Diablo Mesa(84)

“Bullshit,” said Tappan. “That’s conjecture.”

“I’d like to think you’re an intelligent man. I mentioned Montezuma. Look at the centuries that followed and how our citizens—even more advanced—prospered by the enslavement of others. Or today, when we ravage our own planet far faster than it can restore itself.” He shook his head. “Advancements in technology, evolution in intelligence, only serve to refine our cruelty. We’ll fare very, very poorly at the hands of an alien race.”

“This armed service of yours,” Nora said. “What’s its mission now?”

“It has evolved with time, of course. We remain a small, secret branch within the military intelligence community, our lives dedicated to just one thing: saving our planet. Part of that mission has been to keep Earth’s threat profile as low as possible. Another part, naturally, has been to study the probe; try to understand its complexity—and, when the time is right, reveal its nature and help the world prepare for invasion.”

“Keeping Earth’s threat profile low,” Tappan said. “I suppose that means you eliminate certain astronomers or physicists who might make breakthroughs you’d disapprove of? And sabotage satellites…or, perhaps, the optics of a space telescope? Destroy rockets on takeoff, shuttles on landing—with innocent people on board?”

Rush sat back, waved a hand. “We stop leaks. We kill traitors quietly—like those bodies you found in the desert—bypassing the weak criminal justice system when necessary. That has always been a part of our mission, and we have no doubts or hesitation about carrying it out. Indirect casualties, on the other hand, are regrettable—but sometimes necessary. Our operatives aren’t trigger-happy, and any interdiction we sanction is chosen because it presents the greatest risk of exposure to our planet.”

“I guess you don’t approve of SETI, then,” Tappan said. “Or more aggressive approaches: active rather than passive.”

Rush said nothing.

“Speaking of that, what about Bitan? What did you do with him?”

“With one of the most dangerous people on the planet? The man behind the CE-TIP proposal itself? The man who wanted to shout out our presence to the entire galaxy? We did what we had to.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Rush sighed. “I’ve taken the time to share our mission with you. I’ve patiently endured your denials and objections, ignorant though they are. The truth is, you could both prove useful members of our organization, especially now. But time is short—and my patience has a limit.” He rose. “I’ll give you a brief period to discuss this between yourselves.”

He nodded to the guards. They turned and led Nora and Tappan out of the room, down a long corridor, and then another, to a concrete cell within a small cell block. They were shown inside, their zip ties cut free. The solid metal door then boomed shut on them.

Nora looked around. The cell had a small cot with a blanket, a sink, and a metal toilet.

She sank onto the cot, numb, massaging her wrists. Slowly, Tappan eased down beside her, blood crusted on his face. He put his arms around her and they sat side by side, holding each other in silence.





56



CORRIE FOUGHT HER way back to consciousness. For a moment, the blackness that had swallowed her up during the helicopter impact remained—and, with a sense of panic, she feared she was blind. But then a deep breath of choking air—along with an intense heat—made it clear she was enveloped in thick, dark smoke.

Quickly, she crawled in the only direction she could think of: away from the heat. It was a slow process, her bound hands making it difficult to navigate the disorder that filled the cabin. Gradually the smoke cleared, and she felt dirt beneath her and staggered to her feet, stumbling away to a safe distance from the burning wreckage. Every part of her throbbed with pain as she looked around.

The chopper had crashed nose-first, leaving the pilot compartment a mangled ruin of crumpled, burning metal. Although killing the pilot, the impact had the effect of throwing Corrie free of the aircraft…and, judging by the missing doors of the cabin, the rest of the passengers as well.

Her eyes moved past the wreckage to the surrounding area. Her eyes fell first on the soldier who had been guarding them. He lay facedown in the flickering light, legs outstretched, the KA-BAR knife with which he’d planned to kill Skip protruding instead from the back of his own neck. Farther away in the darkness she could make out the form of Skip himself, also motionless, lying in a crumpled heap on the far side of the chopper.

“Corrie!”

She wheeled to see Homer Watts coming toward her. He’d retrieved one of his six-guns from the wreckage, and other than a slight limp seemed to be none the worse for wear. He pulled the knife from the dead soldier, wiped it off, and cut her bonds. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” she said, still half stunned.

“Let me take a look.” He patted her gently, head to toe, feeling her limbs, checking for injuries.

“No serious damage that I can see,” Watts told her. “It’s a miracle.”

“I’m just shaken up, I think.” She looked around for her own weapon and couldn’t see it anywhere.

Lime. At this, she spun around, completing her 360-degree sweep. But even as she turned, she heard the sheriff shout: “Stop right there!”