J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (37 page)

Norton squinted at them. "First group of numbers in the paradigm appear to be a date—tomorrow's, as a matter of fact. And the rest—"

"Coordinates on their map?" Suzanne interrupted.

A grin spread over Harrison's face as he stared at the monitor screen. "Exactly. Norton, can you get us a hard copy?"

Before he finished the question, Norton had already pressed a button and the printer was spewing out a copy. Harrison walked over and pulled the page from the feed as it came out. "Great. Now all I need is a ruler and a pencil."

"Ruler and a pencil?" Norton feigned indignance. "We're high-tech around here, Doc. Whoever heard of a ruler and a pencil—"

Harrison shot him a dangerous look.

"Try the top drawer of the desk." Norton grinned.

Harrison found them, balanced the printout precariously on top of a stack of folders, and found the intersecting point, which he circled. He held it up. "Now, anybody got a map?"

Ironhorse led the three of them to his basement quarters, a spartan, narrow room compared to the technological luxury of the scientists' offices. It was outfitted with little more than a government-issue metal desk, a phone, and at least a dozen different maps displayed on the walls. Ironhorse stepped behind the desk to stare at a giant wall map of the United States. "Show me that map again."

Harrison handed it to him.

"You're assuming they're still in the country," Norton remarked. "But there's no way we can be sure of that."

Ironhorse didn't turn around, just kept glancing from the printout to the map. "I'm sure. If they're still in the white truck, then they've got the entire army on the lookout for them ... no way are they going to make it past the Mexican or Canadian border." He paused. "But there's something else. You know, the topography of this damn alien map looks familiar. I
know
this area." He stared at the wall map again, then stiffened. "Good God!"

"What is it?" Harrison tried to follow his gaze. Suzanne and Norton moved closer.

Ironhorse pointed and stood to one side so the others could see.

"Nevada?" Suzanne sounded puzzled. "Looks like the middle of nowhere."

"If the aliens consider it important," Harrison told her, "we'd be wise to do the same." He looked back at Ironhorse; the colonel seemed stunned.

"Damn straight it's important," Ironhorse finally said. "That's Nellis Air Force Base. They must be planning to overrun it tomorrow!" He stepped up to his desk and reached for the phone.

Harrison laid a hand on his wrist. "What are you doing?"

"Calling General Wilson," Ironhorse replied, easily breaking free of Harrison's grip. He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. "Someone's got to notify the commander at Nellis—"

"Why don't you think about it first, Colonel?" Harrison asked, trying to sound reasonable. "Like an alien would think. It doesn't make sense for them to attack an air force base right now. You said it yourself —without weapons, without resources . . . Even at full strength, even by surprise—their attack wouldn't stand a chance of success."

"Look what they did at Jericho Valley," Ironhorse said.

Harrison shook his head. "I think the terrorists did that—and the aliens overpowered the terrorists because they were
already
inside. You know what Wilson said—secrecy is of the utmost concern. What'll you tell them at Nellis? Be on the lookout for aliens? They'll think it's a crank call."

Ironhorse hesitated, then replaced the receiver reluctantly. "Okay. I guess that makes sense."

"There's something here we aren't seeing," Norton said thoughtfully, staring at the spot Ironhorse had indicated on the wall map.

"And we aren't going to see it," Harrison added, "until we learn to start looking at things the way the aliens do."

It was Saturday night at the Gold Mine, a bar and grill designed to look like a saloon dating from gold rush days. Both the exterior and interior walls were paneled with artificially weathered, unpainted wood, and the inside was adorned with sepia-tint photographs from the late nineteenth century, all of which worked to give the place that sterile, corporate-chain air of authenticity.

And because it was a Saturday night, the Gold Mine was packed with airmen from the nearby base. One of them, Airman Vic Giannotti, a sandy-haired, normally sober man barely six months past his twenty-first birthday, stumbled out into the unlit parking lot and gratefully sucked in air that was not two-thirds cigarette smoke. A few paces behind followed Doyle O'Connor, a ruddy-faced fellow squadron member who happened to be grinning from ear to ear at no one in particular. At the moment, Doyle was feeling no pain.

