J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (13 page)

"Fair enough." She maneuvered the Bronco into the right-hand lane and pulled into an Amoco station.

"Pull 'er up to the self-serve super unleaded."

She did so. Harrison got out, stretched some more, and filled the tank. After paying up, he crawled back in on the driver's side, wincing when his knee hit the dash.

"Sorry," she said. She never could remember to move the seat back for Derek.

"'Sail right," he said, rubbing it. He got the Bronco

back out on the highway, and they rode in silence for a minute.

"All right." Suzanne turned to look at him at the first light. "I've been exceptionally good. I haven't screamed or threatened you with physical harm or burst into a flood of angry tears, but I promise to do all three if you don't tell me right now where we're going and why."

Harrison didn't answer for a beat. "Is that all?"

She stared coldly at him and waited.

A smile spread slowly over his face. "Okay, okay, I admit to being a little ... uncommunicative. But I was preoccupied. Here goes." He took a deep breath. "Last night Norton picked up a radio broadcast signal from the location pinpointed on our map there."

She shrugged. "Out in the middle of the desert. I figure it's some type of military installation. What's so unusual about that?"

"Plenty," Harrison replied. He removed the hat, set it on the dash, and absently ran his fingers through his short, golden brown curls. "For starters, the signal was a powerful one, directed at a point somewhere in the constellation Taurus."

"But that's the same thing Norton's transmitter is doing, isn't it?" She frowned, unable to see what was so earth-shattering about the fact. "Broadcasting signals into space to see if anyone's listening?"

"If anyone else were doing this type of work out in the desert, so close to us, I'd know about it. It's hardly classified." He paused and glanced briefly at her with those intense pale-blue eyes of his, then stared back at the road. There was no amusement in his eyes or voice

now.
"This
signal"—he nodded at the map on the dash—"was answered."

"What?" It came out a gasp; her first instinct was to giggle at the outright absurdity of it. "That's impossible. First, radio waves can't travel that fast—it would take
years
for that to happen—"

"I know," Harrison said calmly. "But the fact is, it happened. Norton has the computer printouts. He showed them to me. They show first a signal— originating from our spot in the desert—and then being mimicked, amplitude for amplitude, by a second signal coming from the Taurus constellation. Another signal, another mimicked response . .. then what follows looks suspiciously like a friendly little chat." He patted his breast pocket. "Norton made me a recording of the actual signals."

They traveled in silence for a while, and then she asked, "Harrison, in all honesty, what do you expect to find there? Little green men?"

"I don't know." He hesitated, then said in a quiet voice that made her shudder, "I know what I hope to God I
don't
find."

EIGHT

"Come in, Reynolds," Ironhorse said gruffly. He was seated into a personnel carrier that had been turned into a mobile command post and was in a particularly foul mood, having just shouted himself hoarse at a whining supply sergeant on the phone. Outside, within the Jericho Valley installation, soldiers wearing protective suits wandered through the yard, some of them carrying Geiger counters, some portable video packs, others with dogs on leads, policing for booby traps.

Staff Sergeant Gordon T. Reynolds, a tall man with a defensive linebacker's build, had to crouch down to enter since the vehicle was designed for sitting, not standing. Like the men in the yard, he wore protective radiation gear, except for the helmet. The dark brown skin of his forehead was puckered, his expression a

The Resurrection
mixture of agitation and concern. "You told me to brief you, Colonel, as soon as we had anything—"

"Wait a minute." Ironhorse stopped him with a gesture and peered suspiciously at him. "You clean?"

"More or less, sir." At Ironhorse's mistrustful look, Reynolds elaborated. "The tech sarge swore there's not enough radiation left on me to knock more than a few months off your life."

Ironhorse's upper lip curled slightly. "Why am I not reassured?" He nodded at his staff sergeant. "Come in, Reynolds."

Reynolds entered, crouching low, his head touching the ceiling. Ironhorse liked and trusted Gordon Reynolds, though he was careful not to show it. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Reynolds had grown up a poor black inner-city kid, and, like his commanding officer, had battled prejudice and the odds and come out the winner. Of course, Ironhorse had no idea what Reynolds thought of him—he did not fraternize with his men; he was not in the army to be liked.

"We did a body count, Colonel," Reynolds said. "You were right, sir, all seventeen were there ... at least what was left of them. We had to verify the number through HQ, since the roster was missing. Looks like fourteen died when the barracks were blown up—probably a rocket launcher, though no weapons were left behind."

"Damn," Ironhorse said softly. He felt a muscle in his right jaw begin to twitch. "What about the other three?"

"Shot up. Automatic weapons. The tire tracks are from an eighteen-wheeler—we're getting impressions now—and there are four-wheel all-terrain vehicle tracks all over the yard. Probably had more than one of those, from the looks of it. I figure they got the truck inside, shot the sentries, then used the rocket launcher before anyone knew what was going on."

"Killed everyone and then left." Ironhorse shook his head at the senselessness of it, then looked up sharply at the sound of an explosion outside.

"Sappers setting off booby traps," Reynolds offered helpfully.

Ironhorse ignored the comment. Reynolds had a habit of stating the obvious. "This whole thing doesn't make any sense, Sergeant. Think about it. Why the hell would someone want to overrun an installation and then
leave?
They even mined the perimeter, as if they were expecting to stay awhile."

Reynolds nervously stroked his regulation-trimmed charcoal mustache with a gloved hand. "I figure it was the punctured barrel you saw from the cobra, Colonel. Maybe the radioactivity scared 'em off. Funny thing, though, they didn't touch the protective suits in the guard house."

