No answer.
“Not a good shot, then?”
Morwood wondered what Watts’s game was, goading Bellingame like this.
“Better than you,” came the response.
“Well, then, I’ve got a proposition,” said Watts in a boastful tone. “Let’s settle this Old West style. You and me, right here in the street. We draw and see who’s the faster.”
“And have your partner shoot me down? No, thanks.”
“He’s a man of honor. If he gives you his word, you can trust him. Anyway, his gun hand got shot to pieces.”
Morwood could hardly believe what he was hearing. Had Watts gone crazy? He opened his mouth to protest, but then Bellingame’s voice rang out.
“A right old-time shootout. And what if I win?”
“Then I’m dead and you can help yourself to a vehicle and take off. But you ain’t going to win, because I can tell you’re one of those cowboys who’s all hat and no cattle.”
“You’re a big talker there, mister.”
“It’s your only option. Unless you want to just give up. No doubt the government would be happy to offer lifetime accommodations.”
This was insane. What was Watts thinking? But Morwood decided to keep holding his tongue.
“All right,” said Bellingame. “If your pal gives his word of honor. We both holster our guns and come out into the street. I give the count and we draw.”
“Agent Morwood,” Watts called out. “You okay with this? Word of honor?”
Morwood didn’t answer right away. It was crazy, it was stupid, and yet the alternative was more shooting—and God only knew how that would end up. Watts had something up his sleeve…and rather than mess it up, it seemed better to let it play out.
“I give my word,” he called out.
“Okay, Bellingame! Let’s do it.”
Morwood moved around the corner to where he had a good view of the street. He saw Bellingame emerge from behind a wall, 1911 in its belt holster and the duster flapping behind him in the wind. And now here came Watts, from the other end of town, moving out into the street, in his cowboy hat and two six-guns strapped crosswise around his hips, grips facing inward above the tooled Slim Jim holsters. Christ, it was like a time machine. But they were fifty yards apart, and that was a hell of a distance with a revolver, even with time to aim through sights. But here they were, shooting from the hip—and Watts with only one round left.
“Ready to fill your hand?” Watts yelled.
Bellingame nodded. “On three. One. Two. Three!”
Bellingame drew and—in the same moment—Watts skipped away unexpectedly, pivoting to one side with the athleticism of a ballet dancer. The shot missed.
“What the fuck—!” Bellingame went to fire again, but in the moment of delay Watts drew and fired with astonishing speed, fanning the Peacemaker’s hammer with his palm, and Bellingame’s curse was cut short by a bullet in the mouth. He bit down with a gargled cry, toppled backward, and lay still.
After a moment of shock, Morwood stepped out from behind the wall and walked over, staring down at Bellingame. The man’s eyes were wide open in surprise, blood spreading across the dirt below.
“Damn,” said Watts, holstering the Peacemaker. “Bad shot.”
“Bad shot?” Morwood cried. He’d never seen anything like that in his life.
“An inch too low. I was hoping for the bridge of his nose.”
“You’ve been practicing that maneuver?”
“Most of my life.”
“And back there, when you drew on those two simultaneously? That too?”
“Ever since I was five,” said Watts, “I’ve wanted to be the fastest gun in the West. I practiced all the old moves, even though I knew they were just a part of history.” He paused. “Nice in a way—getting to use them for real, I mean.”
And, as they started off in the direction of the trucks, Morwood saw the sheriff smile to himself.
59
NORA SOON GOT into the rhythm of climbing, making one move at a time and then waiting. The cliff gradually got less sheer until at last she was able to scramble over the rim. Skip followed, crawling, and rolled on his back. “Son of a bitch,” he said, gasping.
“Where are we going?” Corrie asked. “We can’t just run away aimlessly.”
“The closest inhabited town has got to be San Antonio,” Nora said. “Forty miles, at least.”
“We can talk while we move,” said Skip, rising to his feet.
