EarthRise (29 page)

NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

The temple complex shimmered in the late-afternoon heat as the black manta-ray-shaped shuttle circled, began to lose altitude, and came in for a landing.

The artificial lake had been constructed using slave labor. It was oval in shape and exactly the right length for medium-sized vessels to land on. The shuttle pancaked in, sent waves racing toward the opposite shore, and coasted toward a long finger-shaped jetty.

The reception party, led by Dun-Dar himself, was already in place. Pendants hung limply from poles, and a horn groaned, as mooring lines were made fast. That’s when double rows of inspection-ready Kan snapped to the Sauron equivalent of attention and the main hatch whirred open. Two human slaves, attired in identical smocks, rushed to slide the metal gangplank into place as the first of the visiting dignitaries emerged from the ship’s lock.

The hot, humid air hit Dro Tog like the breath of some horrible beast. It was heavy with the odor of rotting vegetation, the stench of untreated sewage, and the tang of ozone. It was not the sort of place where someone covered with fur would want to spend much time.

The cleric blinked into the harsh afternoon sun, wondered how such a hellish environment could give rise to intelligent life, and stepped onto the gangplank. It gave slightly as the portly prelate made his way onto the pier.

A Ra ‘Na technician was there to greet Tog. His name was Isk, and he looked considerably older than he had on the day when he bested the future Grand Vizier in a debate and unknowingly signed his own death warrant. Isk had orange fur flecked with white and matted by the heat. “Welcome, eminence. All is ready.”

Tog took a long slow look around, assured himself that the specially constructed sedan chair met specifications, and nodded his head. “Good work, Isk. Rest assured that I will remember your many accomplishments.”

Unaware of the irony involved, Isk bobbed his head in return. “Thank you, eminence.”

Eager to get his charge ashore and retire to his air-conditioned quarters, Tog turned back to the shuttle. A Fon stood waiting. “Please inform his excellency that everything is as it should be.”

As the functionary departed to convey the good news, Tog walked past the custom sedan chair to the point where Dun-Dar stood waiting. “Greetings, eminence. Lord Hak-Bin will come ashore within the next few minutes.”

Dun-Dar regarded Tog with the contempt he felt for all such individuals. To his mind the entire notion of setting one slave over another was little more than an obscene farce. “Thank you for stating the obvious. Now get off my dock before I give you some
real
work to do!”

Frightened, and more than a little taken aback, Tog hoisted his robe and waddled toward shore. The incident served to remind the Ra ‘Na of the extent to which he was reliant on Hak-Bin’s patronage and how important the Sauron’s good health continued to be. Until the nymph emerged and the existing relationship would continue. Or so the prelate hoped and assumed.

There was a stir as Ott-Mar’s sedan chair arrived at the foot of the pier and the birthmaster backed his way out of the internal sling. He, at least, was glad to see Tog and greeted the prelate with the familiarity that one conspirator reserves for another. “Our patient? How is he?”

“A little out of sorts,” Tog answered cautiously, “but otherwise normal.”

“That bad, eh?” the Zin replied dryly. “Well, the surgical suite is ready, and we’ll soon have him on the table. The anesthetic should shut him up even if nothing else will.”

Afraid to agree, Tog kept his mouth shut. The decision was validated when Hak-Bin’s heavily swathed body appeared in the hatch and Ott-Mar took to the air. He traveled the length of the dock in two well-calculated jumps.

Unable to see how he could help, and worried lest he somehow get crosswise with Dun-Dar, Tog was left to watch as two sturdy-looking Fon functionaries assisted their master across ten units of open dock, helped him maneuver his badly swollen body into the reinforced sling, and ignored the nonstop abuse to which they were subjected.

“Keep your incompetent graspers off me!” Hak-Bin ordered, as a Fon brushed an especially sensitive section of badly displaced chitin. “What are you trying to do? Kill me? Ott-Mar . . . where have you been? Did you see that? I want the idiot shot.”

The functionary in question looked understandably concerned, but the physician waved him away. “I’m sorry, eminence,” the Zin said soothingly, “but the worst is over. You’re on the surface of Haven now, and the pain will soon be over.”

“You’re sure?” Hak-Bin inquired eagerly. “The operation will succeed?”

