*
The tall, lean man with dirty, thinning white hair and a dent in his skull moved a fifty pound chunk of cement from the hole and sighed. His broken fingernails were encrusted with filth and his clothing was stiff with dried sweat and accumulated grime. Driven by a compulsion so powerful it ruled his muddled mind he’d spent the best part of the past twelve years at this thankless task. Removing broken concrete one piece at a time, hack sawing though rebar that tied busted bits together, sledge hammering large slabs into pieces small enough to haul out, he slowly tunneled into the heart of the Edwards Launch facility.
He renewed his grip on the long piece of rebar he used mostly as a pry bar, but also as a club and spear on those rare occasions people attacked him. He smelled so bad not even cannibals were tempted to eat him. The few locals in the area soon learned to avoid him, for his years of labor left him far stronger than he looked.
He wedged the rebar under a chunk of debris, heaved and...he dropped the rebar, which clattered against steel and sat down with a thud, unable to believe his eyes. Tears flooded his vision and he howled with manic laughter. It was there, after all these tortured years, it was there.
The safe that contained hope, the control codes for the Sunflower satellite, sat undisturbed in the heart of Joseph Scarlatti’s Empire.
Carl Borzowski, who no longer remembered his own name, squatted before the metal box and recalled with no difficulty the combination the black general with the stern visage and uncompromising courage entrusted him with all those years ago. He slid down into the hole and spun the dial back and forth, heard the slight click, twisted the handle and opened the door. He pulled the computer disks from the interior and placed them in the battered Samsonite suitcase he called his memory box.
Now all he had to do was get them to the President.
Chapter 24: Booby Trap Canyon
Deseret/Utah, Mid-July
Michael studied the tracks carefully on his hands and knees, his head close to the ground. From this awkward position he could see them better than from straight overhead, because the slight shadows that lay along the edges of their depressions outlined them, casting them into greater relief.
All tracks reveal the story of their making if you can read them and Michael’s Blackfoot grandfather had taught him well. What these told him grabbed his complete attention, for unlike most tracks, which are at best partial impressions scuffed by the haste of their maker or smudged by the passage of time, these were perfect and fresh. So fresh that creek-side sand in the bottoms of the depressions was still damp, even though the sun was high enough to have burned off an early morning mist. This told Michael their maker was no more than thirty minutes ahead of him and in fact could be observing him right now from one of the ridges above this little ravine.
But what riveted Michael’s attention to these particular markings, of all the tracks in this clearing, was how they were made and who made them; for they were too perfect. These footprints had been made deliberately, meaning their maker knew they were being followed and was encouraging Michael and his squad to pursue. He smelled an ambush, most likely somewhere a little farther up the canyon.
Michael pushed himself upright, stepped over to the creek and scooped up some water in the palm of his hand. Though the water ran clear, he could taste the slightest flavor of dirt. They had crossed the creek upstream and not all the disturbed silt had settled out before reaching Michael’s tongue.
He returned his attention to those clearly defined size sixteen boot prints. The depth of those tracks said the man was no lightweight. The hoof prints of the horse the man had mounted were almost as wide as both of Michael’s palms. A slow smile spread across Michael’s face. He had found the Giant.
The remaining signs pointed to eight or nine men breaking camp in haste and from the amount of trash left behind, in the dark. The impressions left by the others were at least two hours older than the Giant’s, judging from the fact they were dry and that gravity and wind had already begun to erode their edges. A few contained dried pine needles. And one set had been overlaid by the trail of a raccoon foraging near the creek. It looked to Michael like the Giant had sent the rest of his party on ahead, then waited till the last minute, until he was certain Michael and his scouts were coming.
Michael backtracked him a little ways up the side of the canyon to a rock outcropping. Looking up at a shelf near the top of the rocks, Michael figured a man up there could see a long ways. More than enough time to get back down to the campsite after he spotted us. Still, Michael wondered what else the man might have seen from up there. After all, he had made at least a minimal effort to conceal this particular trail, so maybe it led to something important.
