“A scientist can’t be a Nightstalker?” Ivar asked.
“Not many.” Orlando snorted. “It’s real simple. When it comes down to it, do you want to study the fucking problem or solve the fucking problem? Nightstalkers solve problems, usually caused by scientists, so that the human race can go on, ignorant and blissfully unaware of the shit they just avoided. Little things, like the end of the world.”
Orlando twitched the steering wheel to avoid some road kill. “The team moved out of Area 51 proper when it got too popular. TV shows, news reports, all that bullshit, even the CIA releasing data on it via the Freedom of Information Act. The Nightstalkers hate media almost as much as they hate scientists. We call our new home the Ranch. Because it actually was a ranch, which we bought. It’s technically private land, which is good because we can use deadly force to protect the grounds while the guards at Area 51 just escort dumb-asses off the perimeter and wag a stern finger at them. Ought to stick that finger up their ass.”
They came to a stop sign where the road T’ed. Orlando actually stopped, even though they could see to the horizon in either direction and there wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Orlando put on his turn signal.
But he left the jeep in neutral, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Ivar waited patiently, for at least thirty seconds, which doesn’t sound long, but most people can’t sit behind someone at a green light for two seconds without blaring their horn.
“Something wrong?” Ivar finally asked.
“Yes.”
Ivar looked where Orlando was staring. “What?”
“There’s an intruder out there.”
Ivar peered ahead. In nautical terms, it was BMNT — begin morning nautical twilight — where the horizon to the east was clear but the sun had not yet broken the plane.
“Where?”
“You can’t see it. But I can.”
“What it?”
“But you can see the M4 in the bracket in front of you, right?”
It wasn’t hard to miss the automatic rifle clamped to the dashboard in front of the passenger seat. “Yes.”
“Slowly, very slowly, take it.”
Ivar looked out into the desert. There was nothing moving, nothing out of the ordinary. Not even a rabbit.
Ivar removed the M4 from the bracket.
“Careful, son, there’s a round in the chamber.”
“I know how to use a weapon. Now,” he added, and nodded. “The bullet comes out of that end.”
“Big difference between the firing range and real life,” Orlando said. He still hadn’t moved.
“What’s out there?”
“The enemy.”
Ivar stuck the M4 out toward Orlando. “Here. You see it, you shoot it.”
“I can’t,” Orlando said. “I’m being targeted. Don’t you see? On my chest?”
Ivar look at Orlando’s chest, but all he saw was the name tag and the Combat Infantry Badge Velcroed to the uniform.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Good,” Orlando said. “If you can’t see it, maybe it can’t see you. Ready your weapon, soldier.”
Ivar had the rifle in his hands. He stared at Colonel Orlando hard, then put the stock to his shoulder, his eye to the sight. “What am I aiming at?”
“One o’clock. One hundred and fifty meters. See that pile of rocks?”
“Yes.”
“Eight inches to the left of the last rock. It’s about four feet tall.”
Ivar saw nothing. He curled his finger around the trigger.
“Fire.”
Ivar pulled the trigger. He saw a puff of sand about forty meters past the “target.”
“Damn, son,” Orlando said. “Close. About six inches to the right.”
Ivar adjusted.
“Give it three rounds.”
Ivar quickly pulled the trigger thrice, riding out the recoil.
Three puffs of sand.
“Hot damn!” Orlando exclaimed, slapping Ivar on the shoulder. “Stand down, son, stand down. You got ’im.”
“What did I get?”
Orlando threw the jeep into gear and turned left.
“Aren’t we going to get whatever it is I shot?” Ivar asked, still grasping the M4.
“Why?” Orlando asked, as if truly puzzled by such a strange request. “You got it.”
Blake was sitting by the pool in the Myrtle Beach complex, wondering if his grandkids had enough sunscreen on. He was also trying to remember if they even had sunscreen when he was a child. But he couldn’t conjure up an image of ever being at a pool as a kid. Growing up in Detroit, the summer season was short and pools were in even shorter supply.
His daughter always griped that he forgot things, but he wondered how she’d have turned out if she’d grown up in Detroit. She’d dropped the kids off on her way to work, expecting him to babysit them all day ’cause her nanny was out sick.
Right. Out sick. Sick of the damn kids, more like it.
He’d done it right. Slathered it on both the little beasts and then made them stand around, fidgeting for the requisite time indicated on the side of the bottle. They complained, naturally, being his daughter’s children, that none of the other kids had to wait to get in the water. Of course, there weren’t that many kids here at the pool this early in the morning, but he was damned if he was going to let them run around his apartment.
“That’s ’cause their parents are stupid,” he’d informed them, and regretted it right away, because they’d tell and then his daughter would lecture him about saying negative things about people, but the fact is, most people are kind of deserving of negative, in his experience.
He’d seen that working for the government — well, sort of the government — for thirty-four years.
“All right,” he said, and the two monsters dashed for the pool and cannonballed in. Blake’s focus was now on a young mother across the water, rubbing sunscreen on incredibly long legs. He was wishing he could do it for her. He started analyzing the problem, the mother being the objective. One of the first things he’d learned working for the government was never, ever, take the frontal assault.
At least not yet, he thought with a grin.
He scanned the kids and located the one that was obviously hers. Too small, too near the water, no vest, no floatie things on the arms and the mother was too focused on getting every square inch, probably worried about skin cancer, to notice for the moment. The narcissism of the young never failed to surprise him.
Perfect flank maneuver and Blake grinned once more as he made his move, considering the double entendre of the thought.
He caught the kid just as he was about to fall into the water and smiled at the startled mother. He had his line ready, but then the phone in his bag across the pool rang. Not his phone exactly, but the phone, the distinctive ringtone of the chorus of Warren Zevon’s “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” He dropped the kid—kerplunk—and strode back to his bag, the angry exclamations from the young mother falling upon his back like splashes from the pool.
Irritating but ineffective.
Damn job, Blake thought as he looked at the text message.
He sighed. He’d have to go pull the cache to get the other other phone and encryptor in order to relay the message. And, of course, encrypt it. But first, he had to figure out the source, then the path and additional messages that went with this particular number.