Dreamcatcher

of the gray persuasion wandering around east of here. The flashlights have mostly stayed
over the wedge area. ET Highway Patrol.”
“It’s all toast, isn’t it?” Owen asked. “Not just the grayboys and the ship and the flashlights-the whole fucking geography.”
“I’m not prepared to speak to that just now,” Kurtz said.
No
, Owen thought,
of course you’re not
. He wondered immediately if Kurtz could read his

thought. There was no way of telling, certainly not from those pale eyes. “We
are
going to take out the rest of the grayboys, I can tell you that much. Your men will crew the
gunships and your men only. You are Blue Boy Leader. Got that?” “Yes, sir.” Kurtz did not correct it. In this context, and given Underhill’s obvious distaste for the mission,
sir
was probably good. “I am Blue One.”
Owen nodded.
Kurtz got up and drew out his pocket-watch. It had gone noon.

“This is going to get out,” Underhill said. “There are a lot of U.S. citizens in the Zone. There’s simply no way to keep it quiet. How many have those… those implants?”
Kurtz almost smiled. The weasels, yes. A good many here, a few more over the years.
Underhill didn’t know, but Kurtz did. Nasty little fellows they were. And one good thing
about being the boss: you didn’t have to answer questions you didn’t want to answer.

“What happens later is up to the spin doctors,” he said. “Our job is to react to what
certain people-the voice of one of them is probably on your tape-have determined is a clear and present danger to the people of the United States. Got it, buck?”
Underhill looked into that pale gaze and at last looked away,
“One other thing,” Kurtz said. “Do you remember the phooka?”
“The Irish ghost-horse.”
“Close enough. When it comes to nags, that one’s mine. Always has been. Some

folks in
Bosnia saw you riding my phooka. Didn’t they?‘Owen chanced no reply. Kurtz didn’t
look put out by that, but he looked intent. “I want no repeat, Owen. Silence is golden.
When we ride the phooka horse, we must be invisible. Do you understand that?” “Yes.”
“Perfect understanding?”
“Yes,” Owen said. He wondered again how much of his mind Kurtz could read.

Certainly he could read the name currently in the front of Kurtz’s mind, and supposed Kurtz wanted him to. Bosanski Novi.
4
They were on the verge of going, four gunship crews with Owen Underhill’s men
from the bus replacing the ANG guys who had brought the CH-47s this far, they were cranking up, filling the air with the thunder of the rotors, and then came Kurtz’s order to
stand down.

Owen passed it on, then flicked his chin to the left. He was now on Kurtz’s private
corn channel.
“Beg pardon, but what the
fuck?
” Owen asked. If they were going to do this thing, he
wanted to do it and get it behind him. It was worse than Bosanski Novi, worse by far.
Writing it off by saying the grayboys weren’t human beings just did not wash. Not for him, anyway. Beings that could build something like Blue Boy-or fly it, at least-were more
than human.

“It’s none of mine, lad,” Kurtz said. “The weather boys in Bangor say this shit is moving out fast. It’s what they call an Alberta Clipper. Thirty minutes, forty-five, max, and we’re on our way. With our nav gear all screwed up, it’s better to wait if we can… and
we can. You’ll thank me at the other end.”
Man, I doubt that
. “Roger, copy.” He flicked his head to the right. “Conklin,” he said.

No rank designations to be used on this mission, especially not on the radio. “I’m here, s… I’m here. “‘Tell the men we’re on hold thirty to forty-five. Say again, thirty to forty-five.” “Roger that. Thirty to forty-five.” “Let’s have some jukebox rhythm.” “Okay.
Requests?”
“Go with what you like. Just save the Squad Anthem.” “Roger, Squad Anthem is

racked back.” No smile in Conk’s voice. There was one man, at least, who liked this as little as Owen did. Of course, Conklin had also been on the Bosanski Novi mission in “95.
Pearl jam started up in Owen’s cans. He pulled them off and laid them around his neck like a horse-collar. He didn’t care for Pearl jam, but in this bunch he was a minority.
Archie Perlmutter and his men ran back and forth like chickens with their heads cut

off. Salutes were snapped, then choked off, with many of the saluters sneaking did-he-see-
that looks at the small green scout copter in which Kurtz sat with his own cans clamped

firmly in place and a copy of the Derry News upraised. Kurtz looked engrossed in the paper, but Owen had an idea that the man marked every half-salute, every soldier who forgot the situation and reverted to old beast habit. Beside Kurtz, in the left seat, was Freddy Johnson. Johnson had been with Kurtz roughly since Noah’s ark grounded on

