Warrior (Freelancer Book 2)

by Irving, Terry

  "And, finally, do you know about the journey of the Northern Cheyenne back to their home?"

  Rick shook his head.

  "Well it's a long story, but I'll give you the Readers Digest version if you pass over another of those Winstons." Walksalone held out two fingers, Rick gave him a cigarette, and they both lit up.

  Walksalone stretched out again, blew a single smoke ring, and began to talk. "After Custer's death, Washington reinforced the troops in the West, and the Cheyenne were captured and marched off to the Indian Lands down in Oklahoma. Perhaps it was well-meant—although I doubt it—because there were already Cheyenne living down there. Living there still, for that matter.

  "Well-meant or not, once the Northern Cheyenne showed up, there wasn't enough food for that many people, diseases spread, and it was generally a piss poor situation. They begged to be allowed to go back to their home here on the High Plains, but the federal government in its wisdom refused."

  Walksalone took another long drag of his cigarette and Rick said, "Can't see that all that much has changed."

  Walksalone laughed. "No, I guess not."

  Then he went on. "Finally, in 1878, two of the chiefs, Morning Star who was also known as Dull Knife and Little Wolf decided it was time to stop dying in Oklahoma and headed home. About three hundred people followed them, but less than a hundred were warriors. The rest were women, children, and old men."

  Walksalone stopped again, looking off into the distance as if he could still see the long lines of marching people. Rick didn't say anything.

  "The Indian lands in Oklahoma are a thousand miles from here," Walksalone said slowly. "The Army put thirteen thousand troops in the field to stop them, and, when they couldn't sneak around them, the warriors straight up beat them. It was the biggest, longest, and most successful campaign by any Indian tribe in the entire history of the West."

  He snorted. "'Successful' is a relative term, I guess. By the time they got to Nebraska, they were starved, almost barefoot, and low on ammunition. So Morning Star sent Little Wolf off with all the young men who could still fight and gave them the best horses and most of the weapons. Little Wolf was to keep going, fight his way back up here to the Tongue River while Morning Star would surrender with the old and weak, trusting to the benevolence of the U.S. Army."

  "The Army isn't a notably benevolent organization," said Rick.

  "No. No, it isn't." Walksalone took a deep breath as if he were gathering strength. "It was the dead of winter, below zero most of the time. Morning Star's band was captured and taken to Fort Robinson. Of course, the commander told them they had to go back to Oklahoma, and, of course, they said they'd rather die right where they were. The commander, an idiot named Henry Wessels, decided that they'd change their minds if he cut off their food and heat.

  "Well, that lasted for six days, and finally there was nothing else to do but escape." There was a small smile on Walksalone's face. "You see, Indians aren't all that stupid, and so when the Army ordered them to 'disarm,' they turned in the worst of their weapons and hid the rest. They had about a dozen old rifles, and the rest just took kitchen knives or whatever they could find."

  "So many of them had no moccasins that witnesses said there was a trail of blood in the snow leading from the fort. The pursuit and the slaughter went on for three weeks."

  "Those who were wounded were brought back to the fort; but, when Wessels asked them again if they would go back to Oklahoma, one of the women stood up and said, 'You've already killed most of us. Why don't you just go ahead and finish the job?'"

  "Tough people," observed Rick.

  "Yes, they are," agreed Walksalone. "Dull Knife eventually made it to the Sioux reservation to the West. Weak as they were, they had run almost all the way; and every time the troops caught up, one of his chiefs would drop back and fight until he died, and then he'd be replaced by another who would drop back, fight, and die. The warriors under Little Wolf were faster and more dangerous, so they made it as well."

  Walksalone took off his hat and, pulling a bandanna out from his back pocket, wiped the moisture off the sweatband. "So that was it. Dull Knife was never allowed back here to the Tongue River. The few Cheyenne left alive made an agreement with General Miles that they would remain peaceful if allowed to stay. It's a small reservation, smaller than most of the others, but it's our home."

  Walksalone put the Resistol back on his head, set it firmly, and stood up. Rick stood as well. Walksalone said, "So, Whirlwind, do you think the Cheyenne can take on a few deluded idiots?"

