Resistance (29 page)

His prison, because that's what it was, consisted of a cube-shaped concrete cell which was approximately one hundred feet to a side. It was featureless except for the cameras that peered at Daedalus from every possible angle, the harness that held him aloft, and the rectangular
drain below. A convenience that would allow the food things to hose his excrement away. Except none of the creatures were anywhere to be seen, and Daedalus thought he knew why.

In order to test his hypothesis Daedalus summoned a bolt of mental energy and let it fly. He knew the weapon was sufficient to render most humans unconscious, if not actually kill them. The result was a 900 kV shock, which not only hurt, but told Daedalus what he needed to know. An electrode had been implanted in his body, thereby allowing the meat creatures to punish him whenever they chose to.

Meanwhile, judging from what Daedalus could see, his captors were elsewhere watching him via the cameras. Far enough away that mental attacks would be ineffective. That theory proved to be correct when a voice boomed over speakers mounted inside the cube. “Greetings, Daedalus, and welcome back. My name is Dentweiler. We want to speak with you.”

Daedalus offered no response. None that the meat person named Dentweiler could perceive. But his mind was working. Daedalus knew he wanted to exert more control over the millions of Chimeran forms currently converging on North America. Whether that was a personal choice, or something the virus wanted him to accomplish wasn't clear, and really didn't matter.

Because Earth was about to fall—and that was the only thing that mattered.

Gray clouds hung like a lid over Montana, as the VTOL swept in from the south with a beat-up four-wheel-drive pickup truck dangling below its belly. There was a lot of open country north of Hardin, so there wasn't anyone around to witness the moment when the aircraft lowered the truck down to a point just a few feet off the snow-covered road, and the crew chief pulled the harness release lever. The pickup bounced once, then came to rest, as a tangle of steel cables fell on top of it.

Freed from its burden the VTOL shot up, scooted sideways, and came back down as the prop wash hit a layer of light powdery snow and sent it swirling in every direction. Then, as the
Party Girl
touched down, a couple of crewmen went out to retrieve their harness and drag it inside the aircraft while Hale carried his duffel bag down the sloping ramp.

Once on the ground he circled around to a point where Purvis could see him. The pilot grinned, and gave Hale a cheerful thumbs-up. Both engines began to spool up as the ramp was retracted and the ship started to vibrate. Moments later it shot straight up again, turned to the south, and sped away.

Hale was on his own.

But unlike the recent trip to Chicago, Hale was well within government-controlled territory. So while he made his way over to the truck, the Sentinel felt none of the usual gut-wrenching fear that went with being dropped into what some of his peers referred to as stink land.

Still, there was some risk involved in his current mission, since Hale had been given the task of infiltrating a Freedom First training camp near Custer. The idea was to find out if Secretary of War Walker and his wife were heading there, since they weren't in Chicago. The Grace administration was still determined to find them, or confirm that the two dissidents were dead, either outcome being quite acceptable.

The pale blue truck had clearly seen hard service, and was equipped with muddy Montana plates. Hale opened the driver's-side door, threw the duffel bag onto the far side of the bench-style seat, and slid in behind the big black steering wheel. The key was in the ignition and the six-cylinder engine started with a throaty
roar
. Which wasn't too surprising since SRPA mechanics had gone over the vehicle less than twenty-four hours before.

The four-wheel-drive differential was already engaged, so all Hale had to do was put the pickup in gear and head north along the two-lane highway. Local ranchers had left tracks in the snow, but judging from the way they were partially filled in, it had been at least six hours since the last vehicle had passed.

As Hale looked to his left he could see snow-covered range land, the Absaroka Mountain range beyond, and a strip of cold winter light that divided the ground from the pewter gray sky. The heater was on, but hadn't made much progress warming the cab, since all of its strength was directed up onto the slightly foggy windshield. It
was a familiar scene—and one that was reminiscent of Hale's childhood.

