn't personal, Frank."
"No, but forgive me for not being excited by that thought, Sir. It still mean's I'm in someone's line of fire."
"We all are."
"And we are all just as likely to be as suspect as any other," Campbell reminded.
"Even me," Dobbs acknowledged. "Just because I only just got here, it doesn't automatically follow that I'm not involved, I know that, and that's why I'm grateful for what you've already told me, Frank. It demonstrates at least a small measure of trust."
After that both men fell silent, and whilst Roger Dobbs tried to get comfortable and shed his mind of troubling thoughts, Frank Campbell, obviously not one to allow concerns for his health and welfare to stop him from getting his sleep, went out like a light, his breathing growing deep and even, as he fell into the arms of Morpheus.