  "Sure sounds like it."

  The Indian held out his hand. Rick shook it and felt the strength of the man's grip.

  "We will honor your request, and I think the printouts you've brought should persuade even the greediest that the coal deal is a bad one. Good luck with your hunt."

  CHAPTER 41

  June 11, 1973, Lame Deer, Montana

  As Rick walked up to the motor home, he could see that Eps and Scotty had found a faucet, attached a hose, and were just finishing scrubbing off the last of the pink color. Since it was a Sunday and they were hidden from view by the tire retread facility, they decided to stay where they were. A planning meeting soon assembled on the couches and bucket seats of the "living room" area.

  "OK, first thing is to find Sage, and that means we need to find Cloyes," Rick said. "My bet is that he's not going to be involved in the attack. He'll have some strong point well out of the action and direct everything by radio."

  "Congratulations! Give the man a Kewpie doll!" Eps said, "Steve just found his frequency, and, indeed, he appears to be buttoned up somewhere in that humongous power plant they're building up in Colstrip."

  "Sadly, Steve can't triangulate his location closer than a box a couple of miles on a side," explained Scotty.

  "How long will that take us to search?" Rick asked.

  "It's not really relevant." Eps answered. "Steve also said that what they're calling 'Operation Sand Creek Two' is going to happen early tonight. We don't have enough time to perform a physical search."

  Kristee's fingers buried themselves in the tough vinyl of the bench seat, and the muscles on her jaw stood out like ridges of stone.

  Scotty glanced at her and held up his hands in a "hold on" gesture. "There's another way. We can split up and do a triangulation on his radio signal. It will be imprecise at first, but if he keeps talking, we'll keep moving and decrease the margin of error."

  Kristee exploded. "So fucking what! You decrease the margin of whatever? How does it help find my kid?"

  Scotty started to speak, stopped, and started again. "When we get done, we'll know exactly where she is."

  Kristee relaxed slightly. "Oh. OK."

  Scotty turned to Eps. "We need two points of reference. You offload and set up a receiver here for the baseline, on top of Tire Tread City would work. Stay low so no one can see you."

  Eps nodded and ran out the door. Almost immediately, they could hear the sounds of boxes scraping and slamming in the cargo compartments under the floor.

  Scotty continued, "I'll get the exact frequencies from Steve and then re-configure our rooftop parabolic receiver. That should take me," he glanced at his watch, "approximately twelve minutes. Then we'll start moving the Travco and calibrating the angles."

  He turned to head for the workroom but stopped and faced Rick and Kristee. "We will do what we can, but, frankly, Eps and I aren't highly skilled at direct confrontation. Once we find Cloyes, you two are going to have to take the lead."

  Rick looked at Kristee and watched as her eyes narrowed in concentration. "I don't think that will be a problem."

  CHAPTER 42

  June 10, 1973, Colstrip, Montana

  The big motor home drifted slowly through the streets of Colstrip. They passed jammed parking lots outside Colstrip Baptist, the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints, and the New Hope Christian Alliance, but there were still plenty of vehicles on the streets. Rick assumed that those
enormous draglines didn't stop scraping up coal for anything as frivolous as a day of rest.

  Scotty was manning the communications and mapping station on the dining room table. One receiver was tuned to Eps on the roof of Tire Retread World and two tuned to the frequencies being used by the Children's Crusade. A U.S. Topographic Service map was laid out on the center of the table and taped to keep it secure.

  They'd started out by driving north to complement Eps' listening post in the south. Every five minutes, Scotty would call for a halt at one of the intersections clearly marked on the map—many dirt roads and gravel tracks weren't marked at all. They would wait for a transmission from Cloyes, everyone silent but vibrating with tension.

  There would be a squawk of a man's voice followed by a confirmation from Eps. With exquisite care, Scotty would pinpoint the intersection and make a dot with a note of the time and strength of the signal. Then he would call for another location.

  While Rick drove, Scotty would be manipulating protractors, a slide rule, and a triangle, tracing very light pencil lines on the map. Whenever they stopped, another light line would appear.

