Byron was right behind her.
“You come all the way out here, drop off a present, and leave. That’s just great, Alex. You’re a terrific father.” Her sarcasm was so acid you could etch glass with it.
And it hurt, just as she knew it would. She knew how to find the cracks in his armor. She always had. And the needle she used to stab him was loaded with poison, just as it had been during the last year of their marriage, and during the divorce. When she got pissed off, she stopped playing fair. He said, his voice tight, “I’m doing the best I can.” “Your best is crappy. If you loved your daughter, you’d do better.” “So you told me a couple of thousand times already.
Must be nice to be perfect in every way. How do you stand being around us mere mortals?” “Hey, take it easy there,” Byron said.
“No point in getting nasty.” Michaels looked at the big bearded man as if he had just turned into a giant upright toad.
“Excuse me? She can tell me I’m a lousy father and that I don’t love my daughter, but I can’t fight back? Why don’t you go get some more firewood, Byron? This is a private conversation.” Megan flared at that.
“Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of Byron.” “Really?” Michaels’s temper was smoldering now. He was about to flame on, and if he did, he would say some thing he would regret. He tried to hold onto as much calm as he could.
“Listen, you don’t want me here, you and Byron have been doing everything short of tearing each other’s clothes off, and I suspect some of that was for my benefit. Fine, you made your point.” “It doesn’t matter how I feel about you, Alex. It’s how your daughter feels.” “I’m not going to let you beat me over the head with that anymore! I love my daughter and she knows it.
If you really loved her, you wouldn’t be turning her against me at every opportunity. You can really be a bitch when you want, you know?” That got her attention. It was the first time he’d ever said some thing that direct about her, and her eyes went wide in surprise.
It got Byron’s attention too.
“That’s it, pal,” he said.
“You’re outta here!” He reached out and grabbed Michaels’s arm with both hands.
Boy, was that the wrong thing to do.
Michaels reacted without thinking. He swung his elbow at Byron’s head, keeping it in tight, as if he were holding a marble in the crook of his arm, just like Toni had taught him.
Bone met bone with a solid thwack! and Byron fell as if his legs had suddenly vanished.
Son of a bitch. It worked!
Megan dropped to her knees and grabbed at the fallen man.
“Byron! Byron! Are you okay?” Susie’s music boomed from the other room where she played, thankfully oblivious to all this.
Byron blinked, tried to sit up.
“What happened? Did I slip on some thing?
Why am I on the floor–?” He’d live, he was just stunned.
Megan looked up from the fallen man at Michaels. She said, “We’re getting married!
And Byron wants to adopt Susie!” Her voice practically dripped venom.
Michaels felt his soul freeze, then begin to shrivel. There it was, in black and white, no mistaking it. He had loved this woman beyond measure, and she was doing everything she could to hurt him.
How could he have been so blind?
When he could find a breath, he spoke, and his voice was cold.
“Congratulations. I’ll send you a toaster. But he will adopt Susie over my dead body. I’ll spend every penny I have and every penny I can borrow on private detectives and lawyers.
And if Byron here spends a night under this roof before you get married, you’ll find yourself in a custody battle like you wouldn’t believe! You want to play rough? Fine.” With that, he turned and stalked out.
In the cold air, snow clouds gathered and threatened. Perfect.
Just perfect!
Well. You wanted an excuse to leave, didn’t you? Better be more careful what you wish for next time, Alex. You might get that one too.
Damn! He couldn’t believe what he had just done. How he had lost control.
Damn!
Compared to what he’d just felt, terrorists stealing nuclear material didn’t seem so bad.
Chapter 15 Saturday, December 25th, 4:45 P.m.
Tonopah, Arizona Michaels rode in the second helicopter of his trip, heading for the hijacking site on Interstate 10, about forty miles west of Phoenix. A small military jet had been waiting for him when the first copter dropped him at the airport in Boise. It had been a straight flight, and fast.