Mount Ararat. He had also been at Bosanski, and had undoubtedly given Kurtz a full report when Kurtz himself had been forced to stay behind, unable to climb into the saddle
of his beloved phooka horse because of his groin-pub.
In June of “95, the Air Force had lost a scout pilot in NATO’s no-fly zone, near the

Croat border. The Serbs had made a very big deal of Captain Tommy Callahan’s plane, and would have made an even bigger one of Callahan himself, if they caught him; the brass, haunted by images of the North Vietnamese gleefully parading brainwashed pilots
before the international press, made recovering Tommy Callahan a priority.
The searchers had been about to give up when Callahan contacted them on a low-

frequency radio band. His high-school girlfriend gave them a good ID marker, and when
the man on the ground was queried, he confirmed it, telling them his friends had started
calling him The Pukester following a truly memorable night of drinking in his junior year.
Kurtz’s boys went in to get Callahan in a couple of helicopters much smaller than any
of the ones they were using today. Owen
Underhill, already tabbed by most (including himself, Owen supposed) as Kurtz’s

successor, had been in charge. Callahan’s job was to pop some smoke when he saw the birds, then stand by. Underhill’s job-the phooka part of it-had been to yank Callahan without being seen. This was not strictly necessary, so far as Owen could see, but was simply the way Kurtz liked it: his men were invisible, his men rode the Irish horse.
The extraction had worked perfectly. There were some SAMs fired, but nothing even

close-Milosevic had shit, for the most part. It was as they were taking Callahan on board
that Owen had seen his only Bosnians: five or six children, the oldest no more than ten,
watching them with solemn faces. The idea that Kurtz’s directive to make sure there were
no witnesses might apply to a group of dirtyface kids had never crossed Owen’s mind.
And Kurtz had never said anything about it.
Until today, that was.

That Kurtz was a terrible man Owen had no doubt. Yet there were many terrible men
in the service, more devils than saints, most certainly, and many were in love with secrecy.
What made Kurtz different Owen had no idea-Kurtz, that long and melancholy man with
his white eyelashes and still eyes. Meeting those was hard because there was nothing in them-no love, no laughter, and absolutely no curiosity. That lack of curiosity was
somehow the worst.

A battered Subaru pulled up at the store, and two old men got carefully out. One clutched a black cane in a weather-chapped hand. Both wore red-and-black-checked
hunting overshirts. Both wore faded caps, one with CASE above the bill and the other with DEERE. They looked wonderingly at the contingent of soldiers that descended upon
them. Soldiers at Gosselin’s? What in the tarnal? They were in their eighties, by the look

of them, but they had the curiosity Kurtz lacked. You could see it in the set of their bodies,
the tilt of their heads.
All the questions Kurtz had not voiced.
What do they want? Do they really mean us
harm? Will doing this bring the harm? Is it the wind we sow to bring the whirlwind? at
was there in all the previous encounters the flaps, the flashlights, the falls of angel hair
and red dust, the abductions that began in the late sixties-that has made the powers that

be so afraid? Has there been any real effort to communicate with these creatures?
And the last question, the most important question: Were the grayboys like us? Were
they by any definition human? Was this murder, pure and simple? No question in Kurtz’s
eyes about that, either.
5
The snow lightened, the day brightened, and exactly thirty-three minutes after

ordering the stand-down, Kurtz gave them a go. Owen relayed it to Conklin and the Chinnies revved hard again, pulling up gauzy veils of snow and turning themselves into momentary ghosts. Then they rose to treetop level, aligned themselves on Underhill Blue
Boy Leader-and flew west in the direction of Kineo. Kurtz’s Kiowa 58 flew below them
and slightly to starboard, and Owen thought briefly of a troop of soldiers in a John Wayne

movie, bluelegs with a single Indian scout riding his pony bareback off to one side. He couldn’t see, but guessed Kurtz would still be reading the paper. Maybe his horoscope.
“Pisces, this is your day of infamy. Stay in bed.”
The pines and spruces below appeared and disappeared in vapors of white. Snow
flew against the Chinook’s two front windows, danced, disappeared. The ride was

extremely rough-like a ride in a washing machine-and Owen wouldn’t have had it any other way. He clapped the cans back on his head. Some other group, maybe Matchbox Twenty. Not great, but better than Pearl Jam. What Owen dreaded was the Squad Anthem.
But he would listen. Yes indeed, he would listen.
In and out of the low clouds, vapory glimpses of an apparently endless forest, west
west west.
“Blue Boy Leader, this is Blue Two.”
“Roger, Two.”

