Aurora Quest

It was an antitank Silverhead M855, capable of being fired from a tripod-mounted 155 mm launcher. It had an effective range of fifteen miles and had not been designed for use against airborne opponents. But it had a simple laser-guidance control system that could easily be adapted for use against the Chinooks.

Suddenly he heard the high-pitched tone of a radio message coming in and the sleepy yawn of the operator responding to it. “Tempest receiving. Identification? I repeat, please give Identification.”

Zelig swung off his bunk and eased himself through the confined space to lean over the young man’s shoulder. “Who is it?” he whispered, not wanting to rouse the whole crew.

“Don’t know yet. Bit off the dial, sir.”

“Call them again.”

“Tempest calling…”

“Double Baker, calling Tempest. Double Baker calling. Reading you strength six. Repeat, strength six. Please indicate our reception strength.”

“Reading you eight, Double Baker.”

“Who’s that?” asked Zelig. “Is he the last of the calls we were expecting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“None of the others seen or heard anything of Jim Hilton?”

The operator held up a hand to silence the commanding officer. “No. Coming through now, sir.”

There was the hissing and crackling of static, but none of the usual cross-channel interference that they’d have heard a couple of years ago. Now there was only a handful of shortwave radio sets operating throughout the entire continent.

And an even smaller number of people actually listening for them.

“Double Baker for Tempest with news of the flight of eagles. Repeat, news—” Then the hissing swamped the man’s voice, drowning the rest of the message.

“Flames and martyrs!” Zelig’s shout woke everyone in the armored vehicle.

“Probably get them back in a few minutes, General. Atmospherics rarely last long.”

“Who did you say this Double Baker is? And where is he? Can’t be that far. Think he’s identified any of the Aquila’s crew? How far off are we?”

“Lot of questions,” replied the radioman, leaning forward, fingers as delicate as a surgeon, slowly turning the dial, seeking the voice again.

“Some answers, then?”

“He used the code word ‘eagles,’ so he must have a hard report. Double Baker’s got a spread near a little town in Oregon called Rilkeville. With his wife. She sometimes spells him on the radio. Got a real nice voice. At a good speed, we might be there in a day and a half, General.”

“Does he have a real name behind the code?”

“Sure. He… Ah, nearly had him there. Yeah. Code’s simple. Depends on using their real initials. Double Baker. So his name’s actually… Here he is again….”

DAVE BRADLEY TURNED to his wife. “Think we’re picking them up again. Got a high-scale reading on the top dial. Must be the warm weather brought a front across the state, bollixing all of the transmissions.”

“Want a coffee?”

He grinned fondly at her. “Wouldn’t say no to that. Don’t disturb our guests, though.”

Norma-Jean wiped her nose with a handkerchief. “Caught a cold.” She paused with her hand on the stout lock on the room that concealed their shortwave radio equipment. “Think we might travel north with them to Aurora, honey?”

“Maybe. Get us the coffee, and I’ll transmit the news to the general.”

As the middle-aged woman unlocked the door, Jeff Thomas pushed hard against it, making her stumble. He quickly followed her in and stabbed her once with a knife he’d taken from her own kitchen.

The sharp point slid in under the ribs, and he thrust it a second time, twisting his wrist the way Nanci Simms had once taught him, converting a serious wound into a mortal one. Hot blood poured from the deep gash, over his hand and wrist, dripping to the wood-block floor. Norma-Jean gave a great sigh that was almost sexual in its intensity and reached up a hand, groping for his eyes. But her strength was gone, and her fingertips caressed his stubbled cheek, touching the deep scar that seamed its way from his right eye to the corner of his mouth.

Jeff took her weight and lowered her with a casual efficiency, wiping the honed steel on her sleeveless sweater.

Dave Bradley had the cans on, his back to the door, and didn’t hear the almost-silent murder of his wife.

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