Only one way to find out, Michael thought, as he stripped off his boots and socks, grabbed a knob of rock and started up.
Michael’s neck hairs prickled and his palms were sweaty. He ignored a gut feeling that this was a bad idea. His gut always rebelled when he climbed anything. He never had liked heights and constantly battled his fear of falling. Besides, he argued with himself, the Giant is long gone and it isn’t more than forty-five feet to the top. He could see the scuff-marks the Giant had left on the cliff. Michael’s right foot slipped from its toe-hold in the rock, but he caught himself. He clenched his teeth and flexed his free hand, then reached for another hand-hold and continued climbing.
“If he can do it, I can do it,” he muttered to himself, practicing sheer pigheadedness.
Now the climb was getting easier. Plenty of hand and footholds and lots of cracks for hand or foot jamming. There were even a couple of small ledges where he could rest and catch his breath. He was warming to the exercise and his nervousness about the height was fading.
The top of the outcrop was in reach so he got a good hold and pulled himself up. As soon as his eyes cleared the top he froze. There, not more than eighteen inches from his face, was the largest rattler he had ever seen--coiled to strike. Its deadly triangular head wove from side to side, pointed right at Michael. Cold beady eyes drilled into him as its forked tongue flicked in and out, sensing Michael’s body heat like an infrared tracking device. Its tail was vibrating like crazy, but there was no sound. Someone had cut off its rattles.
It was fascinating in the original meaning of the word and Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away from the snake. After a momentary pause, just long enough to make Michael wonder if it would ever beat again, his heart started pounding and a massive jolt of adrenaline hit his system.
It won’t strike unless it feels trapped or threatened, he thought. That was normal animal behavior. So why hadn’t it left already? He knew the snake must have felt the vibrations in the rock as he climbed toward it. He’d already seen why, but for some reason, probably having to do with blinding fear, the message was just now getting through to his brain.
The rattler was literally pinned to the rock. The Giant had driven a stake through the snake about a foot forward of its tail into a small split in the rock. Under different circumstances, Michael could have admired the diamond patterning on its back, but the beauty of the design was interrupted by knife cuts from which blood oozed slowly. A white crystalline substance surrounded the edges of the wounds and he realized with a different sort of admiration that the Giant had poured table salt onto them.
A quiver rippled through the rattler and Michael saw that red ants had found the open wounds.
It must be crazed with pain.
Michael’s arms and legs were tiring quickly from the strain of holding himself motionless. Both hands and legs were fully occupied just keeping him from falling. If he let go to reach for a gun he would fall, or the movement would trigger a strike. On the other hand, if the rattler struck him, he’d fall anyhow.
How much longer before it strikes?
There was a small ledge about fifteen feet below he had rested on briefly during his ascent. At least it was a chance, however slight.
Michael’s calves and forearms were burning w
ith fatigue. His grip was slipping. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He decided his best hope was to try to climb back down as gently as he could. Cautiously, ever so slowly, he lowered his head beneath the top of the outcropping.
The rattler struck just as the top of his head sank beneath the rocks. Michael felt the wind of its passage as its head and body zipped past his hair, then a hideous thump as it rebounded into his upper back. If it bit him in the neck he was dead. His instincts took over. He let go of the rocks and spun swiftly, arching away from the rock, hitting the snake’s body with his left arm, knocking it away from his throat. His feet slipped and as he began to fall the snake ricocheted off the rock wall right back at him.
Another enormous rush of adrenaline kicked in, sending his heart racing like a piston in an over-revved engine. Time almost stopped. Everything happened in freeze-frame, advancing a single frame at a time. The rattler’s mouth was open, milky white fangs glistened damply, poisonously, in the sunlight as they curved towards Michael’s face. His hands flashed forward, meeting, gripping the snake’s body frantically with all his strength just behind its head.
