by Mich Moore
evenly.
Tara smiled at him hopefully. "Is it possible to let them out to stretch their legs some?"
"I'm sorry," Hillerman answered. "We've got twenty-odd civilians here. They can't see the DATs."
"We understand," Derek said quickly. "But we think the heat is affecting them."
"Affecting them how?"
Broussard spoke up. "Their comms are scrambling."
Hillerman's mouth settled into a straight line. "It could be something else. We believe the AS is still disrupting communication. Their jamming device could be screwing with their LEDs."
"Maybe," the engineer replied. "But apart from structural injury, external heat is their biggest enemy."
"What do you suggest?" Hillerman asked.
"Let them out for fifteen minutes or so. Power them down. Let them cool off."
"Excuse me, but what if one of the civvies sees them? We don't have enough trank for all of 'em."
"We'll cordon them off."
"Out here? In the middle of nowhere?"
"Well—" Derek began,
Hillerman cut him off.
"We can't risk it. Tell them that they can come out in about an hour when it's safe. In the meantime, crank up the AC."
"It's barely working now," Broussard explained.
Hillerman sighed. "Listen, folks, I apologize for not giving you the answers you seem to want to hear—"
But Tara was insistent. "Just for a few minutes—"
"No!" Hillerman shouted angrily at her. The female agent jumped. "Now start acting like the professionals you're supposed to be and get back to your posts!" He turned on Broussard. "Are you finished?"
Broussard plastered on a neutral expression. "Think so."
"Good," Hillerman snapped. "Come with me. I need your help with something." He strode back in the direction of the main group.
Broussard gave the two agents an empathetic look and then reluctantly followed.
The two CIA agents considered their surroundings. With the exception of a few random shale formations and clumps of bush, the landscape remained unremarkable. Derek picked up a smooth rock and chucked it against a bigger rock. "Well, we tried."
Tara watched from a distance as Hillerman conducted an impromptu conference with the civilian contingent. Neal Broussard stood at his side. "Why is he so angry?"
Derek swatted at a mosquito. "Who knows? He's old. And old people are unhappy people."
"I hate old people," she responded absently. "And Neal is useless. Why is he even here?"
Derek noisily yawned. "The DATs like him, I guess."
Tara pointed her face towards the sky. "Eric can't stand him."
Derek snorted. "Eric can't stand anyone."
"This is true." She batted her eyes. "But he absolutely adores moi!"
"That's because you're the only 'moi' who'll date him."
She sighed happily. "This is also true."
A swarm of golden fireflies appeared from the west, heading directly towards them. Derek watched them become flecks of pulsing light and then disappear. "Gosh, I haven't seen one of those since I was kid. And never in daylight."
Tara cranked her neck around to loosen stiffened muscles. "Those aren't fireflies. Fireflies are blue or green."
Derek absently pitched another rock. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." She ran her fingers through her lank hair. "We should get back to the AIs. Let them know what's happening. You coming?"
Derek fired off another rock. It zinged against a boulder, making a loud cracking noise. "Do I have a choice?"
The two agents started walking back to the others.
"So how do you like this assignment so far?" Tara asked.
"Not much," Derek admitted. "This scenario was more interesting in Battle Manual Pro." Battle Manual Pro was an interactive video/holographic training game that simulated the most time-tested forms of personal, group, and national combat tactics. All CIA personnel above Level Three clearance were required to undergo the six-month course. Most of its graduates considered it to be a lot of fun for hardcore gamers, but a complete waste of time for agents facing actual battle situations.
Tara flicked her hair back. "We trained on Battle Man Pro, too. But it sure is different when you're one of the human grunts. You lose your top-down perspective."
Derek chortled, "But what you gain is your save-my-ass perspective, which is a lot more useful out here."
Tara made an unpleasant face. "Color me unimpressed. 'Out here' is overrated. I can't wait to get back to a desk and an endless supply of chai tea."
Derek sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. "Did you just fart?"
"What?"
"Something smells bad."
"Don't blame me. I don't pass gas. On rare occasions I queef, but that's not necessarily my fault—"
Another swarm of fireflies quickly approached and surrounded the two agents. Tara was about to make a comment when she suddenly went rigid.
Derek swiped the air with his sleeve. "What's the matter?"
