by Sharon Sala
The media picked up on the chatter and sent their news helicopters to check it out. When the first live feeds were broadcast on CNN, theories abounded. But the Indians didn’t care and had no comment when they stopped for food and fuel. No matter where their trips originated, their destination was the same—the northeast corner of Arizona to the Navajo reservation.
***
Emile Harper’s phone rang before daylight, but he was already awake. In fact, he had yet to go to bed. He’d been up all night trying to get through to the President, and when he finally did, was admonished for questioning the order he’d been given. At that point, he began making coffee. It was going to be a long-ass day. The phone call was to let him know that the Blackhawk helicopter and the retrieval team had been deployed.
They knew their target. They knew the timeline they had to retrieve it. It never occurred to them to worry about a failed attempt. It was only one woman and a male companion. Their biggest threat was doing it without being made and giving the Bureau of Indian Affairs a reason to point a finger at the President.
***
Niyol had been watching Layla sleep since just after midnight. He’d seen coyotes sniff around the outside of the ruins without coming too close, watched a rattlesnake give him and their camp a wide berth, and watched the fire in the sky coming closer, knowing it was also bringing his time with her an end. He had already decided it was too painful to be human. Right now, he felt he might die from this pain in his heart, although he knew that was not so. Windwalkers did not die.
The day was dawning. The Firewalker was coming closer. The bad men were coming to take her away. They would be here soon, and as much as he wanted to decimate them the way he had the gang who’d tried to kill her, he could not. This time it was going to be her war to fight. He could help, but she had to prove her worth to the Old Ones. They had to be convinced that she would stand her ground; that she would not run if she became afraid. She had to be worthy to lead, or they would not open the gates between this world and theirs to let her pass.
She was waking up. He heard her thoughts returning, along with the realization of what lay ahead. All of a sudden her eyes flew open and she was looking straight into his gaze. She sat up, kissed him long and hard, as if she was committing the feel and the taste of him to memory, then combed her fingers through her hair and got up to relieve herself. When she returned there was a hard look on her face and she wouldn’t look at him. She was gearing up for battle and had yet to say hello.
***
Cars had been arriving since midnight to the place where George Begay and his neighbors lived, and they kept on coming.
The drumming was so loud now that the air felt like it was vibrating. The more that arrived, the more that joined in the drumming and singing. The numbers grew until the sound could be heard for miles in any direction.
The children were silent, subdued; their gazes locked to the sky and the fireball that came closer with every passing hour. They heard the elders talking. They knew they were leaving but didn’t fully understand why, and stayed close to their parents, afraid if they went too far that they might be left behind.
By morning, thousands of Indians, from many different tribes were spread out around the village, manning their own small cooking fires and feeding their young as they waited. They, too, kept an eye on the sky, but for a different reason. Layla Birdsong had yet to make an appearance, while the fire in the sky kept coming closer.
It was just before sunrise when George Begay walked out of his house and headed for the fire and the drums. His granddaughter was in danger. In his head, he’d seen the helicopter flying low over the canyons, across the mesas, all the way to the old ruins, and the soldiers coming out of its belly, being lowered down on ropes like spiders spinning down a web. It would do no good to tell the others. Either she would survive it, or she would not.
***
The sun was only minutes away from coming over the horizon when Layla walked out of the ruins into the open. The quiver of metal-tipped arrows was on her shoulder, the high-powered hunting bow in her hand. Her father’s hunting knife was in its scabbard and strapped around her right leg just above the knee; within hands reach should the need arise.
Her hair was tied at the back of her neck and her shirt was unbuttoned and flapping open in the wind, revealing her hard, bare midriff, the silver necklace dangling between her breasts, and the sports bra beneath. She was wearing the last pair of jeans she’d brought with her that would still stay on her hips, and she was watching the skies.
Something was coming. She could feel it. The birds that usually rode the morning wind were suspiciously absent, as was the nearby herd of sheep she’d become accustomed to hearing. A part of her was still anxious, knowing she would be facing twenty-first century technology with ancient weapons and Windwalker magic for backup.
Niyol heard her thoughts. “It will not matter what they carry or how they come. It will be the strength in your heart and the sacrifices you are making that will protect you.”
Layla flinched, startled by the sound of his voice so near her ear. Then she relaxed. He had told her the truth right from the start. All she had to do was believe and it would be so.
Niyol stood behind her. When it mattered, he would stand beside her, but not now. Not when she was still mentally preparing herself for the battle to come.
Wind lifted the hair from her back, blowing it lightly across Niyol’s body. He wanted to bury his face against the back of her neck and lay her down in the sand and make love to her just one more time before-
His muscles tensed at the faint sound the wind brought to him. It was too late. They were already here.
“Layla—”
“I hear it,” she said.
“They cannot set foot on the Anasazi’s land. You must not allow it. It is sacred. Do you understand?”
She nodded as she notched an arrow into the bow and held it loosely, waiting.