"Doyle." Vic paused and waited for O'Connor to catch up to him. Vic tended to get maudlin when he drank, and he and Doyle had just polished off three large pitchers of draft between the two of them. Vic had completely forgotten the fact that O'Connor was an arrogant ass that he'd never much cared for; now Vic was overwhelmed to the point of tears by the man's generosity. Not only had Doyle talked him into getting sloshed to celebrate Vic's first real "dear John" letter, but then Doyle had turned down the opportunity to go home with a cute-looking redhead.

"Doyle, oF buddy. . ." Vic slung an arm rather sloppily over Doyle's neck in an inebrious embrace and pushed his face so close to his friend's that their noses almost touched. "Doyle, you've been a
gooood
friend. A great frien'. Bes' frien' inna whole world. I saw the look on your face when that redhead came up to you."

Doyle staggered a little under Vic's weight, then parted his thick lips to release an earth-shaking belch. "Well, hell, Vic ... I got her number. Might give her a call later . . . after I'm sober enough to be worth something. Besides, we were celebrating your freedom from that—that bitch—what was her name again?"

"Donna," Vic said, becoming depressed again at the simple mention of the name. "Good ol' dump-'em Donna. Leaving me for a goddamn doctor. A goddamn doctor. Hell, the guy's
old
—practically thirty. What the hell's he got that I ain't got?"

"Money," Doyle reminded him. They looked at each other and broke into giggles.

"No-good money-grubbing bitch . .." Vic gasped, not quite sure what he was laughing at.

Doyle struck an affected posture, pinkies crooked and raised high, and said in a shrill falsetto, "Tm dump-'em Donna, the money-grubbing bitch . ..'"

Vic began to laugh harder. Encouraged, Doyle trotted off into the dark parking lot, still mincing.

Vic ran after him. "Jesus, Doyle, stop it!" Vic giggled until tears ran down his cheeks. He couldn't seem to stop laughing—Doyle was just so damn
funny
.. . but underneath the cozily warm, whirling sensation of drunkenness, Vic knew he felt lousy. And tomorrow would be even worse: he'd have a hangover, plus the memory that Donna had dumped him.

The Firebird was in a remote corner of the parking lot; Vic liked to park it sideways, away from other cars, to keep it from getting scratched, and it worked: the Bird was a '75 and still in mint condition, and its two-year-old glossy black paint job looked like new.

"And heeeerrre's the car!" Doyle mimicked Ed McMahon, throwing out his right hand and stamping his foot in a "ta-daa" gesture.

Still recuperating from his laughing fit, Vic leaned against the driver's side and fumbled in his pocket. "Keys, keys, where are the keys?" Not there. Panicking, he patted all of his pockets—still no keys. "Shit, I've gone and lost them! We'd better go back inside."

On the passenger side Doyle grinned and jingled the keys at him. "They were in my back pocket, Vic, remember? You were gonna let
me
drive."

"Oh, yeah." Vic slapped his forehead clumsily. Doyle was right. After the first pitcher of beer, Vic had turned over the Bird's keys and proclaimed himself unfit to drive. But that was back before Doyle had started to drink the lion's share. No way was he gonna let Doyle get near the steering wheel of his precious Bird now. "You're right, Doyle ol' buddy, but I'm doing much better. Honest." Vic held out his hands. "C'mon. Pitch 'em over."

"Ready?" Doyle assumed the classic quarterback pose. "Here goes—Elway eat your heart out!" He launched the keys high into the air, they sailed over Vic's head and landed several feet away on the asphalt.

"Oops. Don't know my own strength."

"Not to get upset." Vic waggled a finger. "Everything is under control." He went staggering into the night after the keys. He quickly realized that the black leather keycase was impossible to see against black asphalt in the dark, and got down on his knees to grope for them.

"Hey, Vic, need a hand?"