They set off, running along the ridgeline. It curved to the north, carrying them deeper into the mountains, which loomed up like black sawblades above them.
“Pretty soon the general’s going to unleash all sorts of shit on us,” said Corrie. “We can’t hide for long, even in the mountains. We’ve got to have a plan.”
“Agreed,” said Skip. “But what?”
Nobody answered. There was no plan, except to keep moving, Nora thought. Forty miles to San Antonio? That was absurd: they’d have to cross the Jornada del Muerto desert on foot to get there, one of the worst deserts in the country. They wouldn’t survive that without water, even if not being chased by drones. But where else could they go?
They continued along the ridge, as fast as they dared given the darkness. Within a quarter of an hour, Nora—glancing back—noticed lights begin to appear.
“See that?” she said.
“Let’s drop down into the next valley,” Skip said. He headed down a sloping hillside and the two women followed, trying to maintain their footing in the darkness and loose scree. They reached the bottom of the draw, a sandy wash lined with prickly scrub. Skip turned and headed downstream.
“We’re not that far from the old Gower Ranch house,” said Nora.
“Could we take refuge there?” Corrie asked, but then answered her own question. “No—too obvious.”
Nora glanced back again. The lights were maybe a half mile away.
“We’re not going to outrun them,” Corrie said.
“We keep moving,” said Skip. “And lose them. If we don’t, we’re dead.”
The narrow valley broadened into a small plain dotted with hills and piles of rock. The lights appeared behind them once again. Suddenly, Nora heard a zing! followed by the report of a rifle. They threw themselves down in the grass as more rounds snapped and whined around them.
“The bastards must have night vision scopes,” said Corrie. She ran at a crouch, and Nora and Skip followed. Another volley of rounds struck around them, but the distance was too great for an accurate shot. In a moment they had taken cover behind a hill, gasping for breath.
Nora looked up. With no light pollution and no moon, the sky was bedazzled with stars. From their vantage point she could see out over the Jornada del Muerto, a vast pool of blackness…with just one tiny cluster of lights off to one side, at the base of a mass of mountains.
“Hey—you see that? Those lights?” Nora asked, pointing.
“It looks like some sort of outpost,” said Skip.
“Outpost?” Nora repeated. “Way out here at the end of the Sierra Oscura? That has to be Abajo Peak. Even for a place like WSMR, that’s the middle of nowhere.”
Corrie stared. “Wait. What did you say?”
Nora frowned in confusion. “Huh?”
“Go over that geography again. Quickly.”
“Sierra Oscura. Abajo Peak—”
“That’s it. You remember I told you about that navy guy I met in a bar?”
“Yes,” said Nora.
“He said he worked at a small communications station inside White Sands, west of Abajo Peak.”
Nora squinted into the dark mass of mountains. “If so, that must be it.”
“A navy station?” Skip asked dubiously. “Here, in the desert?”
“They use it to communicate with nuclear subs. What did he call it? ELF station, or extremely low frequency. The radio waves go all the way through the Earth to subs even on the other side.”
“W
ow,” said Skip. “You learn something every day.”
“Okay. That’s where we’ll go.” And Corrie gathered herself to run.
“And what will that get us?” Nora asked. “We’ll just be turning ourselves in.”
“They’re navy,” said Corrie. “On army land. The two don’t get along. If we can make it there, perhaps we can blow the whistle on the general.”
Nora shook her head. “Fat chance. You think the navy would believe us—over the commanding general of the whole damn place?”
“You got a better idea?”
Skip interrupted. “Look. It’s not like we have a choice. We go there, try to explain what’s going on. Take our chances. It’s better than having a drone turn us into wet spots on the desert floor.”
“Agreed,” said Corrie.
Nora shrugged. It was, she admitted, better than getting hunted down—if they could reach that little cluster of lights.
“This way,” Corrie said. She led them at a run toward a series of ravines coming down from the mountains. They entered a boulder field, a complicated braid of alluvial deposits and channels, which made for slow going but at least provided better cover. Looking back, Nora could no longer see the lights.