“Yes,” Ott-Mar lied, “I’m sure. Now settle in and try to relax while the slaves take you to surgery.”

The words seemed to have the desired effect because the pain seemed to abate for a moment, and Hak-Bin looked nearly normal. “Yes, thank you. And one more thing . . .”

Ott-Mar tried to conceal his impatience. “Yes, my lord?”

“I would like to introduce File Leader Kat-Duu . . . He will accompany me into surgery.”

Because of the large number of bodies crowded around the sedan chair, the physician had failed to take notice of the Kan until then. Now, as the warrior stepped forward, Ott-Mar recognized him as the much-decorated veteran in charge of Hak-Bin’s bodyguards. A harakna hide eye patch concealed his left eye socket, whorls of metal “death” studs covered both his shoulders, and his battle harness was festooned with what seemed like an excessive amount of weaponry. The physician allowed himself the Sauron equivalent of a frown. “There’s a limited amount of space, my lord, and I have the required number of assistants.”

Hak-Bin waved a pincer. “You fail to take my meaning, Ott-Mar. Rather than assist you, Kat-Duu has been assigned to
kill
you, should something go wrong. Isn’t that right, Kat-Duu?”

The warrior made no reply, nor was there any need to. The hard implacable stare said it all. “Is the situation clear?” Hak-Bin demanded, his eyes fever-bright.

“Yes, my lord,” Ott-Mar replied, as something heavy seeped into the pit of his stomach. “The situation is very, very, clear.”

NEAR CONCRETE, WASHINGTON

The helicopter generated a steady roar as it followed Highway 20 east toward the town of Concrete. Given the fact that a barricade had been placed across the road just beyond Lyman, plus an infestation of feral humans, the Saurons preferred to avoid the area. And why not? Especially since slavers could be dispatched to harvest workers, thereby reserving the hard-pressed Kan for other more important tasks.

Human-manufactured aircraft were a rarity by then, so the sound of the Chinook’s rotors, plus the self-confident manner in which the big helicopter flew up the Skagit River valley was sure to attract some attention. Eyes peered up through a maze of evergreen branches, binoculars tracked the aircraft’s progress from a lookout station positioned high on a hillside, and the volume of CB radio traffic increased.

The resistance leader named Storm was busy weeding her vegetable garden when word of the visitation arrived. The boy was ten, and true to the name he had taken for himself, ran like the wind. He cut across the assembly hall’s sod roof, leaped a swiftly flowing creek, and dashed across open ground. “It’s coming! The helicopter is coming!”

“There’s no need to yell,” Storm said gently. “The sound of your voice can carry a long ways.”

Wind knew she was correct and did his best to look contrite. “Sorry, Storm. I got excited that’s all.”

“No problem,” Storm replied, gathering her tools into a bucket. “We have to be careful . . . Especially in the forest. The habits we establish here will serve us there. Tell Strength that I’m on my way.”

Full of his own importance, and eager to deliver the new message as quickly as possible, Wind nodded and ran back the way he had come.

Five minutes later Storm entered the underground command center, dropped the galvanized bucket by the door, and established eye contact with her chief of staff. He was a wiry little man who had acquired his moniker by virtue of that which lay within rather than the size of his body. “So, it’s true? Franklin is on his way?”

Strength shrugged and gestured toward the once-elegant dining room table. A variety of communications equipment covered its much-abused surface. A woman sat in front of the table, listened via earphones, and took notes as the reports filtered in. “Everyone’s telling Sparks the same thing . . . A Chinook helicopter is eastbound up the valley. The registration numbers match the one Franklin has used in the past. There’s no sign of Sauron activity down here . . . although we have no way to know what’s happening in orbit.”

“The bastard has balls,” Storm replied, “you have to give him that. I wonder what sort of cock-and-bull story he told the bugs in order to justify the trip? Oh well, it hardly matters. Whatever it was worked. Come on—we’d better get going.”

The old Honda Four Trax Foreman ES didn’t look like much, but it ran pretty well. Of even more importance to Storm and the rest of her community was the fact that the ATV could pull a trailer, produced a minimal heat signature, and was easy on gas. Storm preferred to drive, so it was she who swung a leg over the gas tank, and settled behind the controls. Strength hopped on behind.

