The river was smooth and calm. Scout could see the reflection of the few scattered clouds overhead in the surface of the water. It might be a river, but it was a slow-moving river, the flow determined by how much the TVA opened the sluices at Fort Loudoun Dam. There were times when it did indeed seem more like a lake than a river, the water still, logs and branches floating in it seemingly suspended in place for hours on end.
Slow would be good, Scout thought. Whatever had been in her toothbrush had seemed to move with the water. The boat whose engine had died had restarted and was gone downriver. There had been no other traffic since then. Scout was about to turn Comanche around and give him a workout when the hairs on her arm tingled.
Hoping the anal neighbors beyond the farm weren’t home, Scout looped Comanche around and then straight at the fence. He jumped and they cleared the top board easily. Scout pushed Comanche along the riverbank, through someone’s backyard, past their dock. Then she came to another fence, which Comanche bounded over.
She wasn’t in anyone’s backyard now, but rather a stretch of land underneath the power lines. The tower on this side had vines growing up the metal legs. The power lines, all eight of them, crossed the river high enough that they had large red balls attached to them as warnings for low-flying aircraft.
Scout slowly turned the horse, looking for whatever it was that was making her skin tingle. Comanche stirred nervously and started to back up. Since the horse had firsthand experience with a Firefly, and Comanche was smarter than most people she knew, Scout gave her horse free rein.
Then she saw it. A thin line of black through the high grass, as if a line of flame had come out of the river and moved inland about six feet. There was no fire visible, just the grass curling and turning black. Whatever was causing this was moving very, very slowly. Scout watched it for a few minutes. The line was headed directly toward one of the legs of the tower. She guesstimated at the rate it was moving, it would reach it this evening. Of course, she knew her guess was about something no one had probably ever seen before, so who knew?
Then Comanche stirred and began pawing at the dirt.
“I don’t blame you,” Scout said, patting the horse’s neck.
And then Comanche galloped forward, right to the black line being etched into the ground.
“Whoa!” Scout yelled, but the horse ignored her. He reached the line and then raced along it to the riverbank, where he came to an abrupt halt, almost sending Scout flying.
“What is wrong with you?” Scout demanded.
The horse looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes as if trying to tell her something.
“I know. Bad, bad, bad,” Scout said, pulling on the reins and turning Comanche around.
Scout looked up at the tower.
She didn’t know what was going to happen when the line reached the tower, but she was willing to lay off every dime in her piggy bank it wasn’t going to be good
Then she remembered the Nightstalkers had broken her piggy bank when they took out the Firefly in her curling iron back in North Carolina.
When they showed, and she had complete faith Nada and the rest would show, she vowed to get another piggy bank out of them.
Burns was driving the Prius on I-24, just past Paducah, Kentucky, when the engine died. He steered the car to the side of a bridge on the interstate and sat still for a moment, examining the dashboard. A yellow light was blinking, indicating he was out of fuel. The battery was dead.
Looking around, he saw a dam to his left. The GPS indicated it was Kentucky Dam, the last one on the Tennessee River before it joined the Ohio, which he’d crossed just a few miles back.
“Interesting,” Burns murmured to himself.
He got out of the car and opened the hood. He stared at the engine for several moments. Behind him, a pickup truck pulled over. Burns glanced over his shoulder as the driver got out. He was a young, tattooed man in coveralls, sporting the obligatory John Deere cap every male in the flyover states had in their possession.
“Even them fancy electric cars run out of gas, don’t they?” the guy said as he walked up.
Burns turned to face the man, who stopped in his tracks when he saw Burns’s face. “Fuck, dude. What the devil happened to you?”
“An old wound,” Burns said. The suppressed pistol was heavy in his coat pocket.
“Awfully sorry, dude, awfully sorry.” The man jerked a thumb back at his truck. “I can ride you to the next exit and we can get you a gas can.”
“No need,” Burns said as he turned back to the engine. He had a feeling that ride would turn out differently than the man indicated. He reached in, wrapping one hand around a wire. He closed his eyes.
“Hey!” the guy called out. “Be careful!”
Burns’s hand glowed gold and power surged into the battery. He held on for ten seconds, then let go. Burns staggered, drained just like the car had been.
“You okay?” The guy came closer. “What did you do? I ain’t never seen nothing like that.”
Burns could now see the tire iron hidden in the hand the man kept at his side. He put his own hand in the pocket of the coat, fingers curling around the pistol grip. Then he reconsidered. Given all the cars and trucks racing by just a few feet away on the highway, the gun was unnecessary. Burns stepped up to the man, who realized at the last second, his last second, that he’d made a mistake to stop and try to rob this stranger.
Burns swung his arm, sending the man tumbling out onto the highway. A large pickup truck, apropos for the hat, hit him, sending him flying. Both the man’s shoes were still on the pavement where he’d been hit. As tires screeched and drivers swerved, Burns got back in the Prius, put on his turn signal, and accelerated around the traffic jam he’d just caused.
Heading southeast.
Following the river.
“We both have flights to catch and things to do today, so you’re getting the Cliff’s Notes version.” Moms jumped into Ivar’s in-briefing without a how-do-you-do. Of course, Moms never did a how-do-you-do, so it wasn’t a big deal. Doc was with them, because as soon as this was over, he was taking Ivar over to Area 51 and the Can and then the Archives.
Unlike Ms. Jones’s office, the CP (command post) that held Moms’s and Nada’s battered gray desks was secured by a solid steel door.
“Sit,” Nada said, pointing at a plush armchair facing the angled desks. As Ivar sank into the chair, Doc perched himself on a table covered with photos and documents.
Moms closed her eyes for a moment, as if remembering all the times she’d given this in-brief. “You don’t have a military background,” she started with. “So that makes things a bit different. Most of your teammates came out of elite Special Operations units: Delta Force, SEALs, Special Forces, Rangers, CIA, et cetera. So they came with a set of expectations, both good and bad. The good for you is we’re not like the normal military or even normal Special Ops. We’re a true team and don’t do rank or a lot of other military things. I’m the team leader and Nada is the team sergeant. What that means is that you have any problems, any questions, you go to Nada. The reason for that is I answer to Ms. Jones and that’s my focus. I’m the liaison between the team and her.” She paused. “Well, except for today apparently.” She and Nada exchanged another what-the-frak glance.
“Nada takes care of the team. I take care of the mission. Follow?”
Ivar nodded.
“But, if you need to, you can come to me. But always go to Nada first. He can solve pretty much any problem you got.”
“Pretty much,” Nada muttered. He was opening drawers, tossing thick binders on his desk.
“Nada has been a Nightstalker longer than any of us,” Moms added. “We’re all happy to have you join the team.”