Behind him Bobby heard sudden shouting and alarms being raised. He heard other horses, but none of them came toward him.
Within minutes gunshots sounded in the night. He ducked low on the buckboard. Only once did he hear a bullet whiz past him; all the other shots went completely wild. He drove the horse team by cracking the reins again and again, and they ran in blind, hot panic through the flat darkness. Bobby prayed they wouldn’t stumble across a sudden ravine or arroyo.
After about ten minutes of hard riding, Bobby assumed he had gone more than a mile, and so he pulled the reins to turn the horses eastward. Against the blotted backdrop of stars, he could see the craggy silhouettes of the mountains. The terrain would get more rugged, and he would have to slow down.
He knew the wagon wheels left a painfully clear trail across the gypsum sands, but Bayclock’s trackers wouldn’t be able to see them before the morning light. If Bobby could ride into the hills by then, he could perhaps find a place to hide.
Across the clear silence of the night, he still heard gunshots, the turmoil back at the encampment. He had gotten away for now, but remaining free would require all his wits.
By morning Bobby had driven the wagon into the foothills. He made slow progress at first, forced to get down from the wagon and lead the horses along the winding, hilly path. More than anything, he wanted to get back to Spencer’s enclave by the solar-power farm, but he knew he couldn’t get past Bayclock’s siege. Certainly, he could not take the bulky wagon with three horses up to Spencer’s command center. He would have to hide the satellites in a safe place, hoping to retrieve them when, or if, the scientists ever managed to defeat the general.
By the time full sunlight penetrated the hills, Bobby found a steep arroyo. Its jagged corners were clogged with piñon, scrub-oak, and mesquite. The dense branches and sparse gray-green leaves provided good cover, and Bobby tied the horses while he tried to camouflage the wagon.
He covered it with branches, masking the wagon from sight unless someone stumbled directly on it. As he worked, he thought that this was something Rita Fellenstein would enjoy, playing some sort of mind-game with the general. He smiled as he thought of her—she certainly wasn’t the prettiest woman he’d known, but she was the most interesting; and the only one he knew who wouldn’t take any baloney from him.
As he finished, Bobby knew he had to get back in touch with Spencer. If he got killed before he reached the microwave farm, then no one would ever know where the satellites were—and Bayclock might as well have destroyed them. The smallsats might become a sought-after treasure like the Lost Dutchman Mine.
But Bobby would do his best to keep that from happening.
Knowing he would be much more versatile with only one horse, Bobby packed some supplies and ate a quick breakfast. He picked the strongest-looking horse and mounted up, turning the other two loose to run wild.
Bobby rode down out of the hills in hopes of finding a good route to the solar-power installation. He would try to make his way there after dark.
The time passed quickly as he tried not to follow the way he had come. The White Sands valley stretched out below him as his horse picked its way down. Who would have ever thought that only months before he had been a carefree Naval aviator—
A gunshot rang out, a loud crack that echoed around the hills. The horse was startled and trotted ahead, rolling its head from side to side. Bobby looked around to try and find the source of the gunfire. Another shot rang out, closer this time, and he spotted four riders emerging from the hills, all of them wearing Air Force uniforms.
Bayclock’s men. Another rider charged out in front of him.
Bobby shouted and urged the horse into a full gallop. He hurtled out of the hills, desperately seeking a place to hide, as the other riders launched into pursuit.
Bobby hunched low over the horse’s neck, the mane whipping in the wind, stinging his face. Hooves thundered as Bobby’s horse leaped over a cluster of rocks and kept charging downhill.
Behind him, the riders split up to intercept him. They shot again, and Bobby knew they had no interest in capturing him alive this time. At least he had fled far enough that the satellites were safe—but these riders must have tracked the wagon trail. How many men had Bayclock sent out after him?
The gunshots came in faster succession now. The riders tightened the distance. Another volley of shots—the loudest so far—rang out in a sudden echo like firecrackers.
The horse whinnied and reared as Bobby saw a sudden scarlet blotch appear on it’s ribcage four inches in front of his own thigh. The horse stumbled, falling over and throwing Bobby.
He tried to hold on, but then rolled free as the horse thrashed on the ground to get to its feet again. The horse was bleeding heavily from the large gunshot wound close to its heart. It stamped up and down, then staggered back, limping.
Bobby stood gingerly. His leg was sore, but nothing was broken, nothing sprained. He looked around for some rocks to hide in, anything for shelter.
Then the hoofbeats of other horses pounded down on him from all sides. Four riders came up, each with rifle drawn.
Bobby stood slowly with his back against a wall of sandstone, and raised his hands in surrender.
By late morning, Bobby Carron found himself Bayclock’s prisoner once more. They tied him helplessly on the back of a horse, then rode off toward the foothills on the opposite side of the valley. The encampment had already moved, and from his rocking position on horseback, Bobby was dismayed to see that the general’s army had succeeded in taking over the damaged railgun facility in only a few hours.
The troops had marched up to the control buildings at the bottom of the miles-long electromagnetic launcher. From what he could tell, the scientists had not put up much of a fight.
Bobby stumbled when his captors hauled him off the horse and dragged him to his feet. Smears of soot blackened the launcher control building. He tried to see other people he recognized. He hoped the scientists had gotten away.
General Bayclock strode out of the burned-out control building. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked at Bobby with disgust. “This time I’m taking no chances. Lead the prisoner to the telephone pole. Right now.”
One of the guards shoved him down a path toward an old creosote-covered utility pole that had once carried electricity to the launcher facility. Spencer’s people had already removed the wires from the pole—but Bayclock had another purpose in mind.
“I knew you were a traitor, Lieutenant, but I didn’t believe you would team up with a slimeball like Connor Brooks to steal the satellites. We’ll find him, soon. Which one of you murdered Sergeant Morris, or did you take turns bashing her head in?”
Bobby stared at him. Sergeant Morris, dead? He said numbly, “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t insult me,” said Bayclock. “I think we’ll go the high route with you.” The general looked up to the wooden crossbars on the electrical pole. “We’ll hoist you up so we don’t have to cut down Dr. Nedermyer.”
Bobby wavered as the guards pushed him forward. He saw the blue-black clenched face of Lance Nedermyer. Bayclock had thrown a loop of rope around his neck like a garrote, inserted a short stick, and then twisted it to draw the rope tighter and tighter until it crushed Lance’s larynx and severed his trachea. Bobby saw scuff marks in the sand and fresh gouges from the bottom of the utility pole where Lance had kicked and struggled. His body had already begun to bloat in the bright morning heat.