Time Patrol (Area 51 The Nightstalkers) (13 page)

“So Pitr is out just like that?” Frasier said. “I assume his folder is not in that pile.” He nodded toward the desk. “Although, I’m not sure I agree with Doctor Golden’s reasoning about either Moms or Pitr. The team members are professionals, and they’ve had no complaints about Pitr. Or his shadow.”

Golden shrugged. “We wouldn’t be sitting here if Pitr was acceptable to Hannah.”

Frasier reluctantly accepted that reasoning.

“Outside of Pitr,” Hannah asked Frasier, “do you have a suggestion?”

Frasier turned to Golden. “How is Neeley’s therapy going?”

“She’s killing someone as we speak. She and your man Roland.”

“That’s not answering the question,” Frasier said. “Although the fact she’s working in concert with another operative is a change for her.”

“It is,” Golden said, and her tone indicated displeasure, but whether it was at someone being killed (doubtful), Neeley working with someone else (possible), or just Frasier in general (likely) wasn’t clear.

Hannah spoke up. “Neeley is an excellent field operative, but she isn’t managerial material.”

“You don’t want to let her go,” Frasier said.

“My desires play no role in field decisions,” Hannah said in a voice that dripped ice.

Frasier backtracked slightly. “Certainly.” He gestured at the folders. “It’s obvious you have candidates,” Frasier said. “If we knew who they were, we could—”

Further words were forestalled as a strip of red light all around the edge of the ceiling began flashing, accompanied by a klaxon. For the first time in the presence of others since taking this position, Hannah was rattled. She stared at the light, mouth slightly open, eyes blinking. Then she shook her head, gathering herself, and opened the top, right-hand drawer of her desk. She pulled out a leather-bound file secured with a red ribbon, which was sealed with, of all things, wax. Hannah ran a finger under the ribbon and broke the wax seal. She flipped the file open.

Frasier and Golden exchanged glances, the klaxon resounding in their ears, but Hannah was focused on reading.

Hannah stood up abruptly and walked across the office. She slid aside a panel that had appeared to simply be part of the drab gray metal wall, exposing a switch. Hannah pulled the switch and the klaxon stopped. The red light stopped flashing but it stayed lit, tainting the room with its glow. Another panel slid down just above the switch and an old red bulb display appeared; a countdown apparently from the time of Dr. No.

12:00

As they watched, the first second counted off.

11:59:59

Hannah stared at the timer for five seconds and then returned to her desk. She sat down, and the look on her face dissuaded either of the two psychiatrists from asking any questions. She read some more from the file, slowly, steadily, before putting it on the desk and raising her eyes to her guests.

“What is it?” Doctor Golden asked, having never seen her normally somber boss so grave. It was as if a statue had frozen into diamond. “What happens in twelve hours?”

“Unless we stop it,” Hannah said, “the end of our existence.”

Eleven Hours

Scout was riding Comanche through the neighborhood, glad that the construction boom that had started this housing enclave over two years ago had ground to a standstill along with the economy. When her family had moved in, the latest construction, five empty lots down, had been proceeding furiously, even on Thanksgiving, but then it had suddenly ceased and the house remained almost complete. This gave Scout quite a few empty lots to race her horse across when she was home.

And fewer neighbors to give her grief.

She was still mightily puzzled and disturbed by her late breakfast. More accurately, her mother’s cooking of the late breakfast: the food and the singing. And then there was the strange text from Jake who’d ignored her calls this afternoon. She hoped Nada would give her a ring and she could run it all by him. He was always a voice of reason and reassurance.

She heard a helicopter in the distance, but that was nothing unusual. A unit of Army Air National Guard was based at Knoxville Airport and OH-58 observation helicopters flew over all the time.

Scout knew what kind of aviation they were because she’d flown in enough copters during her training to be able to differentiate. Scout halted Comanche and cocked her head to the side to hear more clearly. There was something different about this helicopter. A different thrum to the rotors and engines. A UH-60 Black Hawk, and it was coming closer.

Comanche was startled as the Black Hawk helicopter raced in, just above the treetops, and banked hard barely thirty feet overhead. Scout got the horse under control with great difficulty as the chopper landed in the field in front of her. A side door slid open and a man in camouflage fatigues hopped off. He jogged toward her with the gait of a man who wasn’t used to jogging. He had a small camouflage bag in one hand.

His face was flushed red when he reached her. “Scout, I’m Colonel Orlando. I’m here from the Nightstalkers.”

Scout slid off her horse. She looked past Orlando at the chopper. There was a door gunner, weapon at the ready, and Scout had no doubt there were real bullets in the machine gun. “Where’s Nada?”

“He’s en route to the rally point,” Orlando said. He gestured toward the chopper. “We need to go now.”

“What about Comanche?”

Orlando put a hand on her elbow. “I’ve got Acme support coming. They’ll find your horse and stable it. You can count on it.”

“But—” Orlando cut her off.