The truck was equipped with an AM radio, and it wasn't long before Hale was listening to “Long Gone Lonesome Blues” by Hank Williams and His Drifting Cowboys. The music carried him north past ranch houses set back off the road, barns shingled with snow, and bare-branched trees. He came to a gravel road marked only by a mailbox mounted on a rusty old plow and that—according to the instructions he had been given—was the point where he was supposed to turn right.

So Hale put the wheel over and soon found himself on a well-churned road that ran straight as an arrow along a barbed wire fence, and pointed toward the rise beyond. As the truck sent waves of slush rolling right and left Hale began to feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He often played the part of a hunter, as well as the hunted, and knew the feeling well. Somewhere, perhaps from the pile of snow-frosted boulders two hundred yards to the left, eyes were watching him. And unless he missed his guess the lookout had a radio, and was already in the process of reporting the new arrival.

A discipline Hale understood and was respectful of.

As the truck topped the rise Hale saw a collection of buildings that lay beyond. Some were old and weather-beaten, clearly part of a ranch that had been there for a long time; others had the bright yellow-orange glow of new lumber. They looked like military-style barracks and that made sense, since even though government officials frowned on it, the property had been rededicated as a boot camp for Freedom First volunteers. Once trained, they would be sent north into stink land, or if Montana was overrun, the fighters would remain behind
to carry out hit-and-run raids against the Chimera. Missions Hale not only approved of, but thought the government should sponsor, rather than playing defense so much of the time.

A pole-gate made from a freshly barked log blocked the road, so Hale brought the truck to a stop, as two men dressed in deer hunting outfits came out to greet him. Both were armed with Bullseye Mark IIIs rather than deer rifles, which suggested that they had other game in mind. One of the sentries kept his weapon ready as Hale cranked the window down and the other man sauntered over to greet him. He had a craggy outdoorsy sort of face, half of which was invisible behind a thick beard. A wisp of vapor drifted away from his mouth as he spoke. “Hey, bud, this is private property. If you're looking for Custer, then turn around, and head back. The first right will put you back on the highway.”

“Thanks,” Hale replied neutrally, “but I think I'm in the right place. Assuming this is the Freedom First training camp that is. I'm here to volunteer.”

The sentry frowned. “You got stink eyes … Anyone tell you that?”

“Lots of people,” Hale replied nonchalantly. “Yellow eyes run in the family. My father had ′em, and his father before him.”

The man looked doubtful, but nodded anyway, and he pointed to a parking lot where about two dozen vehicles were parked. Some were covered with snow, and clearly hadn't been driven for a while, while others were bare.

“Put the truck over there, bud,” the sentry said brusquely. “If you're carrying weapons, lock them in the cab. Follow the signs to the admin building. Ask for Mr. Munger. He's in charge of recruiting, and just about everything else around here.”

Hale thanked the man, waited for the second sentry to push down on the weighted pole-gate, and drove through. Then, having turned into the parking lot, he chose a spot between a late-model sedan and an old flatbed truck. Hale was carrying nothing more than a .45 semiautomatic pistol, which was consistent with his cover story and small enough to put in the glove box.

He got out of the truck and crossed the lot, then followed a trail of hand-painted signs to what had once been a one-story log home, but now functioned as the “Administration Building.” Somewhere off in the distance the steady
pop, pop, pop
of gunfire could be heard, suggesting that some of the trainees were on the rifle range.

At least he hoped that was what it was.

Two more men were waiting for Hale inside the admin building. Both wore wool shirts, faded jeans, and sidearms. One was chewing on a wooden match. His eyes were nearly invisible inside a convergence of wrinkles. “Mornin',” he said conversationally. “Please turn to the left and put your weight on the wall. Lester here wants to feel you up.” It was an old joke, but still sufficient to elicit an appreciative guffaw from Lester, who ran a pair of rough hands over Hale without finding any weapons.

Having passed that inspection, he was ordered to take a seat in what had once been a spacious living room. It was still homey, with a dark green rug, worn overstuffed furniture, and a crackling fire in the river-rock fireplace. The walls were covered with a variety of black-and-white photos. All of them were of the same man who could be seen fishing for trout, kneeling next to all manner of dead animals, and sitting atop a succession of fine-looking horses as he looked out over some vista or
other. The ranch's owner then? Yes, Hale thought so, as he took a seat.

