Archangel

by Mich Moore

figure something out. In the meantime, go round the others up and tell them to get back to their buses and wait for further instructions."

  Bautista nodded and left. Meanwhile, Roger took out his phone and spoke a few cryptic commands.

  "What are you doing?" Hillerman asked.

  "Give me a sec." He spent some time typing on the phone's keyboard.

  Hillerman grew impatient. "We don't have all day."

  "Hold on." The engineer issued a final order and then discreetly pointed the device at the patrol car, which contained the K-9 animals. "Ask and you shall receive."

  They heard the car doors' locks pop from where they stood.

  Hillerman jumped. "How'd you do that?"

  Roger grinned like a devil. "Hey, I'm from Detroit." He sprinted to the cruiser in a flash and deftly pulled open the rear door. The two police dogs bolted from the backseat as if on fire and made straight for the unsuspecting crowds. Men, women, and children began to curse and run for their lives. It could not have gone better.

  "Amen," Hillerman muttered. He looked energized. "Let's go!"

  The Redstone people bulldozed their way to the waiting buses through the churning chaos. Indeed, within five minutes, all personnel were back on board. Hillerman and Broussard raced through all three vehicles to perform hasty head counts. After they made the final tally for B-3, the two men hurried back to B-1. Hillerman instructed the driver to start the ignition as quietly as possible. He then took up position in the stairwell. Broussard sat down in the front seat. The major bent over slightly to look out the bus's broad windshield in order to get a better view of the best path to the service road. He spoke to the driver, pointing. "Take her past this building here and then ease over and make a right at that Exxon station." Hillerman suddenly froze.

  "What's wrong?" Broussard asked.

  Hillerman squinted as his eyes swept east to west, out over the Kentucky plains. He repeated the action. "I would swear that there was a mountain there ten minutes ago."

  Broussard's forehead crinkled. "A mountain?"

  Hillerman quickly straightened up. "Never mind," he barked at the driver. "Hit it."

  The driver put the bus into drive and eased down the road, followed closely by B-2 and B-3. Fortunately, the escaped dogs had emptied out half of the parking lot, and the buses easily slipped out into the street. They were slowly changing lanes when a state trooper tried to wave them down. Hillerman ordered the driver full steam ahead, and they passed the red-faced officer without incident. Within seconds, they were turning onto the service road and barreling north again at seventy kilometers per hour. Five kilometers out and they were able to use their walkie-talkies, although they still had no cell phone service. Brady called from B-3 to let him know that the AIs seemed fine and that they weren't the only people with an escape plan. There were at least nine vehicles bringing up B-3's rear, content to let the buses take any head winds. Brady wondered if they should try to lose them. Hillerman replied "no" because they might prove useful later.

  His assessment was soon proven to be accurate.

  The now twelve-vehicle convoy was able to travel about ten more kilometers before they had to stop. The 'road' that they had been traveling on was apparently just an old cattle trail. And now there was scrub brush piled as high as a man blocking most of it. Old fence posts with barbed wire still attached were weaved through the mound, seriously complicating things. It was going to be a time-consuming effort to set things right.

  The convoy stopped and everyone began to emerge from their vehicles and gather in the road around Hillerman and Brady in concentric circles. Don Daley, one of the civilian runners, climbed down from his dusty Mack truck and joined the innermost ring, next to Broussard. He pointed out several manhole-sized potholes.

  "Maybe we should go around? Cut over to the interstate?" he asked.

  Lieutenant Brady surveyed the scene. Both sides of the trail sloped steeply upwards, forming a large gulley with the broken road. "It's best to stay on the trail for now. It's hiding us from any troopers who might be cruising nearby."

  The trucker became antsy. "How long you think it'll take?"

  "Not long, if we get everybody involved," Brady answered.

  Daley began to move. "Let's get busy then."

  Hillerman became suspicious. "Apart from the obvious, what's the rush?"

  Daly was to the point. "I'm carrying a live load."

  Every head turned to stare at the semi's long trailer.

  "You mind telling us what or who?" Hillerman asked.

  "Gators."

  Brady whipped off his sunglasses. "As in 'alli'-gators?"

  Daly grinned. "'Yup. Got fifty of 'em in water crates. Going to a sanctuary in Texas."

