Branham gives Hannah a considering look before responding. "
Thanks, but no. He's just worn out. Running the crystals takes a lot out of him these days. I appreciate the help rolling him around, though. Been here since before any of you were born, I think," he non-sequiturs, belatedly nodding to Cooper by way of addressing that answer.
He nods in the direction in which he and Rice were moving when Grey Cell met them. "
If you'll follow me, the conference room has a phone to the command post. I'll get the Cazadores to secure their heaters. I'm assuming," he glances over his shoulder at Sébastien, "
you're not expecting any other company."
Branham indicates an about-face and leads the way down the left-hand (from the entrance) hallway to the door with the glass insert, which he opens. Beyond it is a battered conference table made from what appears to be recycled high-school chemistry-lab bench tops bolted atop steel two-drawer filing cabinets. A sideboard of four more filing cabinets supports a modern Cisco IP phone, two quiescent coffee makers, and a scattering of office supplies. A dozen or so mismatched rolling chairs, their leather and vinyl hides scarred where they aren't wholly pierced, cluster around three of the table's sides. Despite the dry-erase board hanging on one wall, the air holds a faint haze of chalk dust and the threadbare green institutional carpet has a slight yellow tinge where cigarette burns and coffee stains aren't evident.
"
Park Ramón there, if you would, miss," Branham says, absently waving a hand toward the end of the conference table that hosts no chairs. He picks up the phone and punches one of the speed-dial buttons. "
Carlos? Tenemos invitados. Invitados, no visitantes. Dígales a las patrullas que aseguren sus armas y que se reúnan en la sala de preparación." He pauses and glances at the phone's time display. "
El código es uno, siete, uno, cuatro. No. Estamos bien aquí abajo. Déjalos dormir."
He hangs up and turns back toward the group, but his gaze is somewhere over James' shoulder. On that wall hangs a trio of framed photographs. Each is a shot of a different large group of people, easily a hundred or more, mixed uniforms and lab coats and 1950s-vintage civilian attire, taken at night in front of an open aircraft hangar. James picks out a much younger Darnell Hawkins at the end of one row, in front of what might be an equally-younger Mark Branham.
In each photo's background, the intake maws of two mid-century fighter jets - F-8 Crusaders, to Hannah's eye - gape open in shadowed screams. Between the jets, behind the center of each group, something larger looms: a dusky bulk with uncomfortably-organic lines like a horseshoe crab's carapace. It's kin to the shapes the team has seen in gun camera footage from an Australian sky, and lit by lightning and gunfire over Miami's suburban horizon. Canopy glass and aluminum fixtures glint like embedded debris in its skin.
Branham swings a chair around and lets himself slide into it with a sigh. "
Mister Morrison, do you know the difference between a fairy tale and a sea story?" he asks James. "
A fairy tale begins, 'once upon a time.' A sea story begins, 'no shit, there we were.'" His faint smile creaks like a joke he's used a hundred times, rolled out again for a new audience. "
So, no shit, there we were." He waves at the photos. "
And here we are. A few of us. Me, Ramón, four other guys. The last of the collateral damage." There is no humor at all in his grin, and his eyes glitter with a rising mania. "
Welcome to the black project psych ward. The Navy promised it would take care of us but there are multiple ways to parse 'take care of...'"
Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Carlos? We have guests. Guests, not visitors. Tell the patrols to secure their weapons and assemble in the ready room. The code is one, seven, one, four. No. We're fine down here. Let them sleep.