“Sure.”
“Believe that?”
“No.”
The older woman smiled at him. “Figured you didn’t get to be doing the job you did by being a real idiot, Jim.”
“My guess is something close to military Intelligence, Nanci.”
“That’s close enough for now. It’s not right, mind, but it’s close enough for now.”
“So?”
“There’s always plans, Jim.”
“For what?”
Again came the smile, her teeth white in the moonlight. “For everything. President dropping dead in a bordello in Juarez. Chinese invading Alaska in sailboats. You name it and some government high-forehead little nerd will have produced a contingency plan for it. So, Earthblood wasn’t entirely unexpected.”
“Was it a plant cancer from one of our laboratories, Nanci?”
“Doesn’t signify where it came from. It came, it bred and it conquered.”
“Now its effect is passing.”
She nodded. “Looks possible. Seen a few touches of green breaking through the dead red. But it’s done its stuff with great efficiency, and the world won’t ever be the same.”
“Speaker shouted something, just before it went down, about a place called Aurora.” He could smell the stench of aviation fuel from the crashed Chinook, over the ridge.
“Right. One of those contingency plans from Nerdsville.”
“North. You know where?” Sudden hope flooded his heart.
“No. Sorry, Jim. I know a little about a lot, but things like Aurora were on a high need-to-know basis. Very high. Fifteen floors up over my poor old head.”
“The guys with the guns?”
“I heard about a kind of contra-grouping. Senior officers, some politicos, men with big money in industries. Powerful men. And a few women. Called themselves the Hunters of the Sun.”
Their conversation ended abruptly as the machine gun suddenly opened up again, bullets ripping through the weathered walls of what used to be the old schoolhouse in Calico.
THE CONTRAST with the time, only short weeks ago, when they’d been attacked back at Stevenson Base, was very considerable.
Then they’d all been severely disoriented, virtually weaponless and mentally unprepared to do much to defend themselves.
Time had passed.
Times had changed.
Now they were armed and more than ready to kick some ass.
Jim Hilton had taken charge of their defense, making sure that Sly and Heather were safely at their center. He picked a group of buildings near the top of a hill, overlooking the parking lot, placing everyone out in a skirmish line.
After that initial burst of firing, the attackers remained silent. The obvious guess was that they were closing in under cover of night. The moon had almost vanished behind a skirt of thickening cloud, and midnight was drawing nearer.
One major problem was that the defenders had no way of knowing how many men were out there. It could be only three or four. Then again, it could be half a regiment.
Jim gripped his Ruger Blackhawk Hunter, staring into the blackness, fingers firm on the cushioned grip with the walnut inserts. The thirty-five-ounce, six-shot, .44-caliber revolver felt right. Ready for use.
He’d put himself at the center. Nanci had gone to the far left, without being told, nearest to the last sound of shooting. She was dripping with weaponry: the scoped rifle on her shoulder, the matched Heckler & Koch automatics on the hips and the machine pistol in her hand.
Jeff Thomas had followed her, carrying his Smith & Wesson 4506, an eight-round .45. A broad-bladed butcher’s knife swung on his left hip as he scampered after the tall woman.
Steve Romero was next, between the ex-journalist and Jim Hilton. The tall skinny radio expert had a polished bowie knife sheathed on the hip with a small blued Beholla .32 automatic balancing it. The unidentifiable sawed-off scattergun was in his right hand. None of his weapons would be much use above a range of twenty-five yards.
“But let the bastards get close,” he’d said with a grin at Jim.
Kyle Lynch was next along from Jim Hilton, to the right, with the excellent Mannlicher rifle lying at his side. A Mondadori .32 automatic was holstered on his belt.
Carrie Princip completed their lineup. like Steve Romero, she wasn’t armed for distance. She had the Smith & Wesson 2050, the six-shot, .22 revolver with the snub, four-inch barrel.