He hung up and took a micro cassette recorder from a cabinet. Race checked the batteries, and unwrapped a new tape and inserted it into the machine. Then he got up and headed down the Red Arm. His mind was a rubber ball bouncing around inside his skull. It was a familiar feeling; the long stretches of boredom, the careful preparation, and then BOOM!—everything happening at once.

Just like combat, Race thought.

He missed that so badly. Just like he missed everything about the Army.

It was his family.

Race was born to command. First in his class at West Point, back in ‘50. He entered Korea in '51 as a Butter Bar—second lieutenant— and rose to the rank of Captain in four years, most of his ascension due to battlefield victories. Korea was where he came to be known as Race, as in Race to the rescue.

When the war ended, Race was a man to watch. He was stationed at Ft. Sam Houston in 1959, headquarters for the Fifth U.S. Army. He paid his dues, did a tour in Vietnam, and generally worked his ass off, and on December 29, 1966, he had made Brigadier General.

Then came the fall.

There was a 2nd Lieutenant under Race's command named Harold Bright. They'd graduated together, gone to Korea together, and were the best of friends. Harold was Race's best man when he married Helen. He was as close as a brother.

Which made the confession even worse.

On a drunken March night, two years after Race's promotion to One Star General, Harold disclosed the affair he’d had with Race's wife.

Race was slack-jawed at the betrayal. Harold went into detail about how lonely Helen was, how Race was never around, how it only happened a few times but now it was over.

The alcohol added to the rage. Race hit him. Harold defended himself. Race broke a bar stool over his best friend's head.

Harold suffered a concussion from the assault, and later died from his injuries.

Helen blamed herself. She begged forgiveness. He forgave, and asked for hers in return. She was strong enough to stand by him during his trial, his discharge from his beloved Army, and his inevitable imprisonment. Race offered no defense for his actions to save her from the scandal.

But somehow President Johnson found out the truth.

He admired Race's stoicism and manliness—LBJ's exact words. He didn't want to see Race go to jail, or get booted from the Army. Not only had Race proven himself an excellent soldier, he'd also proven himself a man who had forsaken his own good to keep a secret. That, Johnson had said, was what patriotism was all about. So he gave Race an opportunity to redeem himself.

Samhain.

Race agreed, and quickly disappeared, along with all charges against him. Johnson also buried the civil case with Harold's family by giving them a modest cash settlement. All Race had to do, to keep up his end of the deal, was run the Samhain project until the time Bub awoke and the questions in the Roosevelt Book were answered. LBJ had given Race the impression that it would happen any day.

And now here it was, forty years later.

Race could have quit at any time. Many times he almost did, twice even going as far as telling the incumbent President he wanted out. But each time he was convinced to stay. Not through any slick blackmailing technique, or bland patriotic speeches about God and country. The carrot on the stick had always been his beloved Army, and the opportunity to some day command again.

So Race stuck it out, through years of boredom, through Helen's illness, through eleven different Presidents. The current Commander-in-Chief even told Race that he had a space waiting for him on the Joint Chiefs of Staff when this was finally over.

It was all only a few hundred questions away.

Race arrived in Red 14 to find Andy sitting in a chair next to the Plexiglas. Bub squatted on his haunches, his head at Andy's level. The image that came to Race's mind was two old women, sharing gossip.

“What have we learned so far?” he asked Andy, slapping a paternal hand on his shoulder.

“Well, not a lot. Bub apparently doesn't remember much about what happened to him before his coma. He doesn't even know how he came to be buried in Panama in the first place.”

Race's eyes narrowed. This wouldn't do. Not at all. There were provisions for the possibility that Bub would be uncooperative. The main one involved a very large cattle prod.

But that was to be a last resort.

“Well, let's see what he does know then, shall we?”

Race took a chair from the computer work station and set it next to Andy, taking a seat. Bub glanced at Race and stretched out his mouth. He appeared to be attempting a smile, but Race found himself repulsed. It took him a moment to regain composure.

“This is called the Roosevelt Book; it's a list of questions to ask Bub going back to his discovery. I'll read the question, you interpret it and give me the answer.”

Race took the cassette recorder from his pocket and hit the record button. He rested it on his knee.

“What is your name?” Race asked the beast.

“Buuuuuub...” the demon answered, staring into Race’s eyes before Andy had a chance to translate. He raised a claw and a talon snaked out, pointing at the General’s chest.

“Raaaaace.”

Race shivered. Had it gotten colder in the room? Must be the central air unit, blowing down at them overhead. He folded his arms.

“Ask him for his previous name, before we started calling him that.”

Andy complied, and Bub whispered a reply.

“He says he's had many names.”

“My God in heaven,” Father Thrist exclaimed. He'd just entered the room, the thick Rabbi Shotzen in tow. “It speaks.”

“Faaaaather,” Bub said, his voice a cross between a whisper and a hiss. “Raaaaaabbi.”

“Oh my...” Rabbi Shotzen gasped.

 “What has he said so far?” Father Thrist demanded. “Anything about God? Anything about Heaven?”

“Heavaaaaaan,” Bub said, raising a claw over his head and extending a finger upward. The way he said the word made it sound somehow unclean.

“What do you know about heaven?” Thrist approached the Plexiglas, his nose inches from Bub's. “Are you a fallen angel?”

Bub's mouth stretched open and he belched, a sound like a motorcycle starting. His breath fogged up the glass, and Race caught the stench of blood and wool.

“Father,” Race stepped in, holding the aging priest by the shoulders. “All of those questions and more will be answered. They're all in my book. Let's all just sit down, relax, we're gonna be here for a while.”

 The holies went off in search of chairs, and Rabbi Shotzen dragged over an extra one for Dr. Belgium, who had just arrived.

“Can he talk?” Belgium asked.

“Heeeeee... taaaaaalks...” Bub answered.

Belgium made a sound like a hiccup, and Race watched him turn right around and leave the room.

“He’s a quick study,” Sun said. “He’s already putting together nouns and verbs. I bet he could learn English quickly.”

Race furrowed his brow. It would be much easier to interrogate Bub if he knew how to speak American. Save a helluva lot of time.

The disadvantage would be that Bub would understand everything they said, but indications showed that he was understanding a lot already. Besides, better to know what your enemy knows than to not know if he knows anything or not.

“Andy, you've taught several languages. Have you ever taught English?”

“To people.”

“Can you do it?”

“I don’t think... I mean... he’s a...”

“Yes or no, Mr. Dennison?”

“I don’t know. I'd need materials.”

“Like what?”

“Well, some language programs. A chalk board. Children's books.”

“How about one of those phonics programs for kids?” Sun suggested. “We could wheel in a big screen TV and a DVD.”