"Why would anyone who was going to overrun a nuclear waste dump not be prepared for such an emergency? And why choose Jericho Valley, of all places? There are other places they could overrun a lot easier—say, a nuclear power plant—and get a much bigger bargaining chip. A core meltdown of a power plant could cause a lot more havoc than some barrels of nuclear waste."

Reynolds shrugged. "Maybe they're stupid, Colonel."

Ironhorse's lips thinned. "So far, that's the best explanation I've come up with today." He paused. "Even so, I want those barrels inventoried. Low priority—just get someone on it when you can, hopefully by the end of today. Unless you have anything else to report, you're dismissed."

"Yes, sir." Reynolds turned to leave but lingered in the exit, a hesitant expression on his face.

Ironhorse raised a blue-black brow. "Was there something else, Sergeant?"

"No, sir." Reynolds seemed to change his mind, and moved reluctantly away.

"What's with you? Bodies get to you?"

Crouched in the doorway, Reynolds faced him again. "Yes, sir—well, no, sir—it's not that."

"Something else, then." Normally, Ironhorse never pried, but he got the definite impression there was something else Reynolds really
wanted
to say but simply didn't have the nerve for it. "Spit it out, Sergeant. We haven't got all day, and I can't have anything interfering with your efficiency."

Reynolds seemed truly flustered. "Well, it's uh . . . personal, Colonel. Now hardly seems the appropriate time." He gestured at the scene outside the carrier.

"I'll be the judge of that," Ironhorse answered firmly. "Say it."

Reynolds cleared his throat and fidgeted. "Permission to ask a personal favor, sir."

What the hell. . . Ironhorse frowned sternly. "Per

mission granted." Which did not mean that he would grant the favor, by any means.

"I'm getting married next month, sir, and I—"

Ironhorse smiled faintly, for a moment forgetting the gruesome surroundings. "Reynolds, you son of a bitch! I thought you were a confirmed ladies' man."

Apparently pleased by the remark, Reynolds smiled shyly and stroked his mustache. He didn't even try to refute the notion that women found him handsome.

"When did this happen?" Ironhorse asked.

"A couple of months ago, sir. But I wondered if you would—" He paused awkwardly, averting his light brown eyes. "If you would be my best man, sir."

Ironhorse's smile widened just a hair. "I'd be honored, Gordon."

Damned if Reynolds' cheeks didn't take on a warmer, ruddier hue—the man was actually blushing! "Thank you, Colonel. It's set for Saturday the twelth, at 1500 hours."

"So noted. And, Sergeant—you've got one hell of a strange sense of timing."

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid Arlene's been after me—"

"Arlene." Ironhorse worked hard not to grin.

"Yes, sir. Well, she's been after me to ask you, and last night she put her foot down. With all due respect, I believe I mentioned it seemed inappropriate right now—"

"So you did," Ironhorse replied dryly. He forced every hint of warmth to vanish from his features. "Now, get your ass in gear, Sergeant, I want that remote van set up yesterday! Understood?"

Reynolds' eyes widened. He tried to snap to attention, bumping his head against the roof of the carrier. "Yes,
sir,
Colonel."

He exited the vehicle in a hurry, leaving Ironhorse to once again contemplate the grim mystery of what had happened here at Jericho Valley.

Morning faded into afternoon. Harrison and Suzanne stopped for lunch at a McDonald's before civilization petered out entirely, then drove through mile after mile after mile of rugged, sunbaked desert.

The scenery looked so much the same—rocks, sand, sagebrush—that when Suzanne opened her eyes after a short nap, it seemed as if they were still in the same spot they'd been in when she'd first shut them.

The air-conditioner droned away, causing a drop of ice-cold condensation to fall onto the instep of her foot. She moved it over to one side. Even though the air-conditioner had been blasting at full the past few hours, the temperature was barely comfortable. The sun beat through the Bronco's tinted windshield, heating the air inside.

About a mile from their destination, Harrison brought the Bronco to a halt.

Suzanne frowned down at the map in her hands, then back up at him. "We're not there yet. Why are we stopping?"

"Don't worry about it. Just stay here." He undid his seat belt and opened the door.

"Not so fast." She put a hand on his arm to stop him, then self-consciously removed it when he looked down at it, amused. "Where do you think you're going?"

"A mile down the road. When I told you to come along this morning," he said slowly, "I was too tired to think clearly. I needed someone to drive, and there you were. I've had a chance to mull it over, and I decided it would be best if I . . . checked it out alone. At least at first."

She was honestly annoyed. "I came all this way— almost
seven
hours, ran around like crazy this morning to get packed and find a baby-sitter, and now you're going to tell me to stay and
wait?
I wasn't aware the job description included chauffeur duties."

"Please, Suzanne," Harrison said wearily, staring ahead out the windshield. He wasn't teasing anymore; he was completely serious, and she wasn't at all sure she liked him better this way. "Let's not argue about this. What if something were to . . . happen?"

"Harrison . . . You're not going to tell me you think the aliens have come back, are you?"

"Yes," he answered, his tone firm. "We don't know what the hell is out there, and as you've so often reminded me, you have a daughter to think about."

"Okay, let's presume it was an honest-to-God extraterrestrial communication. How do you know it's not a group of
friendly
aliens? And if they're
not
friendly, then a mile will help me live only a little longer. I may as well get it over with now."

"Don't joke about it, Suzanne. It's not funny."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're certainly one to talk. You seem to have no problem joking about what other people take seriously. Close the door and put your seat belt back on. I'm not staying here. I can't run the air-conditioner if the car's off, and besides, what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Wait a few hours, and if you don't come back, drive home? How will I know if the heat got you before your aliens did? Chances are we'll die of heatstroke."

Harrison's lips thinned; he thought about it for a moment, then sighed and shut the door. "Look, the minute we spot anything dangerous, we get the hell out. Understood?"