The 433cc engine roared as Storm advanced the throttle, spewed gravel out from under four knobby tires, and flew up the ramp. It felt good to enter the sunlight, to skid into the first turn, and accelerate away. A party of woodcutters waved as the twosome passed. Storm waved back. Then, having applied just the right amount of brake, the ATV burst out of the tree line, skittered onto the old two-lane highway, and accelerated toward the west.

By prior arrangement the helicopter was supposed to land in the open area out front of the old Alpine Motel. Knowing that it pays to be paranoid, especially with the bugs in control, the Sasquatch warriors had been ordered to secure the entire area. Both of the group’s 120mm light mortars had been pre-registered on the LZ, heavy machine guns were sited in predug pits, and no fewer than forty members of the self-styled “eco-army” were hidden in the surrounding area.

Now, as the ATV approached the rendezvous point, Storm heard the steady whup, whup, whup of the Chinook’s giant rotors over the sound of the Honda’s engine and steered for the center of the motel’s weed-infested parking lot.

Both of them dismounted, and Storm shaded her eyes as the enormous helicopter banked and circled the old motel. “They’re checking us out,” Strength said levelly. “Looking for any sign of a trap.”

“Makes sense,” Storm commented. “That’s what we would do. How ’bout those mortars? Any chance they could be misinterpreted?”

“I don’t think so,” Strength replied, “especially considering the fact that we warned them we would have some fairly heavy stuff scattered around the area. Agent Amocar said he understood.”

An artificial wind tugged at their clothing as the helicopter circled again. It was lower by then—only fifty feet off the ground. “Agent Amocar?” Storm yelled. “Who’s he?”

“One of Manning’s people,” Strength replied. “The short guy who walks funny.”

Storm had a vague memory of a man fitting that description preceding Franklin into the sawmill summit. She nodded. “Good . . . We wouldn’t want some sort of misunderstanding. Lord knows we have enough problems already.”

Strength squinted into the swirling dust, wondered why the Chinook continued to hover toward the far side of the parking lot, and saw that something had been mounted at the center of the open hatch. It looked familiar, like something he’d seen during his hitch in the air force, although it was difficult to be sure. Still, even the remote possibility of such a thing was sufficient to cause Strength to turn and take a step in Storm’s direction.

But 20mm slugs move quickly, and even though Strength was already in motion, they hit Storm before he could make contact.

Not willing to entrust such an important task to a bug, or another human for that matter, Amocar had chosen to act as his own gunner. Careful to allow for the helicopter’s motion, he steered the metal hailstorm across the parking lot and onto the primary target.

Storm was just starting to understand, just beginning to comprehend, when the first slug blew her right leg off, the second smashed her pelvis, and the third blew a grapefruit-sized hole through the center of her chest.

Still diving, still determined to save Storm from the fate she had already suffered, Strength entered the line of fire. The slugs from the minigun ripped his body to shreds, drifted sideways as the Chinook started to pivot, and raked the front of the motel. Wood shattered, glass exploded, and the old-fashioned neon sign disintegrated as the 20mm slugs tore the place apart.

Now, having recovered from the initial shock of seeing their most important leader murdered right in front of their eyes, the ecowarriors opened fire.

Mortar rounds wasted themselves on the gore-splattered pavement, a .50-caliber machine gun chugged as the operator chased the helicopter, and small-arms fire came from every direction.

Amocar fell over backward as the minigun cycled empty and the Chinook turned toward the west. Then, with slugs punching bright holes through the helicopter’s thin skin, Amocar yelled: “Go! Go! Go!” and the pilot applied full military power.

His name was Hernandez, he had been brought in from the Sauron complex in Guatemala, and he didn’t give a shit why the helicopter’s original registration numbers had been changed, why Amocar wanted to grease one particular woman, or why the
bichos
(insects) were willing to go along with it.

All
he
wanted to do was get out of the firefight alive, put the
helicóptero
back on the ground, and collect the
etiqueta rojo
(red tag).

Meanwhile, to the rear of the otherwise empty chopper, Amocar listened to the sound of automatic weapons fire fade, nodded approvingly, and planted his butt in a fold-down seat. The mission had gone well, better than expected, and Hak-Bin would be pleased. So pleased that it might be possible to request a bonus of some sort. Two women perhaps? Yes, that would be fun, now wouldn’t it?