Hale was scanning old copies of
Field & Stream
when a man dressed in a tweed coat, corduroy trousers, and highly polished brown cowboy boots came out to meet him. Hale recognized him as the man in the photos. “Hello,” the man said. “My name is Munger. Homer Munger. And you are?”

“Nathan Leary,” Hale replied. “Glad to meet you.”

Munger had a thin, somewhat ascetic countenance. “We'll see about that, Mr. Leary,” he said grimly. “Many hear the call—but few are chosen. Please follow me.”

Hale followed Munger back into what had been the home's master bedroom but was now furnished as an office, complete with a large wooden desk, lots of bookshelves, and a military-style two-way radio that occupied most of a side table. An extremely detailed map of Montana covered most of one wall. Munger had circled the desk, and appeared ready to sit down, when he spoke. “Atten-
hut
!”

After years in the Army, then SRPA, Hale very nearly snapped to. It took an act of will to frown and look confused, straighten up, and assume the sort of sloppy brace that a brand-new recruit might. Munger nodded approvingly and smiled.

“Sorry about that, but the Grace administration doesn't approve of our activities, and they continue to send spies from time to time. Soldiers mostly, men who look the way you do, and almost always pop to attention.” With that, he took his place in the chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Leary, and tell me about yourself.”

So Hale told Munger about losing his parents, growing up on a ranch in South Dakota, and drifting from job to job. All of which was true as far as it went. The
only lie being his failure to mention his time in both the Army and SRPA.

Munger listened intently, interrupting occasionally to ask questions, but allowing Hale to do most of the talking. Finally, as the narrative came to an end, Munger formed a steeple with his fingers.

“So, tell me, Mr. Leary, what makes you think you have anything to offer Freedom First?”

Hale shrugged, but when he spoke his voice carried an undercurrent of menace.

“I grew up outdoors, and I'm a pretty good shot, and I hate the stinks.”

“Montana is full of good shots,” Munger observed dryly. “My mother can bag a rabbit from a couple hundred feet away with a .22—and she's pushing eighty. What we need are
exceptional
shots. More than that, we're looking for men and women who are willing to go where the U.S. Army won't, and hunt stinks until they get themselves killed. Which is what happens to 90 percent of the people who work with us. So, tell me, Mr. Leary, are you
that
kind of man? And are you willing to make
that
kind of sacrifice?”

Hale looked directly into Munger's eyes. “Yes,” he said unflinchingly. “I believe I am.”

Munger was silent for a moment, as if considering what he had heard. Eventually, having reached a decision, he nodded his head. “All right, Mr. Leary, fair enough. We'll put you through the wringer and see if you can take the pain. Then, if you're still here three or four days from now, the
real
training will start. Take your gear over to Bunkhouse 1, find an empty bed, and make yourself to home. But get lots of sleep—you're going to need it.”

*  *  *

Bunkhouse I was empty when Hale entered, although half of the sixteen beds had been claimed, judging from the personal possessions on or around them. Were the other recruits being put through what Munger called the wringer? Yes, Hale thought so, as he put his duffel bag on a bare mattress and went about the process of making it up using the bedding piled on the foot of the bed. The result was way too Army, so he pulled the corners out, and let the covers hang civilian-style.

Having spotted the cookhouse on the way over from the truck, Hale ambled back to see if he could get a bite to eat and, more important, to look for the Walkers. Because the whole idea was to ascertain if they were present, and then get out. Which he could do by looking incompetent the next day. Then, if the Walkers
were
present, a SAR team would drop in to pick them up.

But when Hale entered the cookhouse, there was no sign of the couple. One table was occupied by three men and a woman, all of whom wore the weary look of combat veterans, and none of them offered him a smile. Having checked Hale out and filed him under “newbie,” they continued their conversation.

A few other people were present as well, singles mostly—including an older man who was poring over some financial records, a youngster with his right leg in a cast, and a retired bird dog who welcomed Hale with a single
thump
of his tail.