The sound grew louder. Layla’s heart began to race as she turned to the East. The wind rose before her, barreling through the canyon walls like a speeding train coming down a track.
Niyol was chanting.
Every muscle in Layla’s body was tensed, ready to react. Her gaze was fixed on the mesa before her and the clear blue sky above her, when all of a sudden a large black chopper came over it, heading straight for her like a dragonfly to water. There was no more waiting.
The wind that had been sweeping through the canyon was now centered and spinning above her like icing between two layers of cake. She saw the pilot adjust the chopper as the wind bucked it out of hover mode, and as he did, the wind spun faster.
The drums were loud now, beating, beating, keeping time with her heartbeat and drowning out the thunder of the rotors.
When the ropes began dropping from both sides of the chopper’s open doors and she saw fully armed soldiers coming down around her, she sent her first arrow in flight. It flew straight through the body armor of one soldier’s chest. She couldn’t hear the sound, but she saw his mouth wide open in a silent scream. And then he was lifeless on the rope, a deadly warning to the others of what lay ahead.
She was already running as she reached for another arrow, desperate to get a different angle before the soldiers came any lower. It was in the bow before they realized a man was down.
They’d been ordered to bring her in alive, but when they saw their lifeless comrade swinging on the rope like a puppet on a string, they began firing all around her, expecting her to run, which would give them time to get down.
But the bullets couldn’t go through the wind below them. Instead, they ricocheted back into the underside of the chopper, and into the men on the ropes below. Two more men went down, this time by friendly fire.
The pilot was frantic. He was losing oil pressure and men at a rapid rate as he began shouting into the radio.
“Abort! Abort!”
But the men were deaf to everything but the wind tearing through the air, slamming them into each other and tossing them about.
Layla sent another arrow into the sky, and then another, picking off the spinning soldiers one by one, until the air above her was filled with hanging bodies.
The pilot was taking evasive action, trying to move beyond her range and the maelstrom. And even as he did, the woman and the wind moved with them. She kept launching arrow after arrow through a storm their bullets could not pierce.
The panel gauges were going haywire, like they’d flown into some kind of magnetic storm. They tried to raise the bodies up, but nothing was working as it should. If he had not been absolutely certain that he was looking at the horizon, the instrument panel was indicating they were flying upside down. Blackhawks were the pride of the military—the powerhouse of helicopters, but even they could not accomplish the impossible.
The panic in his voice was unmistakable as he began a rapid relay of intel to home base. His last message was frantic.
“We’re taking fire. Casualty is near one hundred percent. I’m losing power. Request rescue retrieval, ASAP.”
Then he took the chopper up fast and flew off toward the mesa on the other side of the canyon with the macabre dance of bodies dangling below.
There were three live souls on board with their gazes fixed on the flat-top mesa less than a half a mile away. All they needed was to get there, but they were losing power faster than gaining ground.
Within seconds, the pilot knew they were going to crash.
“MAYDAY! MAYDAY!”
He was sending coordinates right up to the moment they flew into the canyon wall. The spinning wind dissipated as abruptly as it had come.
Chapter Nine
Emile Harper was like the rest of the nation reeling from the news of the approaching meteor, but he didn’t trust the prediction that it wouldn’t do any harm. After learning Lydia Foster walked out on her job in the middle of the week, and then this speeding monolith appearing out of nowhere and hurtling toward the earth at an unprecedented speed, her warnings and subsequent behavior were beginning to get to him.
He was enroute to his office when his phone beeped, signaling a text. His driver was slowing down for a red light as he read it with a mixture of disbelief and fear—yet another sign that the impossible had happened again.
Retrieval failure. Blackhawk down. No survivors.
He needed to let the President know, but not until he got more details, and he could do neither right now. He needed to gather his emotions before he opened his mouth. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and looked out the window. The nation’s capitol was beautiful this time of year—on the verge of fall. He wanted to remember it this way.
***
The moment the Blackhawk veered away from the rim of the canyon, Layla dropped to her knees in exhaustion then rocked back on her heels and screamed. She’d killed men—so many men. She wouldn’t let herself think about the families who had loved them. She couldn’t go there. This was no longer about herself.
There was one arrow left in her quiver and her hands were trembling so hard she would never have been able to notch it to the bow. Niyol was nowhere in sight and she was trying to catch her breath when she heard the explosion.
Her gut knotted.
They were as guilty as the gang who attacked you.
He was right. It had been a shock knowing her own government had sent soldiers, like she was an enemy of the State. She shook off the guilt and got up. When she turned around, Niyol was coming toward her.
She looked up at the sky. The fireball was larger now. She thought of her grandfather and all the people she’d grown to love on the rez. They must be terrified. When she looked back, Niyol was standing before her with tears on his face.
Breath caught in the back of her throat. He didn’t have to say it. She could feel the withdrawal.
“No, please… not yet.”