“Scout, I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to discuss this. We have to move now.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a piggy bank. “Nada said to give you this.”

Scout reluctantly let go of the reins and took the bank. She allowed Orlando to lead her to the chopper.

“Really sorry to be in such a rush,” Orlando repeated, and she sensed he was. “Normally I do a test on a new recruit. Harvey, or the suicide bomber, or something like that, but Nada vouches for you and that’s good enough. You’ve had three months of training, which is barely enough to get you in the Army, never mind the Nightstalkers. But you’ve already worked with the team. And you’re still alive, so that’s a pretty good test that you’ve passed. Twice.”

They reached the helicopter and Scout hopped aboard, placing the piggy bank on her lap. Orlando had a little more trouble getting on board, but the second he was inside, the chopper lifted.

The import of what Orlando had said struck her suddenly. She had to shout to be heard above the blade and engine noise. “Does that mean I’m a Nightstalker now?”

“Not up to me,” Orlando said.

“Are we going to Area 51?”

“Nope.”

“Is this in regard to my text?”

“No idea.”

“My training?

“No clue.”

“Well, okay.” Scout saw Comanche standing calmly where she’d left him, peering up at the receding helicopter. The horse didn’t seem that upset, but then again, it was a horse. Then she shifted her gaze. Scout could already see the Knoxville Airport directly ahead. “Where are we going?”

“New York City.”

“Cool beans,” Scout said. “I’ve never been to the Big Apple.”

An F-14 Tomcat was waiting for Roland at Naval Air Station Whidbey Island, engines throttled back, pilot at the ready.

Roland got out of the truck, still dressed all in black, his face covered with camouflage paint, his field pack over one shoulder, his other hand holding the case for his sniper rifle. Neeley got out also and stood next to him. They waited awkwardly, side by side, neither certain what to say. Roland’s stomach rumbled since he still hadn’t gotten a chance to eat since the shooting.

Roland settled on mission, which is what he always did when nervous. “That guy said some weird stuff.”

“What weird stuff?” Neeley asked.

Roland relayed Carl Coyne’s last words verbatim.

“People say strange things facing death,” was all Neeley could say. They were both still rattled by the body disappearing. “Any idea what he meant by the Patrol?”

“Nope.”

“Ratnik is interesting,” Neeley said. “Russian, I think. We’ll have to check into it.”

“Okay.” It was obvious Roland could care less what Coyne had said.

“And Sin Fen,” Neeley said. “A name perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“That was a strange anomaly,” Neeley added about the disappearing body, for lack of anything else to say.

“It was.”

Of course, they were also rattled by the kiss.

“Well . . .” Neeley cleared her throat. “You best be going. Be careful with that”—she nodded at the case of the sniper rifle. “Don’t hit anything important in the cockpit.”

“Yeah.” Roland took a step toward the waiting jet, and then turned back to her. He stuck a big paw out. “It was an honor to serve with you.”

Neeley shook his hand.

Roland flushed red once more underneath the green and black camouflage. Then he turned abruptly for the fighter.

As the jet roared down the runway and disappeared into the clouds overhead, Neeley’s cell phone began to ring.

There was only one person who had that number: Hannah.

SEE
ALL
THE
POISINUS
SNAKES
75
CENTS

The sign was punched full of bullet holes and rusting so badly it was difficult to read the letters. Eagle was driving the Humvee (Eagle always drove), Mac was in the passenger seat listening to Pitr give him an update (not much information other than to get to New York City ASAP), and Kirk was in the center turret manning the .50 caliber machine gun (because someone always manned the .50). Doc was in the backseat, still complaining about the lack of Ivar.

No one was singing Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money.”

Eagle slammed on the brakes in irritation as two guards popped up out of hide holes, their laser sights sending red dots dancing on Eagle’s and Kirk’s foreheads. Eagle also knew a Hellfire missile had been targeted on the Humvee as soon as they got in range. Its firing mechanism was slaved to the guards’ triggers and also their body monitors: If they either fired their weapons and/or died, the Humvee would be blasted.

Sometimes the intense security at the Ranch got on his nerves.

One of the contractors came forward and flashed the retina scanner into Eagle’s eyes.

“Are any of us who we really think we are?” Eagle asked the contractor, because Eagle always liked jangling their psyches.

The guard ignored him, as they all learned to do. The guard waved them through, although Eagle picked up a glint in the man’s eyes that indicated he’d like nothing better than to pull his trigger, or even die, just to have that Hellfire let loose.

Eagle accelerated toward the barn. Which is what it looked like. Old wood planking, sagging roof, paint faded away by desert storms. Certainly long abandoned, the casual observer would assume.

He aimed for the doors that appeared to be drooping on rusting hinges. The doors were actually reinforced concrete that could take an RPG hit and shrug it off. Mac reached up and hit a button on the top of the windshield. The sophisticated garage door opener sent the correct signal (the wrong signal got the Hellfire up the ass of the approaching vehicle), and the two doors swung smoothly open, hydraulic arms handling the heavy loads.