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Page 367
He kicked out again at a grimy drift of snow and turned to go back to his tent when he heard the sound of engines over the wet warbling of the wind. It was the unmistakable sound of another C-130 Hercules approaching the camp. It must be the press plane. The sound, together with the hope he might finally learn something from the newcomers, soothed his anger, and Ryerson turned back to wait for the plane to land.
The Special Ops soldier approached him and said stiffly, "That's far enough, Mr. Ryerson. The airstrip is off limits."
Ryerson gritted his teeth. "Is there any rule against me just standing here?"
"No, sir. Just so you go no farther."
"Thanks for nothing."
"Mr. Ryerson, sir. You aren't wearing your dosimeter badge." The youthful face under the blue beret was earnest. "It should be worn at all times, sir."
"So I forgot," Ryerson said. Stupid kid, probably scared out of his wits at being here. Then he looked more closely at the dosimeter badge on the soldier's uniform. The reading reflected a low level of radiation exposure. He blurted out in alarm, "There's something hot out in the bay, isn't there?"
"You must get your information from Major Harris or Colonel Morgan, sir. Orders."
Not for the first time since he had arrived, Ryerson wondered if he'd had the best of his bargain with Kellner.
A Hercules appeared just under the low clouds, leveling off for final approach, lights on in the murk. The big plane landed, rolled to the end of the strip, and turned onto the taxiway, coming to a stop near the low control tower. As Ryerson watched, the rear cargo door opened, and the ground crew ran out to help the aircrew begin their usual tasks of unloading gear.
An aircrewman emerged from the plane's cockpit door and fastened a ladder to the side. From the cantonment area a Hummer came racing through the mud and puddles to draw up with a flourish just at the bottom of the ladder. Ryerson

 
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