  Rick stood up and bent over the map. He could see how the lines—a single solid line from Eps' position and the cloud of light scratches that Scotty was adding—were converging on the power plant.

  The map showed the plant covering almost a square mile. Rick knew there would be guards on duty even on a Sunday morning. They'd have to be fast, and speed depended on the accuracy of intelligence. He shrugged and went back to the driver's seat. If anyone could do this, these guys could.

  The process continued for another 30 minutes and ended after two passes along the chain link fence with the blue and white signs that proclaimed "Excacoal's Powder River Plant, We're Building Montana's Future."

  Scotty sat back and said, "We've got it." Rick picked up speed and drove up and over a slight rise that took them out of direct line of sight of anyone in the plant. Then he pulled over, set the parking brake, and joined Kristee at the plotting table.

  "OK, it's definitely right here." Scotty used the tip of his precision draftsman's pen to indicate a box immediately to the south of what was marked "Exhaust Stack #2." "It shouldn't be too hard to find—those smokestacks are easy to spot."

  "To say the least," Rick said.

  "Um…yeah. They are the highest points in a 50-mile radius. This is the second one."

  "Really? Must be why they named it #2."

  Scotty looked concerned until he realized that Rick was joking. A small smile crossed his face. "Yes, well, you should orient yourself by the tower, and this building—whatever it is—will be less than 50 yards due south."

  Outside the motor home, there was a squeal of brakes and the clatter of wheels on gravel. Kristee grabbed her dad's shotgun and racked the slide. Rick squatted to look out the front window and saw the dust still blowing away from a red pickup. The door opened. "OK, it's Eps."

  When the redheaded engineer jumped up into the motor home, Rick asked, "Where did you get the wheels?"

  "Hot-wired the ignition." Eps shrugged. "I mean it wasn't like anyone was using it. It was just sitting there outside a church." He sat down next to Scotty and began to examine the map. "Anyway, I'll return it—at some point."

  Rick and Kristee rejoined the others at the map. Rick said, "I think we have to sacrifice careful planning for sheer speed."

  Scotty nodded. "I agree. There seem to be two voices on the radio—one sounds like a spokesman or a minister. I'm assuming that's Cloyes. The other man is very different, cold and almost brutal in his tone."

  "That's the guy we heard that night in the ravine before they blew the crap out of Wounded Knee," said Rick.

  Kristee spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. "That would be Salazar. Vaughn Salazar. Stephen brought him in when they had a 'purge' a few years ago. I didn't run into him much at the Big House, but when I did, I hated the way he'd look at Sage."

  She shook her head as if to get rid of the memory. "One of the wives said he was from Chile, did something with the military, and had to get out when Allende won the election. A nasty bastard."

  Scotty looked at her for a moment and then bent back to the map. "That would fit. He just ordered the Crusaders to 'silence' the chiefs. Rick, are you sure the Cheyenne don't need our help?"

  "Trust me, after what I just learned about these people, they are very capable of dealing with a bunch of brainwashed assassins." Rick shook his head slowly in admiration, "The Crusaders are about to find out that they are definitely not the meanest motherfuckers in this particular Valley of Death." "Hmm. Cool." Eps was still concentrated on the map. "Look, that fence is well-built. I don't think we can rely on crashing it even with Gussie." He patted the vinyl seat next to him absently.

  "I vote that we blow the side gate over here." He jabbed a finger at the south side of the construction project. "Then you two use the pickup truck for the assault while Scotty and I create a diversion up here." He indicated an area along the north fence.

  He got up, headed to the workroom in the rear, and began to rummage through cabinets. "I'll give Rick a Very gun—hot damn, we've got two. OK, both of you will have flare guns."

  Scotty spoke as Eps continued to pull fireworks, long cardboard boxes, and Tupperware bowls out and pile them on the workbench. "When you've got Sage, set off a flare, and we'll drive Gussie to the blown gate. You pull out ahead of us in the pickup truck Eps borrowed, and we'll block anything coming from behind. We'll rendezvous back at Retread World."

  Kristee looked dubious. "Are you sure you can draw security to the north end?"

