Page 79 of Dead Mountain

“Mr. Cheape seems to have received a commendation around that time, but there are no specifics in regard to what. Do you know anything about that?”

“No.”

“You mentioned you were busy at Kirtland with more pressing business during the Dead Mountain incident.”

At this his face seemed to become even more like granite. “That is correct.”

“Can you be more specific?”

A long silence followed this question, then Brickell spoke. “Agent Swanson, you will understand that much of the work we do is classified. I’m afraid I can’t answer that question.”

“So you were involved in some sort of classified business on November 1, 2008?”

“Almost all of the work I do was, and is, classified.”

“And you can recall, fifteen years later, what was happening on that particular day?”

“Yes.”

“Sergeant Brickell, you do realize that I’m an FBI agent, and that we work with classified information all the time. You know you can trust me with anything you might have to say.”

“I’m not aware that you have a security clearance—or even if you do, what level. Certainly you can understand that most of us at a base as vital as Kirtland are under security restrictions.”

Damn, thought Corrie. It was true: she didn’t have a security clearance yet at the FBI—that took time. “Would you be willing to speak to an agent with the necessary security clearance?”

“Not on this subject.”

“Why not?”

Brickell didn’t answer. As Corrie gazed at his fine old face, with its steely blue eyes and square jaw, she realized this man would not tell her anything he didn’t wish to. The key was making him wish to.

“At around that time, was your classified work connected to the Dead Mountain incident in any way?”

“No.”

It felt like she was playing twenty questions with the grizzled old noncom and getting nowhere. She put away her notebook, leaned back, and gazed at him for a moment. “Sergeant Brickell, Lieutenant Colonel O’Connell served his country honorably. I know he was a fine soldier. The disappearance of his son destroyed him. He died of a heart attack—at age sixty. The grief and uncertainty of his son’s fate no doubt contributed to that. If you can shed any light on what happened—”

“I don’t believe I can.”

“Do you have children?”

“I have a daughter.”

“And your wife?”

“I’m a widower.”

“I’m sorry. But imagine, sir, if your daughter vanished into thin air, and you were left with no idea of what happened to her: no knowledge of her last moments, where she was, whether or not she suffered. Can you imagine that, Sergeant Brickell?”

Brickell said nothing, but she could see the color deepen in his face.

“I ask because that’s what these families have been going through, some for as long as fifteen years. My job is not only to solve this case, but to give them closure. Give them a measure of peace. If you have any information that would help shed light on the fate of those nine young people—classified or not—I would suggest . . .” She hesitated, then went on: “That you have a moral duty to share it with me now.”

She saw she had finally touched a nerve. Brickell’s face had grown dark. A long silence ensued—a minute or more, an eternity in a conversation. At last, he spoke. “I’m sorry, Agent Swanson, but this interview is over.”’

She stared back at a face of granite. “If you don’t mind, I have just a few more questions.”

He stood up. “Let me see you to the door.”

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