“I have visual contact with Blue Boy. Confirm?”
For a moment Owen couldn’t, and then he could. What he saw took his breath away.
A photograph, an image inside a border, a thing you could hold in your hand, that was one
thing. This was something else entirely.
“Confirm, Two. Blue Group, this is Blue Boy Leader. Hold your current positions. I
say again, hold your current positions.”
One by one the other copters rogered. Only Kurtz did not, but he also stayed put. The

Chinooks and the Kiowa hung in the air perhaps three quarters of a mile from the downed
spacecraft. Leading up to it was an enormous swath of trees that had been whacked off in
a slanted lane, as if by an enormous hedge-clipper. At the end of this lane was a swampy
area. Dead trees clutched at the white sky, as if to snatch the clouds open. There were zig-

zags of melting snow, some of it turning yellow where it was oozing into the damp ground. In other places there were veins and capillaries of open black water.
The ship, an enormous gray plate nearly a quarter of a mile across, had torn through
the dead trees at the center of the swamp, exploding them and casting the splintery fragments in every direction. The Blue Boy (it was not blue at all, not a bit blue) had come

to rest at the swamp’s far end, where a rocky ridge rose at a steep angle. A long arc of its
curved edge had disappeared into the watery, unstable earth. Dirt and bits of broken trees
had sprayed up and littered the ship’s smooth hull.

The surviving grayboys were standing around it, most on snow-covered hummocks under the upward-tilted end of their ship; if the sun had been shining, they would have been standing in the crashed ship’s shadow. Well… clearly there was
someone
who thought it was more Trojan Horse than crashed ship, but the surviving grayboys, naked and unarmed, didn’t look like much of a threat.
About a hundred

, Kurtz had said, but there were fewer than that now; Owen put the number at sixty. He saw at least a dozen corpses,
in greater or lesser states of red-tinged decay, lying on the snow-covered hummocks.
Some were facedown in the shallow black water. Here and there, startlingly bright against
the snow, were reddish-gold patches of the so-called Ripley fungus… except not all of the
patches were bright, Owen realized as he raised his binoculars and looked through them.

Several had begun to gray out, victims of the cold or the atmosphere or both. No, they didn’t survive well here not the grayboys, not the fungus they had brought with them.
Could this stuff actually spread? He just didn’t believe it.
“Blue Boy Leader?” Conk asked. “You there, boy?”
“I’m here, shut up a minute.”
Owen leaned forward, reached under the pilot’s elbow (Tony Edwards, a good man),

and flicked the radio switch to the common channel. Kurtz’s mention of Bosanski Novi never crossed his mind; the idea that he was making a terrible mistake never crossed his
mind; the idea that he might have seriously underestimated Kurtz’s lunacy never crossed
his mind. In fact, he did what he did with almost no conscious thought at all. So it seemed

to him later, when he cast his mind back and reexamined the incident not just once but again and again. Only a flip of the switch. That was all it took to change the course of a
man’s life, it seemed.
And there it was, loud and clear, a voice none of Kurtz’s laddie-bucks would
recognize. They knew Eddie Vedder; Walter Cronkite was a different deal. “-here.
Il n’y a
pas d’infection ici

.” Two seconds, and then a voice that might have belonged to Barbra Streisand: “One hundred and thirteen. One hundred and seventeen. One hundred and
nineteen.”
At some point, Owen realized, they had started over counting primes from one. On
the way up to Gosselin’s in the bus, the various voices had reached primes in the high four
figures.
“We are dying,” said the voice of Barbra Strelsand. “
On se meurt, on creve
.” A pause,

then the voice of David Lettertman: “One hundred and twenty-seven. One hundred-”
“Belay that!” Kurtz cried. For the only time in the years Owen had known him, Kurtz
sounded really upset. Almost shocked. “Owen, why do you want to run that filth into the
ears of my boys? You come back and tell me, and right
now
.”
“Just wanted to hear if any of it had changed, boss,” Owen said. That was a lie, and
of course Kurtz knew it and at some point would undoubtedly make him pay for it. it was

failing to shoot the kids all over again, maybe even worse. Owen didn’t care. Fuck the phooka horse. If they were going to do this, he wanted Kurtz’s boys (Skyhook in Bosnia,
Blue Group this time, some other name next time, but it always came back to the same hard young faces) to hear the grayboys one last time. Travelers from another star system,

