The pale blue truck had clearly seen hard service, and was equipped with muddy Montana plates. Hale opened the driver’s-side door, threw the duffel bag onto the far side of the bench-style seat, and slid in behind the big black steering wheel. The key was in the ignition and the six-cylinder engine started with a throaty roar. Which wasn’t too surprising since SRPA mechanics had gone over the vehicle less than twenty-four hours before.
The four-wheel-drive differential was already engaged, so all Hale had to do was put the pickup in gear and head north along the two-lane highway. Local ranchers had left tracks in the snow, but judging from the way they were partially filled in, it had been at least six hours since the last vehicle had passed.
As Hale looked to his left he could see snow-covered range land, the Absaroka Mountain range beyond, and a strip of cold winter light that divided the ground from the pewter gray sky. The heater was on, but hadn’t made much progress warming the cab, since all of its strength was directed up onto the slightly foggy windshield. It was a familiar scene—and one that was reminiscent of Hale’s childhood.
The truck was equipped with an AM radio, and it wasn’t long before Hale was listening to “Long Gone Lonesome Blues” by Hank Williams and His Drifting Cowboys. The music carried him north past ranch houses set back off the road, barns shingled with snow, and bare-branched trees. He came to a gravel road marked only by a mailbox mounted on a rusty old plow and that—according to the instructions he had been given—was the point where he was supposed to turn right.
So Hale put the wheel over and soon found himself on a well-churned road that ran straight as an arrow along a barbed wire fence, and pointed toward the rise beyond. As the truck sent waves of slush rolling right and left Hale began to feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
He often played the part of a hunter, as well as the hunted, and knew the feeling well. Somewhere, perhaps from the pile of snow-frosted boulders two hundred yards to the left, eyes were watching him. And unless he missed his guess the lookout had a radio, and was already in the process of reporting the new arrival.
A discipline Hale understood and was respectful of.
As the truck topped the rise Hale saw a collection of buildings that lay beyond. Some were old and weather-beaten, clearly part of a ranch that had been there for a long time; others had the bright yellow-orange glow of new lumber. They looked like military-style barracks and that made sense, since even though government officials frowned on it, the property had been rededicated as a boot camp for Freedom First volunteers. Once trained, they would be sent north into stink land, or if Montana was overrun, the fighters would remain behind to carry out hit-and-run raids against the Chimera. Missions Hale not only approved of, but thought the government should sponsor, rather than playing defense so much of the time.
A pole-gate made from a freshly barked log blocked the road, so Hale brought the truck to a stop, as two men dressed in deer hunting outfits came out to greet him. Both were armed with Bullseye Mark IIIs rather than deer rifles, which suggested that they had other game in mind. One of the sentries kept his weapon ready as Hale cranked the window down and the other man sauntered over to greet him. He had a craggy outdoorsy sort of face, half of which was invisible behind a thick beard. A wisp of vapor drifted away from his mouth as he spoke. “Hey, bud, this is private property. If you’re looking for Custer, then turn around, and head back. The first right will put you back on the highway.”
“Thanks,” Hale replied neutrally, “but I think I’m in the right place. Assuming this is the Freedom First training camp that is. I’m here to volunteer.”
The sentry frowned. “You got stink eyes… Anyone tell you that?”
“Lots of people,” Hale replied nonchalantly. “Yellow eyes run in the family. My father had ′em, and his father before him.”
The man looked doubtful, but nodded anyway, and he pointed to a parking lot where about two dozen vehicles were parked. Some were covered with snow, and clearly hadn’t been driven for a while, while others were bare.
“Put the truck over there, bud,” the sentry said brusquely. “If you’re carrying weapons, lock them in the cab. Follow the signs to the admin building. Ask for Mr. Munger. He’s in charge of recruiting, and just about everything else around here.”
Hale thanked the man, waited for the second sentry to push down on the weighted pole-gate, and drove through. Then, having turned into the parking lot, he chose a spot between a late-model sedan and an old flatbed truck. Hale was carrying nothing more than a .45 semiautomatic pistol, which was consistent with his cover story and small enough to put in the glove box.
He got out of the truck and crossed the lot, then followed a trail of hand-painted signs to what had once been a one-story log home, but now functioned as the “Administration Building.” Somewhere off in the distance the steady pop, pop, pop of gunfire could be heard, suggesting that some of the trainees were on the rifle range.
At least he hoped that was what it was.
Two more men were waiting for Hale inside the admin building. Both wore wool shirts, faded jeans, and sidearms. One was chewing on a wooden match. His eyes were nearly invisible inside a convergence of wrinkles. “Mornin’,” he said conversationally. “Please turn to the left and put your weight on the wall. Lester here wants to feel you up.” It was an old joke, but still sufficient to elicit an appreciative guffaw from Lester, who ran a pair of rough hands over Hale without finding any weapons.
Having passed that inspection, he was ordered to take a seat in what had once been a spacious living room. It was still homey, with a dark green rug, worn overstuffed furniture, and a crackling fire in the river-rock fireplace. The walls were covered with a variety of black-and-white photos. All of them were of the same man who could be seen fishing for trout, kneeling next to all manner of dead animals, and sitting atop a succession of fine-looking horses as he looked out over some vista or other. The ranch’s owner then? Yes, Hale thought so, as he took a seat.
Hale was scanning old copies of Field & Stream when a man dressed in a tweed coat, corduroy trousers, and highly polished brown cowboy boots came out to meet him. Hale recognized him as the man in the photos. “Hello,” the man said. “My name is Munger. Homer Munger. And you are?”
“Nathan Leary,” Hale replied. “Glad to meet you.”
Munger had a thin, somewhat ascetic countenance. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Leary,” he said grimly. “Many hear the call—but few are chosen. Please follow me.”
Hale followed Munger back into what had been the home’s master bedroom but was now furnished as an office, complete with a large wooden desk, lots of bookshelves, and a military-style two-way radio that occupied most of a side table. An extremely detailed map of Montana covered most of one wall. Munger had circled the desk, and appeared ready to sit down, when he spoke. “Atten-hut!”
After years in the Army, then SRPA, Hale very nearly snapped to. It took an act of will to frown and look confused, straighten up, and assume the sort of sloppy brace that a brand-new recruit might. Munger nodded approvingly and smiled.
“Sorry about that, but the Grace administration doesn’t approve of our activities, and they continue to send spies from time to time. Soldiers mostly, men who look the way you do, and almost always pop to attention.” With that, he took his place in the chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Leary, and tell me about yourself.”