J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (39 page)

"I'm told the outlying areas of your base have ideal terrain for conducting my survival-training classes." Ironhorse's expression was far more pleasant and respectful than Suzanne had ever seen it.

But the general's expression was less than friendly; he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "If I'd had advance warning," he complained, "I could have made some arrangements. This is most irregular."

Rather than become defensive, Ironhorse nodded sympathetically. "Know what you mean, General. It was last minute for us too." He glanced back at the aide, then lowered his voice confidentially. "Special mission coming up. Can't really talk about it."

Arquette's hostility melted instantly and was replaced by a spark of keen interest. He lifted one bushy brow questioningly. "South of the border?"

Ironhorse replied with a wink.

Arquette nodded approvingly. "About damn time." He gestured to his aide to come closer. "Let me have Captain Matthews here take you on your survey." They turned and headed back toward the Ford.

Suzanne tensed. If Arquette insisted on giving them a chaperon, the little masquerade would be over in an instant. She didn't even know how or who or when to salute. Maybe Ironhorse could bullshit his way into Nellis, but she and Harrison didn't know enough about the military to fool anyone, except from a safe distance.

She tilted her head to give a worried glance at the black metal insignia pin on her collar. Ironhorse had filled her in on the fact that the rank it indicated was that of corporal, but she couldn't remember which way the two little chevrons were supposed to be pointing. Right now they were pointing upward, and as Ironhorse and Arquette neared the sedan, she hoped like hell her rank was right side up.

But Ironhorse seemed totally unfazed by the general's offer. He smiled glibly and replied without missing a beat, "I appreciate the offer, sir, but it's unnecessary. I think we can find our own way." The smile widened. "General Wilson said we weren't to inconvenience you in any way."

"Well, if you need help," Arquette said, and walked him back to the passenger side of the sedan.

Ironhorse stopped at the rear door. "You'll be the first to know, sir. Thank you." He waited for a moment, then cleared his throat and tilted his head to glance pointedly at Harrison.

Suzanne caught the look, and nudged Harrison's combat boot with her own. "I think he wants you to open his door for him," she whispered.

"What?" Harrison turned to glance at Ironhorse over his shoulder. Apparently, the look on the colonel's face was enough to convince him, because he scrambled out of the front seat, came to a ragged attempt at attention, and held Ironhorse's door open. After the colonel crawled in, Harrison slammed the door shut, then retook his own seat in the front of the Ford.

General Arquette bent down to peer into Ironhorse's window. "Always glad when the air force can lend you army boys—and gals"—added as a patronizing afterthought at the sight of Suzanne—"a helping hand." He lowered his voice to address Ironhorse. "Keep me apprised. Love to get a piece of that mission."

"Will do, General," Ironhorse answered cheerfully, then settled back in his seat and addressed Suzanne, his tone becoming sharp. "Get a move on, Corporal. We haven't got all day."

She raised an eyebrow at that, and exchanged irritated looks with Harrison. Obviously, the colonel was relishing his role just a bit too much. Time to put him back in his place. She started up the Ford and jammed her foot down on the accelerator.

The results were satisfactory. The car lurched forward, slamming Ironhorse in a most unmilitary fashion against the upholstery.

She waited until they were out of Arquette's view to snicker. Harrison wasn't quite so reserved—he

turned around and laughed aloud at the colonel, who didn't seem particularly amused.

"Hey," Ironhorse said indignantly. "What was
that
for?"

Suzanne blinked innocently up at him in the rear-view mirror. "You
said
to get a move on, Colonel. I thought I was doing just that."

Harrison was grinning over his shoulder at Ironhorse. "I think it's Dr. McCullough's subtle way of saying she doesn't appreciate the way you bossed us around."

"I had to, or it wouldn't have looked right," Ironhorse protested. "And you're supposed to open the door for an officer. And by the way, Blackwood, the next time you come to attention, remember this—" He said it rapid-fire, like a marine drill sergeant barking out orders (and loving every minute of it). "Stand erect, heels touching, feet at a forty-five-degree angle, fingers curled, thumb to index finger, touching the seam of your pants. Now, to salute—"

Harrison gave a disbelieving smile as he shook his head. "Knock it off, Ironhorse. Call me a conscientious objector if you want, but if you think I'm going to go to all the trouble to remember
that,
you're crazy."

