The helicopter was jinking from side to side, the Doppler effect of its engines bouncing off the shadowed walls of the arroyos around the ghost town, making it difficult to judge how far away the chopper actually was. But it certainly seemed to be drawing nearer.
“If there are any hostiles out there,” began Steve Romero hesitantly, “the chopper should be able to pick them up. Don’t they have night scopes and heat seekers on board?”
Jim answered him, getting in before Nanci. “Sure. But if it’s Zelig, they’ll likely be concentrating on finding us.”
A searchlight suddenly stabbed into the darkness, like a spear of dazzling whiteness. Everyone blinked and tried to shade their eyes.
“Fireworks, Dad,” said Sly, hugging himself excitedly.
“Anyone hiding out there with even a Kentucky musket could bring them down,” said Nanci to nobody in particular. “They have to be very confident. Or just dumb.”
There was a loud hissing, crackling sound, as though a speaker had been switched on.
“They have missiles?” Jim asked.
“Sure. Some kind of SRAMs most likely. An AGM-74F? Something like that. Bigger missile like the old Maverick? Could be a pair of Dirty Harrys. The Mark 10s? Sure, they got plenty of power. But attacking from the ground to a chopper is much like shooting fish in a barrel. As I’ve said, either they’re confident and they’re sweeping as they go, or they are seriously dumb.”
The crackling grew louder as the Chinook came lower, close enough for them all to feel the dusty downdraft from the twin blades. Sly covered his eyes and cried out in alarm, but Steve put his arm around the boy, reassuring him.
The spotlight was cutting toward them, faltering over the buildings at the top of the hill by the old mine workings.
“Captain Hilton!!” The volume was deafening, close to pain level.
“Shit!” Jim clapped his hands over his ears, wincing from the roaring voice. Booming and unrecognizable, it battered the senses.
“Captain Hilton and the crew of the Aquila!” Someone on board the chopper must have realized that they were too loud. The thunder diminished. “Anyone there in Calico? Anyone knows about Operation Tempest? Show yourselves.”
Now the voice was recognizably human and certainly unlike General John Kennedy Zelig’s strange, thin little tones. This was a robust man, whose voice had what sounded like an Idaho twang to it.
The Chinook was about two hundred yards away, to the north of the ghost town, hovering over a maze of dry ravines.
“Why don’t they come right in?” yelled Jeff Thomas at the top of his voice, then added barely audibly, “If they know we’re here.”
Nobody bothered to answer him.
“This is transport from Operation Tempest. We know the Aquila made it down and we know there were several nonsurvivors. Sorry we’re a day late on the rendezvous here. Tech problems. Come on out, folks. We can… Okay, we got you on the scanners. Stay there and watch the dust. Coming in.”
Now the blinding light had located them, sucking them into a cone of brightness so powerful it almost felt like being trapped in a force field.
Jim Hilton held his breath, feeling like a fly trapped in amber. He was aware of Sly Romero screaming in terror.
Then, above it all came the noise of gunfire.
Chapter Four
Henderson McGill was on his way back up the wide staircase, fingers brushing lightly against the balustrade, when he was startled by the jagged sound of breaking glass.
It came from the front room downstairs, which overlooked Melville Avenue, and the noise repeated from the kitchen. Someone yelled out in the darkness.
Then wood splintered as if someone was throwing a jimmy hard against the back door.
“Attack!” shouted Mac at the top of his voice. “We’re being attacked!”
More glass shattered, this time in the side room, where they stored most of the emergency food. He turned his head, listening, trying like an animal to work out how many were out there. Had to be half a dozen. Probably a lot more, judging by the yelping.
Paul was first out on the landing, holding a 12-gauge pump action in his left hand, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.