Diablo Mesa(81)

The soldier in front of them stopped at a door. A number had been stenciled on it in black paint, and nothing made it in any way distinguishable from dozens of similar doors they’d passed already. The soldier rapped twice with the butt of his weapon, then—with effort—slid the door open. It rolled into a pocket in the concrete wall.

Nora felt a rifle barrel in the small of her back prodding her forward. She and Tappan stepped into a large, bare, circular room. Long windows of dark glass, gently curved to conform with the walls, were set just beneath the high ceiling.

In the middle of the room was a table of bare wood, as spartan as the rest of the place, and three chairs. Behind was a single chair in which sat a man. Unlike the others, he was in uniform rather than fatigues, gold eagles on his epaulettes. As they came forward and were steered in front of the desk, the man remained seated. He was blade-thin, with pale eyes, gray-white hair cut short, and high cheekbones that could have been fashioned with a hatchet.

The soldiers each stepped to one side, taking up flanking positions, weapons at the ready. Once the guards were in place, the man nodded briskly at Nora and Tappan in turn.

“My name is Colonel Rush,” he said. “I have some questions for you.”





54



THE CHOPPER ROSE again as soon as Watts and Skip had been strapped into the webbing. Night had fallen. As they gained altitude, Corrie looked south and could see a bank of lights illuminating the dig at the crash site. Farther to the south, on Diablo Mesa, she could make out the much larger cluster of lights that signified the base camp. The rest of the landscape was a vast bowl of darkness.

The chopper reached altitude and then accelerated north. She waited for it to make a turn to the south, but it didn’t. As she was about to ask Lime why they weren’t heading to the camp, she saw a massive flash of light burst out from that direction. A moment later, a shock wave hit the chopper: a boom that caused the craft to sway in the air as a roiling ball of fire punched up into the sky amid a swiftly expanding cloud of dust, luridly illuminated by a sudden inferno below.

“What the hell was that?” Corrie cried in horror, staring out the window.

“Holy shit!” Skip said, face to the glass. “Was that the camp?”

The pilot stabilized the chopper from the wave of overpressure. When Corrie turned around to look back at the others, she was struck dumb: Lime had unbuckled himself and was standing, weapon out and pointed at her. The soldier, likewise, had his weapon covering them.

“Remove your sidearm,” Lime said.

“What—?” Corrie couldn’t process this rapid, unexpected series of events.

“You too, Sheriff. Slow and easy, with two fingers. Hold the weapons out and the soldier will take them.”

Corrie stared, still flabbergasted.

“Do as you’re told,” said Lime, “or you’ll be killed. This may be hard to understand, but trust me, it’s your duty. As a patriot.”

She still could not speak. Skip was staring at Lime, eyes practically bugging out of his head.

Watts recovered first. “Corrie said you were her boss,” he told Lime, face dark. “Who are you really working for?”

“The United States,” said Lime. “Just like you. Now do as I say—I won’t ask again.”

After a hesitation, Watts removed his two revolvers and held them out as instructed. They were taken away by the soldier.

“Corrie?” asked Lime.

Corrie finally found her voice. “‘As a patriot’? What are you talking about?”

Lime slapped her across the face with an open palm—so hard she saw stars. “I’m sorry, Corrie. But you have to understand that I mean business. Better a slap across the face than a bullet in the brain pan. Now: your weapon, please. Two fingers.”

The blow shook the confusion from her. Cheek aflame, she unsnapped the keeper in her holster and held up her 9mm with two fingers. The soldier took it.

“Are you some kind of Russian spy?” she asked.

“No. When we get to Pershing, you’ll be debriefed. No more talk.”

After securing the weapons, the soldier went around and unbuckled each one of them from their harnesses. Then he pulled Corrie’s hands behind her back and zip-tied them together.

Skip suddenly spoke, his voice tight and high. “The camp. Was that an explosion?”

“Necessary but regrettable,” Lime said.

“What the fuck? What about my sister?”

“She wasn’t there. We have her at Pershing.”

“And my—?”

“One more word and you’ll get a bullet.” His voice was calm—too calm—and Corrie knew he meant it. She prayed Skip would shut up.

Skip did. After zip-tying Corrie, the soldier bent over Skip, reaching out to grab his wrists. But, free of his harness, Skip abruptly lunged upward, ramming his head into the soldier’s stomach and knocking him down. With a garbled scream, Skip leapt into the cockpit, whipping his forearm around the pilot’s throat and wrenching back his head, twisting and choking him.

The chopper swerved abruptly, throwing everyone to one side. Still screaming like a madman, Skip throttled the pilot. The soldier jumped Skip from behind, trying to pull him off the pilot while yanking out a knife to cut his throat, but the helicopter spun so wildly, rotors screaming, that everyone was at the mercy of centrifugal forces. Everyone had been unbuckled except the pilot, and Corrie, still zip-tied, found herself tossed from one side of the fuselage to the other, helplessly tumbling with the others, hearing shots fired uselessly as the out-of-control bird went into a spiraling descent that swiftly ended in a massive, crunching impact—and then, darkness.