Time whipped back into high gear. Michael’s naked feet scrambled against the rock as he fell backwards away from the rock face, only to be brought up short by a sharp jerk. He dangled over the precipice, hanging from a living rope of rattlesnake.
Before him, just out of reach, was the crack in the rock wall that his right foot had been jammed into just an instant before. He kicked off of the rock and swung his body rhythmically from side to side like a pendulum. Toward the rock. Away from the rock. Toward the rock. With agonizing effort Michael willed his right hand to relax its death grip on the rattler, then, as he swung within reach of the rock wall, thrust that hand deep into the cleft and made a tight fist, wedging his hand inside. Using the strength of his right arm and shoulder, he drew himself in against the face of the cliff where his feet could find purchase.
Leaning inward against the wall, he savored a brief moment of rest, until the rattler started writhing to escape his grasp. Then, dividing his balance between his footholds and his left-handed grip on the snake, he loosened his right fist and withdrew it from the crack. He pulled out his bowie knife and with one clean blow severed the rattler’s head from its body. Its jaws snapped spastically as the head bounced down the face of the cliff and into the rocks below. Sheathing his knife, he jammed his fist back into the crack. Letting go of the snake’s body, he wedged his other fist into the same fissure, pressed his body against the rock and shuddered with relief.
Sweat drenched him. His throat was dry and scratchy as a saddle burr. His legs and arms trembled with fatigue and he knew he had to make it up onto the shelf so he could rest. He would never make it down: too spent.
He pulled his right hand out of the split in the rock, reached into his right hip pocket and carefully removed the sterling silver whisky flask he used as a canteen. Adam had nearly come unglued when he first saw it, until he discovered it never held anything but water. Michael unscrewed the top and took a few precious sips. That water flowed through him like liquid strength.
Returning the flask to his pocket, he began to climb. “It isn’t far,” he hissed fiercely, “I can do it. Do, or die.”
With his muscles screaming in protest he pulled himself up onto the small flat ledge, where the snake’s headless body still writhed. He collapsed on the rock, glad just to be alive and began to shake from adrenal overload. Not even the bites of red ants could get him to stir until he stopped shaking and got his breathing under control.
The snake’s body slapped him upside his head. He shuddered with disgust and sat up. Leaning over the body, he grabbed the stake and pried it from the fissure, throwing both it and the rattler’s body off the ledge. He wondered briefly how the Giant had managed to set this trap without falling victim to it himself. Then he saw the broken syringe that had rolled into a small cleft in the rock at the back of the ledge and realized the snake had been sedated. That explained why it hadn’t struck when he first poked his head up and why it missed when it did strike. It must have still been a little groggy. My lucky day, he thought.
He brushed the ants off of himself and took in the view. He could see a lot farther than he’d imagined from below. The vista spread out and away from the mouth of the canyon across the mile-wide meadow he had nervously traversed earlier, over tree-lined hills and up to the summits of some peaks he knew were at least thirty miles away. The Giant could have seen him coming for miles.
No sooner had that thought formed than he saw four riders break out of the trees heading in his direction. From his left rear pocket he pulled out a compact 7x35 spotting scope and trained it on them. A slow smile spread across his face as he recognized the members of his squad. They were riding in a loose “diamond” formation. His Ute friend, Minowayuh, was in the lead, reading the trail on the fly. Dan Osaka rode right flank. Wayne Anderson, the medic who had lost his family to the typhoid epidemic was on the left flank. Dikeme M’buto brought up the rear.
Dikeme, who everyone called Lady Di, or just Di, was quite a story. As far as anybody in the Freeholds knew, she was the sole surviving member of the Zulu tribe from southern Africa. She had been studying modern dance at the Julliard School for the Performing Arts in New York when the asteroid hit. She’d hooked up with Otha Gladson, the surveyor and roamed all over with him until ending up in the Freeholds. Glad died defending their new home many years ago and Lady Di stayed on.
