J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (38 page)

"No," Harrison replied with such total conviction that Suzanne believed him. "Hangar Eighteen is the myth. Disinformation, created by the military. Hangar Fifteen is the real McCoy."

"I don't buy it."

"Clayton Forrester did. it's in his papers. Colonel, I think now might be a good time to call General Wilson. Ask
him
if it's a myth."

Ironhorse rose and glanced at the clock on the mantel. "I will." His eyes narrowed threateningly. "But you'd better be right, Blackwood. The general won't appreciate my calling him at home." He strode from the room, leaving Suzanne and Harrison alone.

"And if you're right.. ." Suzanne turned to Harrison. "And the aliens are going to Nellis to recover their weapons . .. How will we be able to stop them?"

He stared grimly into the fire. "I don't know. Bat you've read Clayton's papers, Suzanne. You know what will happen if they get their hands on their ships, their weapons." He faced her, Ms eyes haunted, circled by gray shadows. He seemed to be looking beyond her at some horror that had taken place thirty-five years earlier. "No matter what it costs—we have to stop the aliens now, or we'll never be able to stop them at all."

The living room was warm from the heat generated by the fire, but Suzanne found she was shivering.

"What the'—" Harrison said abruptly, and broke
off.

Suzanne followed his startled gaze to the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms. She caught a flash of something pale and wraithlike retreating up the stairs; for an instant she thought they had both seen a ghost.

Harrison watched, too, then turned back to Suzanne with a worried expression. "She must have heard us talking, Suzanne. I think you'd better go talk to her."

"My God." Suzanne jumped to her feet, finally understanding. "Debi-—"

Heart pounding, she crossed the room in a few quick strides and ran up the dark staircase after her daughter. She caught up to her at the doorway to Debi's bedroom.

"Deb—" She reached out a hand and touched the girl's shoulder in the darkness. Debi turned. She was dressed in the long white T-shirt that she wore for a nightgown, and even in the gloom of the unlit hallway Suzanne could see her face was pale and frightened.

"I didn't mean to snoop," Debi said in a thin, tremulous voice. "I couldn't sleep—"

"It's ail right, chicken." Suzanne stepped inside the bedroom and snapped on the light. "Come on in. I need to talk to you." Miraculously, she managed to sound calm, but firm.

Deb followed her inside.

Suzanne shut the door behind them and sat down on the edge of the twin bed. The sheets and covers
were
thrown back in a twisted heap; obviously, Deb
was
telling the truth about not being able to get to
sleep.
Suzanne felt a pang of guilt; after what Deb

overheard tonight, chances were she'd have many more sleepless nights.

"Sit down, Deb." She patted the spot next to her on the mattress.

Deb sat reluctantly, her tangled long hair hanging in her eyes; she swept it back carelessly. "What you were saying about the aliens"—she paused to look up at her mother with wide, pleading eyes—"is it true?"

"You know that I can't talk to you about my work, Deb. I made a promise to keep it a secret, and I can't break that promise, no matter what. I have to ask you to make a promise now too—a very serious promise. What you heard downstairs tonight—you must never, ever repeat it to anyone. People's lives depend on it."

"I promise," Deb said in a tiny voice. She looked so very small and scared that Suzanne was overwhelmed with pity for her.

"I'm so sorry you heard, chicken," she whispered, stroking the girl's hair back from her warm forehead. The last thing she ever wanted was for her daughter to experience the terror the rest of them took as a matter • of course. "Even if I can't talk to you about what we're doing now—there's something that happened a long time ago—the history of something you should know about."

"This doesn't sound too good," Deb said matter-of-factly, screwing her face up.

"Why do you say that, chicken?"

Deb was scrutinizing her mother's expression carefully. " 'Cause you're wearing the same expression as when you talked about the nuclear bomb." She paused. "Is this going to be about the alien invasion?"

Suzanne's jaw dropped. "Who told you about

that?"

The girl shrugged. "Oh . . . Mrs. Stolz, our fourth-grade history teacher said something about it, even though it wasn't in our textbook. I think she got in trouble for it, though, because she mentioned it only that one time, and it was never on any tests. And Mrs. Pennyworth talked about it in one of our lessons. She has this really old book with neat pictures in it." Debi broke off, trying to keep her expression nonchalant and not quite succeeding. "Mrs. Pennyworth says she was good friends with Harrison's mother and father, and they were killed by aliens. I have the funny feeling these are the same guys you were talking about."

Suzanne's mouth twisted wryly at the thought that Mrs. Pennyworth was assuming Debi should know about the invasion without first consulting her mother —even though Suzanne now felt that the woman was probably doing the right thing. But from here on, she'd check with the older woman first before Deb was taught any more unauthorized subjects.

She smiled at her daughter with maternal pride. The kid was trying to pretend she wasn't afraid for her mother's sake, so that Suzanne wouldn't worry, but she knew that Deb had to be terribly frightened. "Look," she said, playing with a strand of the girl's long hair, "if you have trouble sleeping, you can stay in my bedroom tonight."

"Well..Deb said casually in her grown-up voice, "maybe a change would help my insomnia."

"Insomnia? Where'd you learn that one?"

"Mrs. Pennyworth."

"Well, come on then." Suzanne rose and offered the girl her hand. "I could use a little company tonight to help my insomnia too."

Deb took her mother's hand. As they approached the hallway, she paused. "Mom?" The mature preteen was gone; Deb's voice was high-pitched, childish.

Suzanne looked down at her, concerned. "What's the matter, chicken?"

"Nothing. It's just. . ." Deb fidgeted awkwardly with embarrassment. "Well, I never knew that you were so
brave."

Suzanne smiled. "You're a pretty brave kid yourself, Ms. McCuIlough."

