“Okay,” he said. “The situation’s what it is, and we’ll make the best of it. But I don’t want any passed balls. As far’s what went down here during the storm, the only thing the Senators know is there was a fire at the dome and we lost one of our men putting it out. And that’s all they need to know. When they climb aboard their plane, I don’t want them seeing these four”—he indicated the untagged body bags—“loaded onto the other prop. If they do, and ask us about it, we’ve got no choice except to tell them the truth. UpLink depends on government support. There are relationships we have to protect. If we’re seen as not honoring them, we might as well pack our suitcases and go home. Here and everywhere in the world.”

Nimec left his explanation at that. Waylon seemed to know the stakes well enough on his own.

He also seemed to be still waiting to say something. And having a hard time getting it out.

“What haven’t I covered?” Nimec asked.

Waylon was quiet another few seconds.

“About Sprague,” he said then, struggling to control his emotions. “We want to give him some kind of service.”

Nimec looked at Waylon. How could that have failed to occur to him?

“Sure,” he said. “I mean, of course.” He expelled a breath. “Is there a chaplain on base?”

Waylon shook his head.

“MacTown has a fella who tours during the holiday season,” he said. “That’s about all.” He was thoughtful. “A lot of us on the ice, we get to feel religious without observing a particular religion. I don’t know why that is. Or maybe I do and can’t express it just right. But being here kind of shaves the differences between people. You step outside the buildings and tunnels, look at what’s around you, what nature’s really about, and you realize nobody’s any bigger or smaller in the big picture than anyone else.”

Waylon swallowed, then looked down the white spun-bonded bag containing his deceased comrade.

“We want a service, but don’t know what the hell kind we’re supposed to give him.”

Nimec was thoughtful in the cold silence of the utilidor chamber.

“We’ll figure something out,” he said.

Nimec was in Megan Breen’s office minutes after arising from the utilidor, his ECW outer garments doffed and stashed in a clothing locker.

“You get a callback from Gord yet?” he said.

Megan regarded him across her desk.

“Yes,” she said. “And he’s heard from the Secretary of State.”

“What’s Bowen’s reaction to what happened to us?”

“I suppose it falls somewhere between worry and utter astonishment,” she said. “But he’s conceded that we’re best able to deal with it ourselves for now.”

“Conceded?”

Megan nodded.