"Naah." He patted the asphalt tentatively. After a minute his hand brushed against something. "It's okay, I found 'em!"

Vic reached out confidently this time. His fingers closed on something cool and slightly moist—almost oily. He grimaced. No telling
what
disgusting garbage was lying there in the bar's parking lot.

And then it moved in his hand, pulsed, flexed just like a muscle.

Vic opened his mouth to yell, certain he'd just grabbed hold of a snake. But the swift, crushing pressure on his throat made screaming impossible.

"C'mon, Vic," Doyle called impatiently. "We're gonna miss curfew."

TWENTY-SIX

Suzanne sat in what was now her customary place on the sofa next to Harrison; across from them sat Ironhorse in the leather chair. The after-dinner ritual of coffee in front of the fire had already become a routine . .. and God knew, Suzanne reflected, she needed routine, some kind of stability, some semblance of a normal, regulated life to keep from losing what shred of sanity she had left.

According to the ancient clock on the mantel, it was eleven-thirty; the others had long since gone to bed, including Norton, who had retired early, exhausted after a long day's work. But Suzanne was not in the least bit sleepy; how could she be, knowing that tomorrow they might face the aliens again? From the others' expression, she knew they felt the same.

Ironhorse broke the extended silence. His powerful shoulders hunched as he leaned toward Harrison. "I
don't like this, Blackwood. Don't like it at all. .. going out to Nellis without an idea of what we're doing—just keeping an eye out for any stray aliens."

Harrison stared into the dying fire, his gaze steady as one hypnotized. Suzanne thought at first he hadn't heard the question, but then he answered slowly, without looking up, "They mentioned Nellis in their transmission for a reason, Colonel. Like I said before, we've got to start thinking like they do."

Ironhorse got up and went over to the fireplace to add more logs to the fire; clearly, he wasn't planning to go to bed anytime soon. He placed the logs carefully, leaving space between them, and fanned the blaze until the fire leapt up, encouraged. "You expect me to climb into the heads of those creatures," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Harrison, "you've got to give me something more to go on." In the fire's orange glow his profile seemed to Suzanne to take on an ancient dignity, the strong, determined face of a warrior contemplating the battle ahead.

Harrison took his time answering. "The invasion was incredibly well organized, efficient. Within a few days the entire world was on its knees." He looked up as Ironhorse returned to his chair. "They sent their trained military. They're soldiers, same as you. You tell me—how do soldiers think?"

A faint, hard glint of amusement crept into the colonel's eyes and faded swiftly. "We don't. I spent four years at the Point and fifteen more in uniform. I prepare. I stay prepared. And when the time comes to act, I don't think anymore. All I do is react."

"Okay, let's start there." Harrison sat forward,

resting his elbows on his knees. "You're their leader— react to your situation."

Ironhorse settled back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. "I'd need good intelligence. Got to know your enemy. Communications—-they already have that. Supplies—got to keep the troops fed. Weapons..." He trailed off and looked down at Harrison.

"Definitely weapons," Harrison said with a trace of bitterness.

Ironhorse nodded thoughtfully. "They don't have any—except for those handmade bolas and a few guns, but nothing that amounts to anything. That's their primary weakness."

"Which makes it our strength," Suzanne remarked softly. She'd read Forrester's files. She'd seen photographs of what those weapons had done. The two men looked at her as if surprised to see she was following the conversation.

"If I were their commander," Ironhorse said, "I'd make it top priority to get my hands on some weapons."

As the colonel spoke, Harrison began to look as though he'd just had a hideous revelation. Alarmed, Suzanne turned to him. "You okay?"

He nodded. "Something just occurred to me. Colonel, have you ever heard of Hangar Fifteen?"

Ironhorse shook his head.

"Of course you have," Harrison persisted. "Hangar Fifteen, the place where the air force stores all its UFO evidence."

Ironhorse's expression became skeptical. "You

mean Hangar Eighteen." He shook his head. "Forget it, Blackwood, that's a myth."