The news here, and I can already hear a big “I told you so” from Rochelle: it looks like we’ve been militarized. I suppose this was inevitable, at least since I took USAMRIID’s money. (And we’re talking about a lot of money—aerial recon doesn’t come cheap: twenty thousand bucks to retarget a satellite, and that will buy you only thirty minutes worth.) But still, it seems like overkill. We were making our final preparations for departure yesterday when a helicopter dropped out of the sky at base camp and who should step off but a squad of Special Forces, all done up like they were ready to take an enemy pillbox: the jungle camo, the green and black warpaint, the infrared scopes and high-power gas-recoil M-19s—all of it. Some very gung ho guys. Trailing the pack is a man in a suit, a civilian, who looks to be in charge. He struts across the field to where I’m standing and I see how young he is, not even thirty. He’s also as tan as a tennis pro. What’s he doing with a squad of special ops? “You the vampire guy?” he asks me. You know how I feel about that word, Paul—just try to get an NAS grant with “vampire” anywhere in the paperwork. But just to be polite, and because, what the hell, he’s backed by enough firepower to overthrow a small government, I tell him, sure, that’s me. “Mark Cole, Dr. Lear,” he says, and shakes my hand, wearing a big grin. “I’ve come a long way just to meet you. Guess what? You’re now a major.” I’m thinking, a major what? And what are these guys doing here? “This is a civilian scientific expedition,” I tell him. “Not anymore,” he says. “Who decided this?” I ask. And he tells me, “My boss, Dr. Lear.” “Who’s your boss?” I ask him. And he says, “Dr. Lear, my boss is the president of the United States.”

Tim was plenty ticked off, because he only gets to be a captain. I wouldn’t know a captain from Colonel Sanders, so it’s all the same to me. It was Claudia who really kicked up a fuss. She actually threatened to pack up and go home. “I didn’t vote for that guy and I’m not going to be part of his damned army, no matter what the twerp says.” Never mind that none of us voted for him either, and the whole thing really seems like a big joke. But it turns out she’s a Quaker. Her younger brother was actually a conscientious objector during the Iran War. In the end, though, we calmed her down and got her to stay on, so long as we promised she didn’t have to salute anyone.

The thing is, I can’t really figure out why these guys are here. Not why the military would take an interest, because after all, it’s their money we’re spending, and I’m grateful for it. But why send a squad of special ops (they’re technically “special reconnaissance”) to babysit a bunch of biochemists? The kid in the suit—I’d guess he’s NSA, though who really knows?—told me that the area we were traveling into was known to be controlled by the Montoya drug cartel and the soldiers are here for our protection. “How would it look for a team of American scientists to get themselves killed by drug lords in Bolivia?” he asked me. “Not a happy day for U.S. foreign policy, not a happy day at all.” I didn’t contradict him, but I know damn well there’s no drug activity where we’re going—it’s all to the west, on the altiplano. The eastern basin is virtually uninhabited except for a few scattered Indian settlements, most of which haven’t had any outside contact in years. All of which he knows I know.