He put his arms around her, pulling her so close she could barely breathe.
She buried her face against his chest, but he already felt different—as if he was losing substance and warmth.
Layla looked up in sudden panic. He was disappearing before her eyes.
“No… Niyol, no.” She grabbed hold of his shirt with both hands, as if she could hold him with her, solely by the strength of her love. “How will I live the rest of my life without you?”
He was shaking, both in anger that he could no longer stay, and from the pain ripping him apart. Even though he refused to let go, his grip on his earthbound body was lessening.
“Singing Bird,” he whispered, and put his palm on the silver bird hanging between her breasts.
Layla was sobbing now. Despite the heat of the sun, the charm on her father’s necklace was suddenly cold. She could see him, but he was air between her fingers.
“Don’t leave me. I will die from this pain.”
You will not die.
And then he was gone.
The wind rose abruptly, tearing through the canyon in fierce angry gusts—whining through the standing spires, whipping past brush and trees, sliding past the canyon walls in ever-increasing speed until she could hear the scream within.
She opened her arms wide, trying to absorb the wild wind because it was all she had left of him; standing against the storm as it tore the tie from her hair and the shirt from her body. By the time it passed, Singing Bird had been forged by the blast. Her emotions were as hard as the look on her face. She picked up her weapons and walked back to camp with purpose in every step.
She didn’t question the appearance of more metal-tipped arrows in the quiver, or that the gas gauge on the motorcycle was still on full. She packed her weapons, and though she’d never driven a motorcycle in her life, mounted it as ably as if she’d done it all her life, toed up the kickstand and started the engine. The familiar rumble reminded her of the ride ahead. When she revved the engine and put it into gear, the ride jumped beneath her, but her legs were tightly clamped and her grip was strong. Seconds later, she was gone.
***
Dr. Runyon was in panic mode, reordering more calculations even as he was waiting for the President to come on the line. Despite the news, he was almost relieved when the call was finally answered. Now someone else was going to share the burden of what he knew.
“Dr. Runyon! How goes it?” Farley said, and waved at Will Schulter, his Chief of Staff, to hold his next appointment a few moments more.
Runyon took a deep breath and blurted it out. “There’s no good way to say this, but you need to know the meteor is going to be caught in the earth’s gravitational pull.”
Farley blinked.
“Exactly what does that mean? Is the heat going to increase to a serious degree or what are we talking about?”
Runyon cleared his throat. “We’re talking about total annihilation of every living thing on the planet. Sir.”
Farley turned to the window. It wasn’t visible from this side of the White House, but his gaze still went up, as if there would be answers as to how to fix it.
“There has to be something we can do. What about launching nuclear missiles and blowing it apart?” he asked.
Runyon was scanning his notes as he spoke. “The mass is twice the size of our sun and it’s on fire. Not only is it burning, but it is not burning up. It is the same size now as it was when we first saw it. No matter what we kind of missile or bomb we tried to send up, it would disintegrate long before impact.”
Farley’s stomach rolled. “Put your best people on it,” he ordered. “There has to be something we can do. I refuse to accept this.”
Runyon was crying now and didn’t know it. “If you come up with any ideas, Mr. President, do let us know. We’re all pretty much in shock down here, ourselves.”
&nb
sp; Farley disconnected that call and buzzed his secretary.
“Amelia, get Emile Harper on the phone. Whatever he’s doing, interrupt him, and send Will in here.”
“Yes sir,” she said, and the line went dead.
Will Schulter entered quickly. “What do you need, Mr. President?”
Farley braced his hands on the top of his desk and leaned forward. “A miracle. I need a miracle.”
Will frowned. “I’m sorry, sir? I don’t understand.”
“The latest consensus from the U.S. Naval Observatory is that the meteor is going to be caught in the earth’s gravitational pull and we’re all going to die.”
Will’s legs suddenly went weak as he reached for the back of a chair to steady himself.
“Sir? Are you serious?”
“Yes. I need a meeting. Contact the DOD. I don’t care what the generals are doing or where they are, I need a meeting with them, STAT.”
“Yes sir. Right away, Sir,” Will said, and bolted out of the office to put in a call to the Department of Defense.
Farley was scared, but he was also angry. This wasn’t happening. With all the technology on this planet, it was ridiculous to give up without a fight.
And, he had Layla Birdsong on the back burner. As soon as the retrieval team returned, he was confident she’d have the answers they needed.
He was pacing the floor when his secretary buzzed.
“Yes, Amelia?”
“Emile Harper on line one for you, Sir.”
Farley’s hopes rose as he picked up the phone. “Good morning, Harper. Do we have any news?”
“Yes, Mr. President, we have news, but you’re not going to like it.”
Farley froze. “What do you mean?”
“We have a Blackhawk down and no survivors.”
“That’s terrible. What happened? How did they crash?”
“During a fire fight. She took it down and disappeared.”
“She?”
“Layla Birdsong.”