Two minutes later Hale was holding a package wrapped in layers of carefully sealed oilcloth. “It was under his belt, sir,” Quinn explained. “In the small of his back.”
“Good work, Private,” Hale replied. “When we get back to the base, I’m going to buy you and your squad a round of beers. Now let’s pull everyone out of the room, and throw every air-fuel grenade we have in here… I wish we could do more but there isn’t enough time.”
The entire Processing Center was on fire by the time Hale and troops arrived at the LZ, where one VTOL had already departed, and the rest were loading.
“There’s a whole shitload of stinks on their way down from the north,” Kawecki announced. “The pilots saw ′em on the way in. Plus some of our jets are playing tag with two Chimeran fighters at fifteen thousand feet. They’re outgunned though, so we need to haul ass.”
“That sounds like a very good idea,” Hale said mildly. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Ten minutes later they were in the air and fleeing west. That was when Hale had the opportunity to cut the package open, fool around with the unfamiliar machine he found inside, and listen to the spool Walker had loaded. The recording was pretty boring at first, but it wasn’t too long before the possibility of negotiating with the Chimera came up, along with the name Daedalus. A being with whom Hale was very familiar, and had strong feelings about. When the anger came it arrived slowly, like a fever that made his skin hot, and forced sweat out through his pores.
Images flickered through Hale’s mind. Dead soldiers strewn about the streets of London, the look on Nash’s face a fraction of a second before the bullet hit him between the eyes, the empty shell casings that littered the floor of his family’s home, Old Man Potter sitting in his rocking chair, Barrie going down on the roof, Spook’s tattooed face, Susan in manacles, and the smooth, self-assured man who had promised the people victory, but was preparing to betray them.
And that was the moment when all the pieces fit together, when the slow flush of anger achieved focus, and a new purpose was born.
Walker was dead, but his self-assigned mission was alive, and the man who had chosen to carry it forward was very dangerous indeed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fade to Black
Sheridan, Wyoming
Monday, December 24, 1951
It was a bright sunny day, and the Chimeran battleship that hung over the area north of Sheridan, Wyoming, threw a shadow to the west, as if pointing at the secret base where Daedalus was being held.
The ship looked like a floating island, with smaller craft darting around it, and Sabre Jets etching tracks into the sky far above. As Purvis sent the Party Girl skimming in toward the town’s little airport, he knew that the enemy warship could destroy his aircraft with a single shot from one of its energy cannons.
So why didn’t it?
There was no way to know as he called Hale forward.
“So,” the pilot said, as the Sentinel crowded into the cockpit. “What do you think of that?”
Hale was speechless as he stared up through scratched Plexiglas at the monstrous ship hovering above. But what he knew—and Purvis didn’t—was that Daedalus was being held at a secret facility just outside town. And that President Grace was present as well, supposedly as part of his so-called Victory Tour. His actual reason for being there was to communicate with Daedalus, if such a thing was possible.
More than that, to negotiate with the Chimera in a last-ditch attempt to slow—if not stop—their inexorable advance. So odds were that the presence of the looming ship had something to do with those talks.
But Hale couldn’t voice what he knew, so he made the only kind of comment he could. “That thing is big, Harley—so don’t piss it off.”
Purvis glanced at Hale, realized that the Sentinel knew more than he cared to admit, and produced a snort of disgust. “I don’t know what’s going on here—but I hope the brass hats know what they’re doing.”
“So do I,” Hale said grimly. “So do I. But don’t bet on it.”
Once on the ground, he saw that a Lynx was sitting on the tarmac not far from the specially equipped four-engined bomber that had been used to slip Grace in the night before. A ring of heavily armed Rangers were on-site to protect the plane. The four-by-four’s driver came to attention, and delivered a picture-perfect salute.
“Welcome to Wyoming, sir.”
“Thanks,” Hale replied. He returned the salute and placed his duffel bag and weapon in the back. “How long will it take to reach the base?”
“About fifteen minutes, sir,” the Sentinel answered as he slid behind the wheel.
“Okay then,” Hale replied, and took his place in the passenger seat. “Let’s hit it.”
The soldier’s estimate proved to be accurate as the Lynx followed a two-lane highway north for roughly five miles before turning onto a dirt road. Meanwhile, the Chimeran ship not only blotted out a large section of blue sky but bled ozone into the air which crackled with static electricity. The driver made no mention of it, but continued to glance up occasionally as he negotiated the series of twists and turns that led to the base.
When the four-by-four came to a stop in front of the main gate an M-12 tank and a platoon of Rangers were there to greet it. Both men were subjected to redundant security checks by Secret Service, Army, and some of the SRPA personnel who had been added to the President’s security team.
Thanks to Hale’s status as officer in charge of the SRPA detachment, he was cleared with a minimum of fuss, and allowed to proceed. Five minutes later the Lynx came to a halt behind a convoy of six heavily armored vehicles that had been used to ferry Grace in from the airport. They were parked in front of a low concrete building that extended back into the hillside behind it and was protected by a number of antiaircraft batteries.
Hale thanked the driver, took both his bag and carbine out of the back, and carried them to the front of the building where it was necessary to pass through security all over again. Once that process was complete, a Ranger led Hale through a maze of starkly bare corridors to the observation deck, which consisted of a long narrow room that fronted an open space beyond.
Roughly two dozen people were present, half of whom were scientists, the rest being members of the President’s security team or personal staff.
Major Blake was present because in addition to the Sentinels assigned to help guard Grace, SRPA had been called upon to help secure the entire base. So as Hale entered, the major came over to greet him.
“Good work rescuing those prisoners, soldier… Too bad about Dentweiler.”
“Yes, sir,” Hale agreed. “I can’t say I liked the man—but that was a horrible way to go.”
Blake nodded. “Sorry to drag you up here so soon after a difficult mission, but this is turning into a circus, and I need your help.”
Hale raised an eyebrow. He knew Blake pretty well, and could see the anger in the other man’s eyes.
“A circus, sir?”
Blake made a face.
“Dentweiler used Hannah Shepherd to lure Daedalus into a trap and brought him here. Now the President wants to talk to him! Lord knows why.”
Hale knew why based on the tape recordings stored in one of his cargo pockets. And he would have said as much if a klaxon hadn’t begun to bleat, and most of those present went forward to stare out through the armored glass. “What’s going on?” he wanted to know.