Harrison lay down in the darkness on the strange bed and tried to sleep. His brain produced several perfectly logical reasons as to why he should do so: one, because
he
was exhausted, especially considering the number of naps he'd recently been forced to miss; two, because
he
needed to be physically and mentally alert tomorrow, and if he didn't get some sleep soon, he wouldn't be worth a shit; and three, because it had been almost eight hours since his last nap, and his body clock was going to get all fouled up if he didn't nod off soon.
So sleep, dammit. You've got to rest. After all, the fate of the entire civilized and not-so-civilized world rests on your scrawny shoulders.

Yeah. Right. That was a great one for inducing relaxation. He squeezed his eyes shut, and again had the sensation of being pulled down into a black whirlpool of panic.

Harrison fought it, as he had when he was a kid, by
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thinking of something funny. Eyes still closed, he did his best to recall every practical joke he'd ever played. What was the first one? Kindergarten, of course. Couldn't forget that one. The time he'd put the frog in Katie Seymour's pants, with gratifying results— though not so gratifying for the poor frog.

Then first grade, with Mr. Anderson, that tight-lipped horse's ass with the curious habit of plucking out his eyebrows and chewing on them. The old tack on the teacher's chair-—not exactly original, but still worthwhile. Harrison smiled to himself at the image of old redheaded Anderson shooting straight up from behind his desk, his eyes round as quarters.

There, that was better. Everything was going to be all right; after all, Clayton would be coming out to the ranch tomorrow. Just like the old days. Harrison felt his body begin to relax. Now all he needed was inspiration for a practical joke to play on Ironhorse— after all this was over, of course, when Harrison would be a few thousand miles removed from the colonel— or the stiff-lipped Tom Kensington, who looked like a promising target. Something to do with the horse, or the girl; maybe he could get Debi's cooperation. He drifted off into darkness, his thoughts a confusing tumble of base-three digits and practical jokes.

Then someone switched on the light.

Harrison, darling, get up.

He bolted upright in bed, heart hammering so hard he clutched at his chest. In his momentary confusion it was all too easy to imagine he was five years old

again.

"You were right," Ironhorse said. No apology. The
367

colonel stood in the doorway, still dressed in fatigues. His dark brows were knitted, his manner agitated, too agitated to register Harrison's terrified reaction to being wakened.

Harrison drew a shaking hand across his face. "I was
asleep.''''

Ironhorse either failed or refused to get the point. He stepped inside the room and, without waiting for an invitation, sat down on the edge of Harrison's bed.

"Please," Harrison said sarcastically, gesturing, "come in."

The colonel got straight to the point. "I finally got hold of Wilson. According to the general, the government has had three of the alien ships mothballed since 1953. Care to guess where?"

"I already told you," Harrison said flatly. "Hangar Fifteen. You don't have to act so surprised that I was telling the truth."

Ironhorse grunted in grudging acknowledgment. "And guess where Hangar Fifteen is?"

"Nellis Air Force Base." Harrison smiled unhappily. "So my theory was right."

Ironhorse slowly shook his head, seeming overwhelmed. "Smack-dab in the middle. We've got to get to Nellis first thing in the morning, before the aliens do. If they get their hands on those ships—"

Harrison motioned him silent. There was no point in saying what they both already knew: if the aliens got to their ships, they would be impossible to stop.

TWENTY-SEVEN

It was normal morning activity along the flight line at Nellis Air Force Base. A typical day, the sun bright, harsh, superheating the tarmac until black heat waves glimmered against the near horizon. A squadron of fighters was lined up on the main runway; every few seconds one of them streaked up into the sky with an ear-splitting roar. Both inside and outside the hangars, repairmen were busy maintenancing helicopters and a couple of small prop planes. Every so often a jeepful of soldiers rumbled down the service road.

Everyday stuff, nothing unusual or suspicious at all, certainly not about the two airmen who strolled across the tarmac past a hangar toward a runway. Nothing unusual at all, except for the mottled purplish bruises that ringed each of their necks, or the slight clumsiness of their movements. No one noticed, and no one stopped them as they made a sudden detour toward two of the big troop-transport helicopters sitting on the outskirts of the runway and climbed into them.

By the time one of the workers heard the choppers start up and tried to yell out that the copters were scheduled for maintenance, not takeoff, it was too late.

Self-conscious and hot in camo fatigues, Suzanne sat in the driver's seat of the drab green Ford sedan and tried not to appear nervous. Think military, that was the key. She straightened and put her hands at ten o'clock and two o'clock—the ideal driving position— on the steering wheel.

Seated next to her, Harrison wore a uniform identical to hers and Ironhorse's. She could only hope it looked less ridiculous on her. Harrison leaned next to her and said under his breath and through his teeth, "Try to relax, will you? You look like you've got a poker up your—"

"Go to hell," she whispered, and looked through the open car window at Ironhorse as he walked up to the front of the commander's bungalow and saluted the base commander, General Arquette, a stern, jowly, gray-haired man who wore a carefully pressed blue uniform and the same cool air of confidence Ironhorse exuded.

Arquette returned the salute, then turned to narrow his eyes at Suzanne, peering in through the tinted windshield at Ironhorse's entourage. She swallowed, and did her best to look bored—but felt absolutely

convinced that the general would never mistake her and Harrison for military personnel.

It was hot, and the car windows were all rolled down. Suzanne listened carefully to see what Arquette had to say to Ironhorse about his companions, but oddly enough, the general said nothing, just turned his attention politely back to the colonel. The two of them began to stroll the short distance in front of the bungalow.

As unconvincing as she and Harrison might be, Ironhorse was brilliant in his role. The man was a truly inspired liar; she would have to remember never again to believe anything he said. He walked next to the general, his hands folded behind his back, Arquette's aide a few respectful steps behind.