As he activated the gates there was a scream from upstairs like a panther with its leg in a trap.
"WHERE'S MY GUN-SMITHING KIT?" came a shriek from above.
Ah, Cally had apparently found something to her dissatisfaction.
"Have you looked in your desk?" he called calmly.
"DON'T YOU TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME, GRAMPS!" she yelled. "Of course I looked in my DESK! I keep it . . ."
He nodded at the cut off sentence. Time to get out of the house before she got down the . . .
"I just looked there!" she said, breathing angrily and waving the cloth-wrapped tools above her head as if she was going to use them as a weapon. The young woman was as tall as her grandfather, long of hair and leg with wide, cornflower blue eyes. Her grandfather had often considered that it was a good thing she'd gotten her looks from her mother rather than her father. But those looks, along with the fact that she was barely thirteen and a few . . . incidents had gotten surreptitious pictures tacked up on barracks walls. With the caption: "Warning: Jailbait. To be considered ARMED AND VERY DANGEROUS."
"Cally," Mike Senior said calmly. "Calm down. You found it and . . ."
"DON'T YOUDARE SAY HORMONES!" she shouted.
"And what I was going to say was we're about to have visitors," he continued as if she hadn't said anything. "Mosovich and a packed Humvee full of women and kids it looks like."
"Refugees?" she asked calmly, setting down the smithing kit and holding her hand out for the Palm Pilot.
"I don't think so," Papa O'Neal said, handing it over and heading for the door. "Visitors at a guess. But that's just a guess."
"Okay," Cally said, unconsciously checking the H&K P-17 in her wasteband. "I'll stay back."
"Just follow procedure," Papa O'Neal said. "Don't get . . . don't go overboard."
"Not a problem," she said with a quizzical expression. "Why would I go overboard?"
* * *
"Jesus Christ," Mueller whispered. "Who is that?"
"That is Michael O'Neal, Senior," Mosovich said. "I knew him a long time ago in a much hotter place we generally just called Hell."
"Not the guy," Mueller said, gesturing into the shadows of the front porch. "The girl."
Mosovich looked again and frowned. "She's . . . twelve or thirteen, Mueller. Waaay too young. Even in North Carolina."
"You're kidding me," Mueller said as the Humvee pulled to a stop. "She's like, seventeen if she's a day!"
"No, I'm not," Mosovich said coldly, holding onto the door-handle and staring at the NCO with dead eyes. "And if you want to live through the next few minutes, put your tongue back in your head. If O'Neal doesn't kill you for being an idiot and a drain on the genepool I will. And if you somehow manage to survive both us old fucks, that little bit will kill you without a word or a whisper; there is no proof, but there is some indication that she has done so before, possibly more than once. Last, but not least, her daddy is Major 'Ironman' O'Neal of the ACS, Mighty Mite his own self. And if he comes after your ass he is, first of all, a Fleet officer with the legal authority to kill a Fleet NCO out of hand and second of all god-damned unstoppable. You don't have the chance of a snowball in hell if any of the three of us think you're going to try to make time with her. Do not make eyes at Cally O'Neal. Understood?"
"Gotcha," Mueller said, holding up his hands. "I don't go for jailbait, Jake, and you know it. But . . . Jesus, I want an ID or something! I swear she looks like, seventeen, even eighteen!"
"Sorry about that," Mosovich said over his shoulder.
"Not a problem," Elgars said. "It was a pretty professional dressing down. I've filed it for future reference. Can we get out yet?"
"Sure," Mosovich said, taking a deep breath to clear the anger. Just let something go right today.
* * *
"What was that about?" Cally asked quietly.
"Dressing down," Papa O'Neal responded just as quietly. The throat mike was nearly invisible against the collar of his shirt and the receiver in his ear was invisible to the naked eye.
Just because his military background stretched back to the dawn of time, or Vietnam, which was close, that didn't mean that Papa O'Neal wasn't up to date. His security systems were as state of the art as he could accumulate and a few of the items were, technically, restricted to Fleet personnel only. But when you're guarding the daughter of a living legend, people make exceptions.
The grounds were scattered with sensors, cameras and command detonated mines and the house behind him had enough surveillance equipment in it to be a demonstrator. This had occasioned some embarrassment, in ancient times when he used to have friends in the area. From time to time he would host rather . . . raucous parties at which his friends, mostly retired military who had moved to the North Georgia mountains for the air and the proximity to Ranger students they could mess with, would occasionally forget or ignore that the entire house was wired for sound. And video.
He was still humorously blackmailing people with those tapes.
The friends were gone, now. Many of them were dead on one battlefield or another and all the rest of them had been rejuvenated and were scattered throughout the United States. He was the only one left, one used up, worn-out old warhorse that was, in the eyes of the U.S. government, too tainted to be called up under the worst duress.
Which, fortunately, left him to guard the farm. And a Farmer's Daughter who was practically its Platonic archetype.
"What over do you think?" Cally asked as the door opened.
"At a guess, 'If you mess with Cally O'Neal you will die a quick and painless death.' "
"Why?" she asked as the rest of the doors opened and people began spilling out. "He's kind of cute. In a great big teddy bear sort of way."
Why me, oh lord? Papa O'Neal thought. Couldn't you just have killed me on some battlefield? Slowly? Under the knives of the women? Why this?
* * *
Wendy looked around as she unloaded Susie from her lap.
The farm was set in a small pocket valley, a "holler" in the local vernacular, set off of the main valley that comprised Rabun Gap. The valley was an almost perfect bowl with steep, wooded sides and a narrow opening where a small river dropped down a series of cataracts. The opening to the valley was to the south and the two-story stone and wood house, which was backed up onto the north side, faced it across a checkerboard of fields. One of the fields had just been stripped of its corn and another was covered in wheat or barley that was just about ready to be harvested. Others were devoted to hay or lying fallow under clover. On the east side where the valley started to slope up was a small orchard of mixed trees, some that she recognized as pecans and others that were probably fruit trees. The western edge was devoted to a large barn and a massive rifle and pistol range.
The house had the look of a fortress; the windows were generally small and, especially on the stone ground floor, set back in the thick walls. There was a large front porch overhung by the upper story, but that looked like a defensive item as well; anyone trying to get through the front door could be terribly discommoded by people on the upper story. On the western side, where most houses would have a garage, was a low sand-bag and wood bunker with the snout of a tarp-covered gun jutting from the center loophole and on the eastern side there was a large outdoor cooking area that clearly had seen more active days.