Ch 2 P.3. Wingsuit Arrest

A Grey Wolf 139H passed low overhead to land in front of Marle. Fine dust and litter swirled in the air blast as Marle coughed and shielded his eyes from the bright light. He was not surprised by the military presence; all CG and Corporate employees had an embedded tracker, but Marle was nonplussed by the speed of their arrival. He had only just arrived.

Two stout MPs walked toward him, hands readied over their sidearms. They stopped before him, faces like stone behind their augmented face shields. They scanned their information before speaking. The MP on the right said, his voice clear against the spinning rotors, “Doctor Marle Linden, you are under arrest. Do not resist.”

Marle spoke in alarm, the volume of his voice pitched above the din. “Arrest? What's the charge?”

The soldier on the left answered. “UA and tracker blocking.”

The soldier on the right produced a white zip tie. He said deadpan, “Hands forward, palms together.”

Seeing the soldier on the left still had his hand on his sidearm, Marle stretched out his hands and placed his palms flush. As he was bound, the MP on the left turned aside and spoke into the face shield mic. A report was being called in. Marle turned to the MP, who had bound his wrists.

“I can explain about the tracker,” said Marle. “I wasn't blocking. It's a strange story, but.” Marle let it drop.

The soldier's eyes were jaded from countless explanations by countless detainees with bound wrists. He had obviously heard it all. Drilling Marle with eyes all but lifeless, the soldier said, “Anything you have to say is not for our ears. Save it for the JAG.”

Marle raised his bound wrists and complained. “Does this have to be so tight? I'm not a bag of bread.”

The MP placed a hand on Marle's shoulder and nudged him toward the helicopter. His partner stood by the open side door speaking into his mic while the pilot sat calmly in his seat, checking stats. The pressure of the MP's hand on Marle's shoulder was adamant. Marle was marched to the military transport and pulled to a stop between the two MPs.

The blast from the rotors whipped Marle's hair from one direction to another, stinging his eyes and forcing him to turn his face. The soldiers conversed in soldier slang; to Marle, it was a foreign language. Couldn't they do that inside? Marle turned away from them, but the soldier's hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him back.

“You've arrested me,” shouted Marle. “What's the hold up?”

The MP with his hand on Marle's shoulder answered, “Routing.”

Marle replied with rising ire, “It's a straight shot to Beaverdale.”

The other MP responded, “We're not from Beaverdale.”

Marle shot back, “Yeah, but can't you two chat inside?”

The two MPs stared at Marle as if he had crawled from under a rock. They were obviously thinking something like, Why do Civvies have to whine so much? Then, the MP who kept his hand on Marle's shoulder said, “We all have to wait for orders. Try to relax, sir.”

The MP's answer was no comfort. The soldiers continued their conversation. Maybe they were tired of sitting and wanted to stretch their legs. Maybe this was standard military procedure meant to rattle civilians. Marle was rattled. He closed his eyes and bowed his head; he was stuck in the situation and powerless against it.

Marle had consumed his share of beers at the party; suddenly, his thoughts turned to his bladder. He hoped they were routed to Beaverdale. If the destination turned out to be Chattanooga, Marle would be hurting. He could just kick himself; he ran to save his experiment, and now he was here. Had he just chosen Hera, he might be in her arms instead.