Corrie and Skip continued leading the way, trending northward by a circuitous route. And then Skip stopped. “Listen,” he whispered.
A faint hum could be heard to the south, sounding like a distant lawn mower—or, perhaps, several.
“Drones,” said Skip.
The three cast around, but there was no place to take refuge—just brush and large boulders. The sounds got louder.
“Low flying,” said Skip. “They’re going to see us.”
And then several black outlines appeared out of the south, moving slowly across the night sky: no lights, visible only by their blotting out of the stars. Just the sight turned Nora’s mouth dry.
“Flatten against a rock!” Skip urged.
They did so. The drones passed low overhead. At first they appeared to keep flying on, but then the sounds of their engines changed as they began to loop around.
“They spotted us,” said Skip. “Move!”
They stumbled through the boulder field, weaving this way and that as the drones homed in. There was a flash, followed by a deep whooshing sound.
“Down!” Skip cried.
Nora threw herself down next to a large boulder, cramming herself against its underside. There was a bright flash, then an ear-popping roar of overpressure. Shrapnel zinged and snapped among the boulders.
“Keep moving!” Skip screamed. They leapt up and ran, stumbling and half-blind, through the dark boulder field as the remaining drones again disappeared beyond the hills. But from the sound, Nora could tell they were turning for another pass.
They came around a hill, and the Gower Ranch house abruptly came into view, spread across a dark basin below them.
“Shit,” said Corrie. “We’re sitting ducks.”
“The hot spring!” Skip cried a moment later. He turned to Nora. “You said there was one on the hillside above the ranch.”
Nora turned toward the tall cottonwoods where the general had mentioned the spring was. The drones were now approaching again, moving low and slow. She was about to protest, but Skip and Corrie were already scrambling along the hillside, heading for the trees. They entered the grove and there—coming out of the rock—was a steaming rivulet of water, rimmed and crusted with travertine. It flowed into a man-made pool, crudely constructed of rocks, with more tendrils of steam hanging above it.
“In!” said Skip.
“What—?” Nora began, but Skip grabbed her hand with a curse, pulling her into the hot water.
“Lie down,” he said.
The steamy water enclosed Nora in a sweltering embrace, only her head above the surface. The drones passed overhead with a nasty buzzing sound and continued on.
“Wait,” Skip warned in a low tone.
The drones made another pass, this time farther apart. Then they flew past yet again, widening their search pattern.
“Their thermal cameras can’t make us out,” said Skip. “Not in all this heat.”
The drones flew on, their search pattern drifting west, and soon the sound of their engines had vanished.
“They’ve lost us,” Skip said. “Let’s go while we still have time.”
Emerging from the hot springs, steaming in the cool fall air, they jogged northward, keeping within the complicated maze of foothills and dry washes. They had made an abrupt turn to reach the springs, and it appeared the pursuing soldiers had lost them, too.
They topped the next ridge and scrambled down the other side, Nora scraping her hands badly in the process.
Reaching the bottom, they sprinted across a ravine, which soon turned into a warren of steep canyons choked with boulders and tributaries. Corrie was now leading, and at every turn she picked the most difficult way, but always trending in the direction of the north star. It was a nightmare trek, moving in the dark among boulders and fallen trees, brush and landslides—one of the nastiest landscapes Nora had ever been in, at times almost impassable. But what was hard for them would be hard for their pursuers, and she couldn’t imagine better country in which to lose a tracker.
An hour later, scratched, exhausted, and bleeding, Corrie finally stopped. Nora was nauseous, physically shattered. Pure adrenaline was the only thing that had been keeping them going.
“I think we’ve lost them,” said Skip. “Really lost them this time.”
“Let’s not count on it,” said Corrie.
