Milosz stuck close to McCutcheon’s Jeep, tailing him through the enormous military facility, a city within a city. The other vehicles in the small procession had peeled off earlier to seek out some basic supplies, fresh fruit being one item much needed back in Temple. McCutcheon had mentioned that the Post Exchange had a good supply, but he’d never said where it came from. Caitlin was hoping they might score some oranges or tangerines.
Like the air force bases her father had served at, a lot of Fort Hood could have passed for any patch of American suburbia, with a smattering of warehouses and industrial centres dropped into the mix. Brick barracks that looked more like college dorms were faced by large multi-bay garages where TDF and civilians went about the task of salvaging and maintaining the massive fleet of military hardware. A cluster of soldiers took a break at one motor pool, gathering around a light-tan food truck, purchasing sandwiches, sodas and other products from the fried, fat, salt, grease and sugar food groups.
Any thoughts that the Hood was simply an office park in uniform were dispelled, however, by the sight of an Abrams tank at an intersection close to the 1st Cavalry Division Museum, on Headquarters Avenue. The modern tank stood in stark contrast to the collection of mostly olive, drab vehicles from the US Army’s past. The crew waved at McCutcheon, receiving a hand wave in return.
‘The tanks are a bit excessive, aren’t they?’ Caitlin asked.
‘Probably there for your benefit,’ Musso said. ‘This checkpoint is normally manned with Hummers. It’s just Mad Jack putting on the ritz.’
The III Corps Headquarters came into view across a browned-out, wide-open parade field. Caitlin half expected to see troops marching back and forth, but apparently they had better things to do. A single soldier made his or her way across the field, destination unknown. Headquarters itself could well have been any building in any industrial park throughout North America, although the silver-grey structure was certainly distinctive enough, with its three-wing design. A banner hanging across the facade under the III Corps name proclaimed the following: Welcome to Fort Hood. Provisional Capital of the State of Texas.
They pulled up behind McCutcheon as he swung down from the Jeep, a pair of Ray-Bans in place to protect his bloodshot eyes from the glare of the morning sun.
‘Sergeant,’ he said, addressing Milosz, ‘we’ll probably be a couple of hours. If you and the private here are feeling peckish, you can get yourselves fixed up on base, or if you’d be more comfortable in town - and as long as your boss is fine with that, of course - I can recommend the breakfast burger at Greybeard’s, back in Willow Springs. That was the last little shopping village we rolled through before hitting the base. But if General Musso wants you to stay close, there’s also the Burger King down the road, although it doesn’t quite serve the old-fashioned Whopper we all remember and love.’
‘Is not to be worrying,’ replied Milosz. ‘I have seagull’s breakfast today. A drink of water and a look around.’
‘Go get yourself a coffee and a proper feed,’ Musso said, dismissing his escort after checking that both men had cell phone coverage.
Caitlin wore the uniform of the day - a winter-weight battle dress outfit designed for the forests of Cold War Europe. It was infused with enough starch that she imagined it could deflect bullets and knife strikes at the right angle. In many respects, Echelon’s undercover operative blended in with the Texas Defense Force personnel, who retained the same BDUs as the United States armed forces. Only the blue embroidery of her name tag and collar rank marked her as an outsider. She would’ve preferred to have worn the lighter, summer-weight BDUs she sometimes donned for field work, but they were too ripped and faded for use here. There would be no explaining how Colonel Murdoch had got them so scruffy-looking, sitting behind a desk in the UK.
Musso seemed to have deliberately dressed down, opting for a pair of hard-wearing boots, jeans, an old polo shirt and a jacket that looked like an insulated rain slicker. She wondered if he was drawing from James Kipper’s style guide. Sending his own message.
‘All righty then,’ declared McCutcheon, clapping his hands together as though hangovers weren’t something he had to worry about. ‘Let’s go see the big bad wolf.’
40
FORT HOOD, KILLEEN, TEXAS ADMINISTRATIVE DIVISION
Low clouds, heavy with the threat of freezing rain turned the wasteland between Temple and Killeen darker than one of the lowest, most benighted levels of Hades. But that suited Sofia Pieraro’s purposes just fine. She was used to moving through the night quietly, unseen. The unpleasant conditions would also keep Blackstone’s troopers inside their guard houses, nursing cups of cocoa, possibly fortified with a shot or two of something stronger. Or they would gather around oil drums and small bonfires, stamping their feet against the cold, their night vision wrecked by the flames. More than once, on the long trek from Texas to KC, they had encountered bandits who made the same mistakes again and again. Some of them had died for it. Some of them at Sofia’s own hand. For now, however, she glided on.
All of the local radio stations, which she had monitored so diligently, trumpeted the recent lifting of roadblocks between the state and federal settlements as a reassuring sign of improved relations between the Kipper and Blackstone administrations. Sofia hoped not. She would hate to think that what little faith her father had invested in the President had been completely misplaced. But for her, right now, the loosening of security was a godsend. The road ahead of her began to climb up a gentle hill, and she stood on the pedals of the salvaged mountain bike to bring more of her strength to bear. The shoooosh of the bicycle’s tyres, and her own steady breathing were the only sounds she could hear beyond the call of an occasional night bird.
She strained in the dark to pick up anything that might warn her of danger nearby. Voices. Vehicle noises. The clink of bottles or cutlery. Anything that might indicate the presence nearby of TDF troopers, or indeed of anybody who might attempt to interfere with her plans.
But there was nothing. Not this far out from Killeen and Fort Hood. She calculated that she was well within the territory of the state government now. The fields on either side of the road were sown with winter crops, tended by indentured workers from the south. They would be locked up in their barracks now, and the attention of the guards focused in on them, not out towards the night.
Approaching the crest of the small hill she slowed, stopped, and dismounted. The figure of the young teenage girl, diminutive in the vastness of the empty land, remained so still and quiet for so long that she disappeared into the background. While Sofia waited, and allowed her senses to flow outwards, searching for any sign of threat, a long-eared jackrabbit hopped onto the road not ten yards away from her. With its filthy, matted fur it was difficult to see at first, even with her dark adapted eyes. But she caught the movement in her peripheral vision as it hopped across the tarmac. Were she on the trail, as she had been so long ago in another life, she might have shot the rabbit, or used a hunting bow if stealth was in order, to secure her meal for the day. But she had eaten well before leaving Temple, and had no need of sustenance.
What she needed was to pass through Blackstone’s defences and into the heart of his lair.
After a few minutes, satisfied that she remained alone on the road, she pushed off, soon cresting the gentle rise and coasting down the slope on the far side. The moderate elevation provided her with a view of Fort Hood for the first time. It seemed to blaze in the night like a fierce jewel, but she knew that to be an illusion. So used was she to travelling through the haunted ruins of America that even a few hundred houses lit up, and a few streetlights strung between them, were enough to create the impression of bountiful life and energy in the midst of an almost infinite wilderness.