"Admit it, Colonel," Suzanne said. "You
enjoyed
giving us orders."

Ironhorse frowned and was about to deny it, but something made him change his mind. "Well..." A grin spread slowly over his face. "Maybe just a little."

Ironhorse directed them through the hilly terrain, a mixture of scrub pine forest and desert, down a dirt road to a remote, quiet area where a lone hangar sat, bordered on its rear flank by sparse forest.

"Stop here," the colonel ordered although they were still several hundred yards away.

Suzanne brought the Ford to a smooth stop. The hangar door was closed, and as far as she could see there were no signs of life, only the occasional thunder of a jet passing overhead. "Looks harmless enough."

Ironhorse climbed out of the car—this time without waiting for Harrison to open the door—and went around to the trunk. Suzanne glanced over at Harrison. "What if we're wrong? What if they're not here after all?"

Harrison's mood had abruptly become somber. "I hope to God we're wrong, and they're not here, and yet, at the same time, I have to hope that we're right, and they are."

She nodded. If they weren't there, she and her two companions would be safe .. . but an opportunity to stop the aliens would be missed. She moved to open the car door.

"Come on, Corporal, move it," Ironhorse called with more than a little sarcasm.

Suzanne climbed out, and Harrison followed. Ironhorse had already opened the Ford's trunk and was pulling out equipment. He handed Harrison a holster which held a Beretta. "Here, Blackwood. You're going to need this."

Harrison drew back and shook his head.

Ironhorse sighed, disgusted. "Fine. I'm sure the aliens will respect your disapproval of guns."

"Harrison ..." Suzanne put a hand on his arm. "We have a responsibility to stop them here. Extreme situations call for extreme actions. If the colonel and I are killed, you are obligated to stop them."

Harrison stared reluctantly down at the weapon in Ironhorse's hand, his expression one of distaste. "All right. This once. But I don't like it."

"We
'll
be sure to make a note of that," Ironhorse said. He pulled the Beretta from its holder and held it where Harrison could see it. "I've released the safety and cocked it. All you have to do is aim and fire."

"Aim and fire," Harrison parroted.

"Just remember one word, and you'll be okay," Ironhorse told him. "BRAS."

"Bras?" A whimsical expression crossed Harrison's face. "I had no idea the army was this much fun."

Ironhorse nodded. "That's right, BRAS: breathe, release, aim, and squeeze." He demonstrated with the pistol, then handed it and the holster to Harrison, who slipped it on. The colonel reached into the trunk again and brought out another holster, which he proffered to Suzanne.

"No, thanks." She nodded at the equipment case still in the trunk. "I've got something even better in there."

"Let's hope so," the colonel muttered. He handed the case to her, and another satchel to Harrison, then slammed the trunk shut. Together, the three of them

made their way toward the hangar.

In a clearing not many miles away, the troop-transport helicopters had landed, and were in the process of being boarded—to all outward appearances by the members of Delta squad, who climbed the metal steps with heavy, awkward movements . ..

TWENTY-EIGHT

The old World War II hangar built of whitewashed wood on a steel frame was sizable enough to accommodate modern jumbo jets. In the hangar's huge sliding metal door, which could be pulled aside to admit aircraft, was a smaller, human-sized entrance, which allowed personnel simpler access. At the personnel door Harrison carefully checked the wires he'd attached to the card key and computer pad, then spoke into the transportable phone. "Norton? Still there?"

"All set on this end, Doc."

"Give me ten seconds, then fire away." Harrison removed the receiver from his ear and attached the acoustic couplers to the phone's earpieces and mouthpieces. His hands trembled only slightly—not fear of what he knew faced him inside, Harrison told himself sternly, but relief that they had managed to arrive at
the hangar before the aliens. Next to him, Ironhorse and Suzanne watched, the colonel casting an occasional worried glance over his shoulder at their unguarded flank.