Two small red circles bloomed over both of her eyebrows. Her mouth opened and she made a guttural "uh-uh-uh" sound. Then her eyes fluttered and her body fell knees first into the ground.
Derek rushed to her side. "Tara! What's wrong?" Her eyes and mouth were open. She convulsed once and then fell deathly still.
"Oh, my God! Help! Somebody help!!!"
Immediately various people began streaming over. The videographers arrived there first, already filming as they jockeyed for a clear shot of her. One of the Rangers pushed his way through and knelt down beside Tara. He felt for a pulse and then checked her breathing. "I'm a medic!" he shouted so that everyone could hear. "She's not breathing." He pointed directly to Palladino. "Grab my medical bag out of the bus!"
The Ranger hurried off at a fast clip while the medic began to perform CPR. Hillerman and Brady cornered the shaken Derek. One of the cameramen forced himself into the scene and began filming.
"What happened?" Hillerman wanted to know.
"I don't know. One minute we were talking and the next she was out cold."
An obese woman in spandex edged in closer to get a better look. The two men from the Peugeot stood nearby, hands hovering in front of their mouths with alternating childish glee and adult horror. The mom with the two children stood slightly apart from them.
"Mom, look!" One of the children spoke excitedly. "Lightning bugs!"
Another wave of fireflies streamed by fast overhead. Two or three people noticed. Someone made the comment that they looked like pieces of gold. One of the fliers suddenly lost altitude and landed on the rather large handbag hanging from the mom's shoulder. A tiny puff of smoke appeared as a hole about five centimeters in diameter opened up beneath it. Hillerman, who had been watching, stepped in to get a closer look.
"Dammit," he growled. His arms shot up high. "Everybody! Hit the deck!"
Those standing nearby merely looked at him. Brady quickly surmised the seriousness of their situation. He rushed over to the bystanders and shoved Daly so hard that the trucker pinballed off of the couple riding in the Peugeot. "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK! GET ON THE GROUND!"
That got everyone's attention. Bodies went careening everywhere as people sought cover in the dirt.
Now there were more fireflies. Only these were bigger and on a lower trajectory. Brady and Hillerman dove for cover beneath an outcropping of rock. Hillerman, the bigger man, could only shield part of his body.
The yellow lights were passing through the air in a broad band one meter off the ground. A cluster of them passed through both of Hillerman's arms. In a split second, his face became an extraordinary rictus of pain, but the soldier still had the presence of mind to drop face first into the dirt to keep from being hit again.
Brady ducked down farther behind the boulder, still yelling loudly. "EVERYBODY GET DOWN! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!!!"
Suddenly the place was a riot of shrieks of pain and terror as the projectiles filled the air around them. Oxygen molecul
es popped and sizzled. Vehicles took direct hits. Windows exploded out of their frames. Tiny fires danced and skidded over the tops of cars like live creatures. Another person was struck and a loud scream went up, nearly blotting out the others. Someone began to babble a prayer.
The sun began its descent towards the horizon.
Broussard had been hiding behind Don Daley's cab, but when a barrage of the tiny missiles began to strike near its fuel tanks, he ducked and rolled in the dirt until he reached B-2's undercarriage. He was too startled by what was happening to be as terrified as he should have been.
Lieutenant Colonel Palladino was suddenly right beside him, yelling and gesticulating wildly towards B-1. Another swarm of fireflies was passing over it. "The AIs! They're still locked inside the bus!"
Broussard's heart sank. Whoever was firing was now doing so at will, and it would just be a matter of time before the bus began to take direct hits.
Suddenly there came a deafening cacophony of pop-pop-pop-pop-pop coming from the opposite direction as hundreds of rounds of blazing bullets were pumped out along B-1's horizontal axis. Broussard's head spun around. Two or three Rangers had managed to reach the bus's machine guns and were sitting on them with deadly intensity. The side of the bus blazed with incandescent clouds of ignited gunpowder.
Palladino made a fist. "YES!"
As soon as the word was out of his mouth, the tires beneath B-1 exploded and the bus sagged to its knees. Something struck Broussard's right arm. He looked down and saw a bright yellow lozenge sizzling its way into his flesh. He tried to brush it off, but it had already wriggled completely inside his arm. A thunderclap of pain wracked his entire body, and he sprayed vomit into the air.
Then someone tugged