  Eps shouted from deep inside a cabinet. "Are you kidding? They're going to think it's the Normandy landings and a Rolling Stones concert rolled into one."

  Rick agreed. "Corey and I used to think they were just three boring computer geeks. Boy, were we wrong."

  Scotty got up and headed back to help Eps. "Yes, you were. We're three boring computer nerds with a LOT of explosives and very few valid excuses to use them."

  Eps came out of the cabinet with a handful of red-waxed sticks that Rick could only assume were industrial-grade dynamite. "I found them! This is going to be freaking awesome!"

  CHAPTER 43

  June 10, 1973, Colstrip, Montana

  Rick and Kristee sat in the pickup truck.

  Both were wearing heavy goggles with darkened glass and bandannas around their necks. Rick's leather jacket and Kristee's battered hunting vest were unzipped in the heat.

  They were parked on the verge of the road about 50 feet down from the side gate of the power plant, hidden by the tall prairie grass on top of a slight rise in the ground. With the windows open, the soft breeze brought the warm smells of earth, prairie grass, and just a hint of sourness from the Excacoal mine about two miles upwind.

  Kristee was alternating between checking the action on her shotgun, counting the number of extra shells in the pockets of her vest, and flipping open the cylinder on the enormous revolver she'd inherited from her father.

  "What's that?" Rick asked.

  She held up the gun and examined it as if she had never seen it before, "It's a Ruger Blackhawk. My dad carried it when he was hunting. Said it could take down a bear."

  "Think we'll run into any bears?"

  "Probably not," Kristee said seriously. Then, realizing that Rick had meant it as a joke, "No. I don't suppose there are too many bears where we're going."

  She put the gun back in her lap. She had a holster in the small of her back, but with the gun's long barrel, it was uncomfortable at the best of times and not something you wanted to be sitting on in a badly sprung pickup truck. She went back to staring blankly out the windshield.

  Rick looked at her face closely and asked, "How are you doing?"

  "Huh?" Her head snapped around to face him. "I'm…I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

  "I'm not asking about whether you're ready to go in there." Rick gestured toward the power plant. "I was thinkin
g about your head. Sage and…well, killing Flick."

  She turned back to the windshield and was silent. Finally, she took a big, shuddering sigh and said, "Sage is an ache that feels like someone has just hollowed out my insides and filled me with acid. It hurts so much, I'll do anything to make it stop."

  She paused.

  "But I could see what the rifle did to Flick…his head just—"

  "Exploded," said Rick quietly. "Yeah. I shot two people in Vietnam. One VC just popped up in front of me, and I grabbed the sergeant's M-14 and jammed it at him. It was on full rock-and-roll, and he just…evaporated."

  "But I thought you were in Ia Drang. You must have shot lots of enemies there, right?"

  Rick shook his head. "Nope. I spent most of my time trying not to get shot, and I didn't do a terribly good job at that." He gave a short snort of laughter. "Shit, I was the fucking company intelligence clerk. The most dangerous thing I carried was an ax for chopping away tree roots when we dug out a command bunker."

  There was another silence as both looked out at the clear, high-plains day. Rick could feel the breeze coming in from his window.

  "It's not like hunting." Kristee's voice was so soft Rick almost couldn't hear her. "Even a scumbag like Flick. He was a person. I still see him—" Her voice trailed off.

  "It's not going away." Rick said. "Those guys I shot are featured players in my nightmares. Nobody talks about it, but killing people, even the enemy —armed soldiers who are trying to kill you—is the biggest part of the broken glass in their brains. I mean, shooting him is right in there with the screams at night as the Cong found our wounded or—"

  Rick found he still didn't want to talk about his other kill.

  "Really?"

  "Damn right." Rick shook his head but kept looking out the windshield. "That and because Sage is in there is why I only took these flash-bangs." He hefted an army surplus gas mask bag slung over his head and shoulder. "I killed a woman last year when she was about to slice Eve and me up with a razor. Now she shows up at night too. I can see her crying as I strangled her and all the time—" Rick took a deep breath. "She was talking about how much she loved this guy who'd been trying to kill me."