The Arizona sky was clear and sunny, and he could see what the pilot had told him was the Bighorn Mountains ahead of the copter.
John Howard had flown out in one of Net Force’s chartered 747’s with his strike team, and was setting up a command post at a truck stop just outside Tonopah, Arizona.
The chopper pilot brought his craft in for a landing not far from a pair of helicopters already on the ground.
Big Hueys, they looked like. In addition to the copters, the ground was a beehive of activity– cars, trucks, troops, flashing lights.
Practically speaking, it would have made more sense for Michaels to have gone back to HQ; once you got to be the commander of a group like Net Force, you were supposed to be a desk jockey–they paid you for your managing abilities, not to go play in the field.
But the idea of sitting in his office parked in front of the computer station and comm gear waiting to hear what was going on did not appeal to Alex. He needed to be out doing some thing after that whole scene in Boise.
Dust and sand kicked up as the copter settled. He saw John Howard in his field uniform, holding on to his cap as the wind blasted him.
Michaels exited the craft and walked to where Howard stood.
“Commander.” ” “Colonel. How is it going?” “This way, sir.” Howard led him toward what looked like a Texaco truck stop. Along with a dozen big commercial rigs, clearly local, there were a few smaller Net Force trucks and cars, brought by the cargo version of the 747 that the strike force used.
There were a couple of large igloo tents erected behind the main truck stop building, and big power lines snaking into the tents from six rumbling gasoline-powered electrical generators parked near the larger of the tents.
A chilly wind blew across the dry land, but inside the mobile tactical unit–a fiberglass-framed tent the size of a small house –the air was warm. A dozen techs worked on various electronics, mostly computers and com-gear.
Several other soldiers in the strike team checked weapons or assembled field equipment.
Julio Fernandez looked up, saw Michaels, and saluted.
Howard stopped in front of a big flat screen on a stand. He picked up a remote and clicked it. A turning-globe map appeared on the screen.
“Here’s what happened, as best we can tell,” Howard said.
“Somebody sent the routing information for four shipments of plutonium scheduled to move today to a paramilitary group that calls itself the Sons of Patrick Henry. Here are the sites.” Red dots pulsed on the map. France, Germany, Florida, and Arizona.
“We got word of the leak from Gridley at HQ at about the time the attacks began. All four went off simultaneously. We got word to the convoys ASAP. The Florida and German convoys took alternate routes and encountered no problems.
” “The French attack had already begun, as had the one here.
We alerted French authorities, and they got there in time to stop the assault. Eight of the attackers were killed, four wounded seriously, several seemed to have escaped. The driver of the French truck and four of the guards were killed, three more were wounded. Some civilians got caught in the cross fire, all locals.
” “We called the Army transport group here too late. By the time the National Guard and state boys and girls showed up, it was all over. The Army lost two drivers, eight more men, and two women. Looks as if the wounded soldiers were executed after they were downed, assault rifle or pistol rounds to their heads. The terrorists took their dead or wounded with them, but there was enough blood without bodies on the road and surrounding territory to know the Army’s shooters connected with at least a few of them.
“They left behind a couple of antitank mines to slow pursuit.
The state patrol lost two cruisers and three officers. And five civilian cars also got blasted. Six civilians are dead and three more in the hospital probably won’t make it. Everything the state and local police can put on the ground or in the air is out looking for the terrorists.” “Jesus.” “Yes, sir. The shipment was en-route from Fort Davy Crockett, Texas, to Long Beach, California, where it was to be taken via ocean vessel to a location that the Army does not wish to reveal to us. Seven pounds of WG plutonium.” “Where do we stand?” “We know who did it. We know where they are.” “Have you told the local authorities?” “No, sir. We’ve sent them off in other directions. It gives them some thing to do. And if they should get too close, they’ll be warned off.” He fiddled with the remote. The screen image shifted to an overhead view of a group of small buildings surrounded by a fence. The image zeroed in, growing larger in distinct frames, until details as fine as cars and even a couple of people could be seen.