“I assume this one is our mission?”
Hannah nodded. “Yes. It is.”
Moms spoke into the phone. “Ms. Jones has the intelligence. I’ll meet you at the objective. Out.” Moms headed for the door, then paused, looking over her shoulder. “Who loved you, Hannah?” she asked. Then she left, not waiting for an answer.
The rain had stopped a little while ago, so now it was just mud. Nice, thick, North Carolina mud.
The Nasty Nick was just a memory and the four Nightstalkers were in the midst of a long snake of camouflaged men, heavy rucks on their backs, marching down what once was a dirt road, now a mud river, through the pine forest that covered most of Camp Mackall.
No one knew how far they had to go, part of the mind games played in SFAS. This forced march could just be a loop back to Camp Rowe and chow, or it could last into the night.
Roland, Kirk, Mac, and Eagle had settled into the rhythm of rucking, which every experienced soldier has developed. They might be a bit older than the candidates around them, but they were more experienced. Some of those in the column, steam rising off of their drying fatigues, were not so fortunate. The obstacle course had taken its toll. Some with sprained ankles were fading through the ranks. Some, in not the best shape, were also fading. What the Nightstalkers knew, and what the others would learn, was that it wasn’t so much one’s physical conditioning that would make the difference but how badly one wanted it. Did they want to wear a green beret or be a Green Beret?
It was early enough in the selection process, still the first week, that their fellows sought to help the ones who were hurting. Weapons were taken to be carried by comrades, even some rucksacks. The Nightstalkers watched but didn’t contribute.
“They’ll figure it out,” Mac said, for once keeping his voice down so that only his fellow Stalkers could hear.
Roland laughed. “I carried three dudes’ rucks our first march here.”
“Figures,” Kirk said. “No one carried anyone else’s shit in Ranger school. Ever. We knew from the start.”
“Weren’t carrying anyone else’s by the end, were you?” Eagle asked Roland.
“Nope,” Roland confirmed. “Everyone’s got to pull their own weight.”
“They’ll figure it out,” Mac repeated.
“Company,” Kirk said, as always looking ahead.
The major, who had metal instead of feet, was waiting by the side of the road. He had on a freshly starched uniform that he’d pulled out of some magic bag and his boots were spit-shined, as if he walked above the mud, not through it. He held up a hand and Master Sergeant Twackhammer bellowed out, “Halt!”
The long line of camouflaged soldiers compressed unevenly to a stop. Several men leaned over, hands on knees, to catch their breath.
Twackhammer was walking along the line, making a mental note of those who showed weakness.
They’d be gone before the week was over.
The major came stalking over toward the Nightstalkers. He had a waterproof bag in his hand.
“Your phones are ringing, gentlemen.” He held it up and everyone could hear a cacophony of four phones blaring “Lawyers, Guns and Money” in sync.
“Thank you, thank you!” Eagle exclaimed as the four pushed their way out of the column.
Because even a Rift was better than North Carolina mud.
The major opened the bag and passed the phones out. “Learn anything?” he asked.
“One for all and all for one,” Mac said as he slipped the phone into his fatigue shirt. “Or something like that.”
“Didn’t that get you sent here?” the major asked.
Eagle nodded. “We learned what we needed to. There’s rules and there are rules.”
The major nodded. “There are indeed. A time and a place for everything. Good luck, gentlemen, and thanks for showing these”—he indicated the candidates—“that old men can keep it up.”
“I ain’t that old,” Mac muttered.
“And,” the major continued, “that brains count more than brawn.”
“I ain’t that brawny,” Eagle said. “But I got brains.”
“I’m brawny,” Roland threw in. He glanced at Eagle. “Right?”
“And”—the major wasn’t done yet—“that desire trumps all.”
When Doc left to go to one of the Porta Potties stationed throughout the Archives (no one ever had to go to the bathroom in the movies, Ivar reflected, and whoever designed the Archives hadn’t factored in that essential human element), Ivar ran over and opened his real target, a drawer labeled THE FUN OUTSIDE TUCSON. Ivar grabbed the hard drive that was sealed inside a plastic envelope. Someone had written CRAEGAN on it. He slipped it into his pocket and scurried back to where he was supposed to be. Deeper into the rabbit hole. Crossing the streams. His line of sayings was interrupted by a ringtone.
Ivar looked to the right. Doc was striding down the aisle, pulling out his cell phone, which was blaring “Lawyers, Guns and Money.” A second later, the phone Ivar had been issued began playing the same tune.
“New guys always seem to be alerted a second or two later on their first mission,” Doc said, slamming shut one open drawer and spinning the combination lock on it. “Let’s go.”
Scout was crouched next to the seawall, sneaking a smoke and watching the river. The guys working on the barge across the way were done for the day and cast off their little boat and puttered away, leaving the barge and pile driver anchored to the far shore.
Now all was calm.
Or at least appeared that way.
Like in those horror movies where everything seemed just fine, right before all the really, really bad stuff happened, Scout thought as she finished the cigarette and then field stripped it. She ground what remained into the ground, then looked up at the sky, as if expecting to see the parachutes of the Nightstalkers floating down toward her.
Nothing.
Plus, she had a feeling they were going to show up in a way she least expected.
Burns stopped the car in the northern parking area designated for viewing. The Fort Loudoun Dam, the first dam along the six hundred fifty-two miles of the Tennessee River, stretched 4,180 feet across the river. It was at the fifty-mile mark from the origin of the river on the eastern side of Knoxville where the Holston and French Broad Rivers joined together.
Formed behind the dam was Fort Loudoun Lake, covering over 14,600 acres. Which was the purpose. All that water, massed seventy feet above the down-dam side, was power. Gravity translated through water, translated through the three hydroelectric generators built into the power station on this end. They produced — Burns closed his eyes for a moment and focused, accessing the Internet via the phone he’d taken off Neeley — slightly over 155 megawatts of power at peak capacity.
The phone was very good, being a Cellar phone. It was untraceable. It had classified access to the government’s version of the Internet. And it had more on it.
Burns shivered.
He opened his eyes, the pupils glowing gold, and analyzed the dam. That was peak safe capacity.
They were going to need more. And he had to figure out how to accomplish that.
He smiled as he saw that the answer was right in front of him.
He looked to the east. But first he needed to buy some time.
Because they were coming.
CHAPTER 8
The Nightstalkers could come in heavy or they could come in light. Heavy was like Stephen King’s The Dome, coming down with a thud. Seal an area off, no one in and out, follow up with a good cover story (Oak Ridge being just to the north could provide a lot of possibilities), and then take care of business.