Di was six feet eight inches tall, but only weighed a hundred and seventy pounds. With her long, narrow head, her tiny breasts and skinny little butt, she looked almost manlike. As a matter of fact, at first glance she appeared to be all elbows and knees, sort of gangly looking, as though she would be clumsy. But when she moved, her panther-like walk was so silky smooth and sensual men stared. And when she danced, especially when she danced, she was graceful as a gazelle. Her long, thin limbs flowed like water from movement to movement. She could spin, dip, pirouette and leap with such impeccable artistry, her motions melting seamlessly into each other, that it was an emotional experience for her audience as well as for her--almost magical. Her face was intriguing rather than pretty; but when she moved she was beautiful.
Focusing his spotting scope on her, his smile widened. She rode a horse with the same flawless elegance with which she danced, blending with its motions so well they looked like a single mythical creature.
But she wasn’t in Michael’s squad because she was graceful. She was there because she was one of the best hand-to-hand fighters he had ever seen. She could explode into an attack with the ferocity of a mother grizzly defending her young and her strength was astounding for one so thin. Her lightning-quick moves, incredible reach and devastating kicks had given more than one enemy a fatal surprise.
Michael lifted his scope from her and scanned the tree-covered hills behind them. A flash of motion caught his eye. A flock of birds flushed out of the forest. As he zeroed in on the area he could distinguish several dozen men on horseback making their way through the trees, obviously trailing Michael’s squad.
Good and bad! At least he and his friends hadn’t lost them. His best guess put them about an hour behind his people, but if this was the same group Michael’s squad had been decoying toward an ambush for the past two days, they had managed to get too close. The last time he’d checked on them they were almost four hours behind. And if this wasn’t the same group, well...he had to know exactly how many soldiers his squad was leading into the trap.
“Time to get busy.” Michael collapsed his scope and put it back in his pocket, then rolled off his perch and began his descent to the canyon floor. As his feet touched the ground he swore a solemn oath that he would never again ignore a gut feeling. He refilled his water flask from the cool, clear creek, dropped in a disinfectant tablet and headed back to the clearing.
He mounted his horse, a small dun-colored mare that he selected for her sure footedness and great endurance, reined he
r around and headed for his friends. No time now to go after the Giant. He couldn’t risk his people being caught between the two forces, not when the first order of business was to lead those tailing them into Adam’s ambush.
*
“Sky King, this is Rook Two,” said the pilot of the ultralight as he glided high overhead.
“Sky King here,” said Anthony. “Report, Rook Two.”
“It didn’t work, Sir.” He’d almost slipped and said Sire, before remembering that the Prince had expressly forbidden any reference to royalty over the radio. “Their point man survived the trap and he’s waving the rest of’em off.”
Shit! Anthony was sure he had them. Must have made the bait too obvious. He keyed the mike. “Keep an eye on them, Rook Two.”
“Sir, I’ll lose’em once they get under the trees, but it looks like they’re headed for that enemy camp I spotted last night.”
“How close are our men, Rook Two?”
“Maybe an hour out, Sir. And the other company is a couple hours behind them.”
“In that case, come on down, Rook Two.” Anthony had lost one ultralight and a pilot the day before to a windy landing crash, leaving him only the three black planes. He didn’t want to chance another loss. Those little planes were worth their weight in gold, even if they were too tricky to handle when the wind came up.
He looked around with regret, such a nice little ambush site. He sighed: patience. He’d get them yet, surprise the enemy and roll up their whole damn operation. He’d show John and his father, too.
*
Thirty minutes later, as his squad crossed a creek, Michael pulled out of line, heading downstream so any silt his horse kicked up wouldn’t still be muddying up the water when their followers arrived. He stayed in the stream for more than half a mile then headed back west for higher ground. He wanted to find a nice ridge, watch the pursuers pass by, then backtrack them until he either saw where they’d cut his squad’s trail, or sighted the original group he’d ambushed. He spotted a promising-looking rise and started up through the trees.
The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 25