  Hillerman shook his head in disbelief. "Just when you think you've heard it all." He took the lieutenant aside. "We can dismantle some of the armor plating from a bus, set them on top of those holes. The Rangers probably have some tools we can use. Can you check it out?"

  A couple of men in shorts and oily faces were listening in. One of them was obviously not happy with the prospect of performing manual labor.

  "Tom, this is getting to be a bit much. Let's just go through the inspection, 'kay?"

  "You do what you want," Tom's partner replied. "I'm not letting any of those fascists touch my car!"

  His partner gaped at him. "We're both paying for the damn thing. Since when is it 'your' car?"

  The two men stomped back to a sleek Peugeot and continued bickering.

  A slender woman with two young children clutching the hem of her skirt stepped forward. "We'll help you, mister," she volunteered as she fanned herself with a piece of cardboard. "We've got nothing better to do."

  Daley gave her a thumbs-up.

  Three additional civilians pledged their assistance, and one hour and much backbreaking work later the convoy was moving again. The trail resumed being a regular road and they made good time. Hillerman estimated that they were no more than seventy kilometers from the Illinois border. The overall mood was elevated.

  However, fifteen minutes into the drive they were stopped again. The vehicles were parked in a helter-skelter pattern, and everyone shuffled out again, dispirited, to survey the situation.

  The cattle trail had simply vanished. Heaps of fallen trees and unchecked growth now choked any further passage by man or beast. Everyone climbed out of the gulley and onto level ground. Twenty-odd meters on the right side of the road the land leveled out somewhat to a relatively virgin landscape. They were now faced with the prospect of moving the vehicles over open and unworked fields. I-24 could be seen clearly from their vantage point. And vice versa.

  Everyone gathered around in a comfort circle again. As before, Hillerman and Brady made up the nucleus.

  "At least the traffic's gone," Tara pointed out. And it was true. The interstate was bare.

  Hillerman whipped out his phone and punched in a number.

  After a few vacant seconds, he announced, "No service still." He looked around. There was a twenty-meter high cell phone tower within spitting distance, mocking them.

  Brady was professional enough to not ask the obvious. How? The situation was becoming worrisome. Hillerman disappeared inside B-1. He returned several minutes later and then briefed the group. "All right. Here's the situation. We're still about fifty kilometers from the border. We can do it the easy way and get back on the highway, or we can keep going the way we are, without a clear road."

  "We'll be out in the open if we take the highway," Brady added. "I don't believe the US-AS will give us any trouble, but there are highway bandits in these parts. And they can be a handful."

  Hillerman hooked his thumbs onto his belt loops. "So, let's take a vote. Who wants to stay the current course?"

  There were maybe eight or nine raised hands.

  "Who's for taking the highway in?"

  Thirty-five hands shot up, including everyone from Lincoln Hills.

  Hillerman favored the normally cauti
ous group with a look of mild surprise.

  Chang caught it. "We've got too much friction out here; the interstate is the way to go."

  "Okay. The highway has the votes. Let's get going. We want to be in Illinois before it gets dark."

  As the others disbanded, Don Daley approached him.

  "I retired out of the Air Force. I can smell military a kilometer away."

  Hillerman squirted tobacco juice from the side of his mouth. "What's your point?"

  "I've seen what can happen on the road these days. Bad things." The trucker's eyes locked onto the major's. "If we run into trouble, can you get us through?"

  "Depends upon their firepower. But we'll give 'em hell."

  Daley thrust out his chin. "That's good enough for me. Thanks."

  "You're welcome."

  As soon as Daley left, Derek and Tara walked up and asked to speak with him in private. Broussard was with them. The three of them walked the short distance to the rear of B-1.

  The two young agents were looking a little worn around the edges. Hillerman surmised that they were feeling the unrelenting stress of performing under quickly changing situations. They were new and no doubt having trouble taking the sharp turns that the war and the DAT program were throwing at them. Still. He was chafing under the weight of being responsible for everyone's peace of mind. They would have to work it out for themselves. He wiped his dripping brow.

  "What's on your minds?" he asked in as positive a voice as he could muster.

  "The DATs are getting kind of antsy," Derek said. "They've been cooped up for hours now."

  "Well, that's understandable," Hillerman replied