The question caught her off guard. “I . . . uh . . . The Grand Rapids Marriott, sir.”
“Good. Consider yourself briefed.” Then he stepped deeper into the vault and flicked on a light switch.
If the cube was incongruous with its surroundings, the cube’s interior was stranger still. It was, in fact, a hotel room. A queen-sized bed, a desk, a chair. The only difference was the absence of windows.
“We like to keep our guest comfortable,” said Bussard. He walked around the room like a bellhop, pointing out the room’s features. “TV with DVD library. Extra linens. Bathroom with shower.” Then he got down to business. “Your assignment is very specific. It is your job to deliver three meals at seven hundred, thirteen hundred, and nineteen hundred hours precisely. You will have no contact with our guest, as he has therapy sessions at those times, and will not return until after you are gone. With each meal you bring, you will remove the tray from the previous meal. With the morning meal you will change the linens. With lunch you will clean the bathroom. With dinner . . . "
Bussard went on and on, but Maddy found herself unable to listen. Rage was rising in her. She was a cum laude cadet—top five percent of her class at West Point. She had come through officer’s training with commendations from everyone that mattered, and now the military saw fit to turn her into a chambermaid.
Bussard droned on as if reading her Miranda rights. “You will wear gloves at all times in this room, and dispose of them immediately after each use. You will find a detailed description of your duties in your quarters. Is there any part of your assignment you do not understand?”
“No, sir. Permission to speak freely, sir.”
“Permission denied.” He escorted her out of the chamber, and once they were back in the expansive void of the dead plant, he turned to her again. “There are only six people in the world with security clearance to be in that room—including the two of us. Consider yourself honored.”