The Second Ship (The Rho Agenda #1)(6)
Military security had been beefed up all around the national laboratory, but in the towns themselves, madness reigned. News reporters from nearby Santa Fe and Albuquerque stations arrived first, followed by national news teams in top-heavy satellite vans. Meanwhile, hordes of sundry groups filled hotels and campgrounds for miles around.
Los Alamos was full, White Rock was full, Santa Fe was full, Taos was full. Even all the hotel rooms of Albuquerque had been filled, and that herd of humanity now jammed the sidewalks, alleys, and streets of Los Alamos. Heather didn’t know how many forests must have been felled just to supply the wood and paper for the handheld signs, but it couldn’t have been good for global oxygen production.
Everywhere she looked there were signs, some of which were being used as pugil sticks to attack opposing sign bearers.
Mark leaned across the seat and prodded her with his elbow. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”
A man in a long robe and a sign that proclaimed, “Jesus loves us, not aliens!” was engaged in a wrestling match with a fellow wearing a shirt sporting a classic green alien figure with crossed bandoliers, twin six guns, and lettering that proclaimed him “El Vato Verde... Roswell, New Mexico.”
Heather averted her gaze as the El Vato guy pulled the other fellow's robe off, held it up over his head, and went running down the street waving it like a lasso to a loud chorus of catcalls from the other marchers.
“You’d think after a couple of weeks it’d calm down,” said Jennifer, “but it’s getting worse.”
Mark snorted. “I’d say this is just the beginning. Dad says both city councils, for Los Alamos and for White Rock, are considering curfews after dark.”
Heather moaned. “Oh that’s just great. Isn’t this going to be a wonderful school year? No football, basketball, or any other after-school sports. And forget about dances. We’re going to be restricted to the school grounds all day.”
“I don’t know,” Jennifer replied. “It’ll probably be good for the student body to pay more attention to their studies and a little less to all the extracurricular activities.”
Mark stared at his twin sister. “Oh, yeah. That sounds really, really fun.” He turned back to Heather. “You know, when we first heard about the starship, I thought it was cool. But now it looks like it’s just going to be a giant pain in the butt.”
Heather’s mother angled the Windstar van into the school parking lot, bringing it to a stop with a squeal of protest from brakes that her father had been promising to get fixed for the past month.
“Okay, kids. Enough complaining. Grab your stuff, get in there, and try to enjoy yourselves. This is high school. It’s supposed to be fun.”
The three grinned at her, nodded, and waved as they slung backpacks over their shoulders and then merged with the mass of other students making their way through the high school doorway.
Entering the bustling hallway was like leaving the Kansas farmhouse for the rainbow-colored Land of Oz. Students high-fived friends not seen all summer, smiled, chattered, and gave out hugs.
Heather stepped to one side, a grin spreading across her face, as she was jostled from side to side by students scurrying in search of assigned classrooms and lockers. She felt like she was in the midst of a salmon spawning run. The principal and teachers looked like bears wading out into the stream to sweep the fish to their ultimate destinations.
“Heather,” Mark yelled back at her. “Come on. We’re going to be late for math.”
Heather leaped back into the stream of young humanity, allowing it to propel her down the hallway toward her first period class. She only hoped her luck would be better than the salmon’s.
Chapter 4
Mesa. The Spanish word for “table.” Why they had come to call their favorite ridgeline retreat The Mesa, Heather couldn’t remember. The high finger of land that extended out between two deep canyons bore no resemblance to a table, or even the top of one.
In most respects, it was similar to hundreds of other places in this red rock region of the New Mexico highlands, a place where it appeared the land had split and cracked on three sides, falling away into steep canyons hundreds of feet deep, carved from the rock by the effects of water and wind over the millennia.
Their mountain bikes had carried them to this remote hideaway they’d visited on dozens of other weekends. But it was not rock climbing or hunting for mythical, lost gold mines that brought them to The Mesa this first Saturday of the school year. It was the contents of the large box strapped to Mark’s bike.
After Heather slid to a stop and dropped her kickstand, she pulled off her bike helmet and slung it over her handlebars, glad to feel the fresh air blowing through her hair. Mark already had the box unstrapped and was lovingly carrying it out beyond the trees into the clearing.
Here, the ridgetop was flat and treeless for a quarter mile before dropping away steeply into the canyon beyond. It reminded Heather of the fingernail on a giant hairy finger pointing southwest. Perhaps Cortez himself had used it as a guidepost back to Mexico.
“Here, give me a hand with this,” said Mark, unwrapping the packaging that cradled his prized airplane.
It was a beautifully painted model of a Piper Cub aircraft, complete with engine and remote control. They had built other model aircraft before, but this was the most detailed kit to date. It took them most of the summer to build, and so far they had only flown it in the park near their house. This would be its true maiden voyage outside that protected training ground.