Riley had heard Powers report that he'd fired on the Synbats and that the animals had scaled the cliff and were running. Other units were closing in. The TOC was trying to throw together a hasty net to try and sweep up the Synbats.
The radio crackled. "This is Nighthawk. I've got multiple contacts on LLTV, vehicle and dismounted. I've also got horses on my screens. Impossible to find the target. Over."
"All elements, this is Search Base. Mark yourselves for identification by Nighthawk. Over."
Riley slid down into the humvee and reached into an outer pocket on his rucksack, retrieving a black watch cap. He turned the cap inside out, exposing the fluorescent tape sewn there, and put it on. Standing back up in the hatch, he knew that the tape would show up clearly on the low-light television (LLTV) of the Spectre gunship and the thermal sights of the OH-6s.
"This is Nighthawk. I've got small arms firing. Grid one two five, six five three. I say again. Small arms firing. Grid one two five, six five three. Over."
Riley shined a red-lens flashlight down on his map. "Take the next right, John." As the vehicle turned, Riley released the safety on the trigger of the .50 caliber.
Chapter 17
Doc Seay and Martie Trustin were working on the wounded under the glare of headlights from various pickup trucks and rigs. Riley had the rest of his team deployed in a loose perimeter, supplemented by almost a hundred men with Civil War muskets. It would have almost been humorous except for the four bodies laid out under ponchos nearby and the wounded who were being tended.
Riley had already called the situation in to Search Base. Other than holding a perimeter to prevent the Synbats from coming in again, he was at a loss as to what to do. Going after the Synbats wasn't possible because they had no idea where the creatures were. By the time they'd gotten here, the Synbats had already disappeared and no one was sure in which direction.
Riley had ignored the numerous questions thrown his way by the reenactors. There wasn't anything he could say, except to tell everyone to stay inside the parameters of the open field.
Military vehicles were now rolling into the field as reinforcements arrived. General Trollers and Colonel Lewis hopped out of one humvee and hurried over to Riley's location.
Trollers's eyes were flashing in the glint of the headlights. "Where did the Synbats go?"
Riley shrugged. "I don't know, sir. They hit coming from the west, but I haven't been able to find anyone who could tell me which way they left."
"What about Nighthawk?"
"It's picking up multiple targets. Our people are marked, but these reenactors are all over the place."
Trollers turned to Colonel Lewis. "Let's clear these people out now."
"Yes, sir."
Few wild animals have had a more devastating encounter with man than the bison, commonly miscalled the American buffalo. From an estimated peak strength of thirty million to a low of five hundred at the turn of the century, the herds have slowly increased to a present size of approximately thirty-five to fifty thousand.
With a half moon rising in the eastern sky, the herd of fifty-three bison at the Buffalo Range at Land Between the Lakes had just increased by one. The mother finished licking the newborn calf to clean it off, and it immediately suckled up.
The bachelor groups of massive males, some weighing almost two thousand pounds, ignored the maternal efforts. It would be two more months until breeding season, when they would mingle again with the cow-calf herds to initiate the reproductive process.
This particular evening one of the males, an old bison that had seen the turn of many seasons, was alert, but not because of the events going on inside the fence of the range. There was something outside that disturbed him.
He turned his massive head from side to side, shaggy long hair drooping to the ground. His nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath of dark air: There it was again, just on the edge of his smell range, coming from the east. Synapses clicked in the bison's brain as it tried to recall ever smelling that particular odor.
The bull waited with growing agitation. The smell was getting closer — an incoming tide of danger. Other bulls were aroused, shaken by the old one's movements. A ripple of unease ran through the herd. Instinctively the mothers pushed their young calves to the center and the males spread out in a semicircle, facing the Trace that ran along the fence on the east side of the range.
The old bull's beady eyes narrowed, searching the dark tree line on the far side of the road. Something tentatively left the safety of the darkness and crept out onto the road. Another joined it. The intruders were drawn by the smell of fresh blood from the birth. The bulls began snorting and stomping at the earth, huge horns swinging back and forth.
The newcomers crossed the road, skulking up to the fence, sensing that the barbwire was the range of their safety. They looked over the thousands of pounds of horned protection between them and the newborn calf.
Tonight would not be the night. The intruders turned and slunk back into the woods in search of easier prey.
It took the herd almost an hour to calm down. Soon all but the old one were asleep, the newborn curled up with its mother. The old one walked slowly along the fence. He was troubled. This was something bad and he didn't like it. He knew that those predators would be back.
Riley put his team on 50 percent alert. There was a long night ahead and tomorrow would be a critical day. His men needed rest. He doubted that the Synbats would attack Search Base, but at this point he was past trying to figure out what they would and would not do.
He'd received Kate's last message from Powers when the NCO had returned to the base camp after his adventure at the cliffs. Although Ward was no longer an issue, Merrit certainly was. How much of what she said could be believed? Riley hadn't been overly impressed with the videotape. Although it was certainly possible that the Synbats had been trying to trick Merrit into opening the cages, it was more likely that she had overreacted. Riley shook his head. The issue wasn't Merrit; the issue was the Synbats. He needed to concentrate on what he knew for sure.
He lay back on his rucksack outside the glow of the lights at the TOC and took stock of the situation. About half of the reenactors had been moved out, but there were stragglers here and there. It was also unknown how many other people were still in the park. Tomorrow would be the big clearout and then tomorrow night the shoot.
It was all looking too easy. The Synbats had been one step ahead of him from the start, mainly because he'd thought of them as animals, never as intelligent opponents. Now that he knew the truth, it was time to correct that operational fault. To anticipate the enemy's moves was a tenet of operational planning. Riley decided to review the facts in his mind, see how they fit together, then try to project a course of action for the Synbats.
As he started to concentrate, a figure appeared in the darkness. "We need to talk."
Riley unwrapped himself from his poncho liner and followed Colonel Hossey over to the DIA van. A single man sat at the communications console, monitoring it. A small figure bundled in a blanket in a chair was the object of Hossey's search. He tapped her on the shoulder, waking her. "We need to talk to you."
"Stop!" she cried out. Merrit blinked the sleep out of her eyes. "Another contact with the Synbats?"
Hossey led the way to the door. "No. I want to discuss what's going on. Let's go outside and talk."