“We should be east of the navy station,” said Nora. “I think we should turn west, head down and out of the mountains, and make a beeline for it, hoping to get there before we’re cut off.” She was aware that neither she nor the others had the energy for further evasive tactics in that rough country.
“They may already know we’re headed there,” said Corrie.
Skip shook his head. “We’ve got no choice. Literally.”
Two minutes later, after the briefest of rests, they turned and headed down a narrow ravine choked with junipers. After another half hour of pushing through the brush, the endless ribbons of washes and ravines opened into grassy foothills—and there, half a mile away on the flat, was the cluster of lights of the navy station.
“Looks quiet,” said Skip.
Venturing out onto the plain, they had to come out of cover. The desert was flat and featureless, dotted with creosote bushes, sparse clumps of grass, and low, sprawling prickly pears.
“I can hardly move,” groaned Corrie.
“You’ve got to,” Skip told her.
They started off at a run, which soon deteriorated into a shambling jog. Nora’s lungs were burning, and the feeling of nausea returned.
And then, overhead, the sound of the lawn mowers returned.
“Keep going!” Skip urged. “They’re not going to fire close to a navy station!”
Nora was so exhausted and frightened that she could hardly think. The desert was hard-packed gravel and they walked onward, stumbling through the low bushes. The buzzing grew louder, and once again the big black shapes passed overheard, like cruising torpedoes—but none fired a missile.
The birds came back around. The station loomed ahead, a collection of ugly, low concrete structures beside a cluster of communications towers. On one side, spreading out over a vast acreage, were a web of wires on short posts—some sort of gigantic antenna farm.
The drones were now doing tight circles above them, and over the sound of her gasping for air and pounding heart Nora could make out the thud of a helicopter. Rising over the mountains came a chopper, brilliantly lit. And at the base of the mountains, the bobbing lights of the pursuing soldiers appeared, heading their way.
The three reached a fence surrounding the antenna field. They ran alongside it toward the buildings. Behind them, the helicopter was fast approaching a landing zone just beyond the navy station. Nora had no doubt that t
he general and Lieutenant Woodbridge were in it.
They’d run out of time.
Now they reached the closest building. Light streamed out a small window, and Nora could make out a few figures inside, sitting around a table. They hesitated, uncertain, as the helicopter banked in for a landing.
And then Skip picked up a heavy rock and heaved it through the window with a terrific crash.
“What the hell are you doing?” Corrie cried.
“What the hell do you think? Getting our asses arrested!”
There was no time for any more talk. The door flew open, and several sailors came out, weapons drawn. Skip raised his hands. “Don’t shoot. We’re unarmed!”
“Down! Face down! Hands behind your heads!”
They threw themselves down in the dirt and were immediately surrounded. An officer in a commander’s uniform came running over. “What’s this?” he cried. “Who are these people?”
“Intruders, sir.”
“Good God, way out here?” He looked down at them. “Who are you?”
Corrie spoke. “Special Agent Corinne Swanson, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“What? FBI? Show some ID.”
“No ID, sir.”
“They threw a rock through the window, sir,” one of the seamen said.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. More nuclear protestors. You wouldn’t think they’d tramp all the way out here.” The officer sighed with irritation. “Search them.”
They were quickly patted down for weapons and then pulled to their feet.
“You’re under arrest,” the officer said. “Master-at-Arms, cuff them.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Their hands were pulled behind their backs and cuffs slapped on. Nora saw the helicopter settling down on the landing zone a few hundred yards away, dust billowing upward.
“It’s General McGurk, sir,” said a sailor, bringing the commanding officer a radio. The CO listened, spoke briefly, handed the radio back.
“Bring them inside,” he said. “We’ll wait for the general.”
60
THEY WERE MARCHED inside to a small, bunker-like room where the sailors had been playing cards. A few minutes later, Nora could hear the general’s barking voice and the door opened again. McGurk stepped in, followed by half a dozen army soldiers. Lieutenant Woodbridge came last, as cool and controlled as ever.
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