The lights on the wired-up keypad began to blink furiously in random sequence as Norton's Cray worked to break the security code. Some primitive, illogical part of Harrison's brain—the limbic system, he decided—prayed for the door
not
to open, while the rational part of his brain prayed it would.

It did. The door clicked, and with a painful creak swung outward. Of course; the hinges were probably rusted. The place had most likely been sealed for some thirty-odd years. Harrison quickly pulled the wires away and stuffed them and the portable phone into the nylon satchel.

He entered a few steps behind Ironhorse and Suzanne and closed the door behind them. Almost immediately, he was tempted to reopen it. The air inside was stifling, musty, dead after years of being closed up. He stood in the dark, suffocating warmth and fought the temptation to yield to claustrophobia. The door would have to stay closed—couldn't risk advertising the fact that they were there. He fumbled in the satchel for his flashlight. Next to him, Ironhorse snapped his flashlight on and found a wall switch, and the few soft, dim spotlights illuminated the window-less hangar.

There was a collective intake of breath as they saw the ships. Three of them, each one an eerily lovely thing with an irregular, flattened-disc shape. To Harrison's eyes, it most resembled a giant obsidian

manta ray, its wings sloping obliquely downward on either side, as if the ray were swimming. Where the ray's eyes should be sat a translucent green dome from which proceeded a metal filament, atop which sat a great red eye—now dull, though Harrison had seen it glow hotly right before it lashed out with the laser beam that killed his parents. He understood it now to be a sensing device, a periscope of sorts that also doubled as a weapon.

The ships rested, delicately balanced on the edges of their downward-curved "wings." They had no wheels, no legs, no supports of any kind; Clayton's best guess was that they traveled on an electromagnetic "cushion." And they were huge—the size of a large passenger plane but broader and shorter—as huge and as frightening as they had appeared when Harrison first saw them as a child; time had not managed to diminish their size or the impact of their terrifying beauty.

Harrison took a staggering step backward, momentarily overwhelmed by hatred. If he paused much longer, he would lose his composure, be unable to do what he had come to do. He walked up behind Ironhorse and Suzanne, who stood—faces tilted up, gaping—and caught their elbows.

"We've got work," he said. They both came alive as if awakened from a spell. Harrison removed a flashlight from his satchel and moved past them toward the closest ship and shone the beam on it, searching along the smooth underside for the switch Clayton's papers had said would be there. He found it, pressed it, and waited. The metal, which appeared opalescent

black-silver in shadow, almost white in direct light, felt sharply cold beneath his fingertip, despite the stuffy warmth of the surrounding air.

The ship rumbled. In the center of its underbelly a hatch opened, a ramp dropped.

Ironhorse's black eyes darted over at Harrison. "Blackwood ..." His expression was one of distinct discomfort. "You sure this is the best way?"

Harrison's skin crawled at the sight of it, but he forced himself to take a tentative step toward the ramp. "Maybe not the best way, but the only way. According to the research, these ships produce an electromagnetic shield that can withstand a direct nuclear blast." He glanced at the colonel. "I don't much care for it myself."

Ironhorse stared back at the ship and nodded unhappily. "Okay . . . after you, Blackwood." He gestured with a strong brown arm.

Harrison swallowed and started walking up the ramp, Ironhorse at his heels.

"Don't be long," Suzanne called after them, an urgent note in her voice.

Harrison's fear was quickly lessened by his curiosity. The ship's interior presented many puzzles. For one thing, the interior seemed unnecessarily spacious. Most of it was not partitioned into rooms, except for a small area Harrison decided was the head. There was no color, but every possible shade of gray, and almost no furniture to speak of, except at the pilots' stations, three podiums that faced a long control panel—-a counter built of smooth white metal, interfaced with a soft, yielding material Harrison couldn't identify. The panel (he kept thinking of it as the dash) was perfectly smooth, and he could see no way for the controls or what he took to be computer terminals of a sort to be manipulated.