perhaps even another universe or time-stream, knowers of things their hosts would never know (not that Kurtz would care). Let them hear the grayboys one last time instead of Pearl Jam or Jar of Flies or Rage Against the Machine; the grayboys appealing to what they had foolishly hoped was some better nature.
“And has it changed?” Kurtz’s voice crackled back. The green Kiowa was still down

there, just below the hanging line of gunships, its rotors beating at the split top of a tall old pine Just under it, making it ruffle and sway. “
Has
it, Owen?”
“No,” he said. “Not at all, boss.”
“Then belay that chatter. Daylight’s wasting, praise Jesus.” Owen paused, then said,
with careful deliberation: “Yes,
sir
.”
6
Kurtz sat bolt-upright in the Kiowa’s right seat-“ramrod-straight” was how they

always put it in the books and movies. He had donned his sunglasses in spite of the day’s
niild gray light, but Freddy, his pilot, still only dared to look at him from the corners of his eyes. The sunglasses were wraparounds, hipster-hodaddy shades, and now that they were
on, you couldn’t tell where the boss was looking. You certainly couldn’t trust the way his
head was pointing.
The Derry
News
lay on Kurtz’s lap (MYSTERIOUS SKYLIGHTS, MISSING

HUNTERS SPARK PANIC IN JEFFERSON TRACT, read the headline). Now he picked
up the paper and folded it carefully. He was good at this, and soon the Derry
News
would be folded into what Owen Underhill’s career had just become: a cocked hat. Underhill no
doubt thought he would face some sort of disciplinary action-Kurtz’s own, since this was a
black-ops deal, at least so far-followed by a second chance. What he didn’t seem to realize

(and that was probably good; unwarned usually meant unarmed) was that this
had
been his second chance. Which was one more than Kurtz had ever given anyone else, and one he
now regretted.
Bitterly
regretted. For Owen to go and pull a trick like that after their conversation in the office of the store after he had been specifically warned…
“Who gives the order?” Underhill’s voice crackled in Kurtz’s private comlink.

Kurtz was surprised and a little dismayed by the depth of his rage. Most of it was caused by no more than surprise, the simplest emotion, the one babies registered before any other. Owen had zinged him a good one, putting the grayboys on the squad channel
like that; just wanted to hear if any of it had changed indeed, that was one you could roll
tight and stick up your ass. Owen was probably the best second Kurtz had ever had in a

long and complicated career that stretched all the way back to Cambodia in the early seventies, but Kurtz was going to break him, just the same. For the trick with the radio; because Owen hadn’t learned. It wasn’t about kids in Bosanski Novi, or a bunch of babbling voices now. It wasn’t about following orders, or even the principle of the matter.
It was about the line. His line. The Kurtz Line.
Also, there was that
sir
. That damned snotty
sir

. “Boss?” Owen sounding Just a tad nervous now, and he was right to sound nervous, Jesus love him. “Who gives-” “Common
channel, Freddy,” Kurtz said. “Key me in.” The Kiowa, much lighter than the gunships, caught a gust of wind and took a giddy bounce. Kurtz and Freddy ignored it. Freddy keyed
him wide.

“Listen up, boys,” Kurtz said, looking at the four gunships hanging in a line, glass dragonflies above the trees and beneath the clouds. Just ahead of them was the swamp and
the vast pearlescent tilted dish with its surviving crew-or whatever they were-standing beneath its aft lip.
“Listen now, boys, Daddy’s gonna sermonize. Are you listening? Answer up.”
Yes, yes, affirmative, affirm, roger that

(with an occasional sir thrown in, but that was all right; there was a difference between forgetfulness and insolence).
“I’m not a talker, boys, talking’s not what I do, but I want you to know that this is not
repeat
not
a case of what you see is what you get. What you
see
is about six dozen gray, apparently unsexed humanoids standing around naked as a loving God made them and you
say,
some
would say anyway, “Why, those poor folks, all naked and unarmed, not a cock

or a cunt to share among em, pleading for mercy there by their crashed intergalactic Trailways, and what kind of a
dog
, what kind of a
monster
could hear those pleading voices and go in just the same?” And I have to tell you, boys, that I am that dog, I am that
monster, I am that post-industrial post-modern cryptofascist politically incorrect male cocka-rocka warpig, praise Jesus, and for anyone listening in I am Abraham Peter Kurtz,

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