"Money," Doyle reminded him. They looked at each other and broke into giggles.
"No-good money-grubbing bitch . .." Vic gasped, not quite sure what he was laughing at.
Doyle struck an affected posture, pinkies crooked and raised high, and said in a shrill falsetto, "Tm dump-'em Donna, the money-grubbing bitch . ..'"
Vic began to laugh harder. Encouraged, Doyle trotted off into the dark parking lot, still mincing.
Vic ran after him. "Jesus, Doyle, stop it!" Vic giggled until tears ran down his cheeks. He couldn't seem to stop laughing—Doyle was just so damn funny .. . but underneath the cozily warm, whirling sensation of drunkenness, Vic knew he felt lousy. And tomorrow would be even worse: he'd have a hangover, plus the memory that Donna had dumped him.
The Firebird was in a remote corner of the parking lot; Vic liked to park it sideways, away from other cars, to keep it from getting scratched, and it worked: the Bird was a '75 and still in mint condition, and its two-year-old glossy black paint job looked like new.
"And heeeerrre's the car!" Doyle mimicked Ed McMahon, throwing out his right hand and stamping his foot in a "ta-daa" gesture.
Still recuperating from his laughing fit, Vic leaned against the driver's side and fumbled in his pocket. "Keys, keys, where are the keys?" Not there. Panicking, he patted all of his pockets—still no keys. "Shit, I've gone and lost them! We'd better go back inside."
On the passenger side Doyle grinned and jingled the keys at him. "They were in my back pocket, Vic, remember? You were gonna let me drive."
"Oh, yeah." Vic slapped his forehead clumsily. Doyle was right. After the first pitcher of beer, Vic had turned over the Bird's keys and proclaimed himself unfit to drive. But that was back before Doyle had started to drink the lion's share. No way was he gonna let Doyle get near the steering wheel of his precious Bird now. "You're right, Doyle ol' buddy, but I'm doing much better. Honest." Vic held out his hands. "C'mon. Pitch 'em over."
"Ready?" Doyle assumed the classic quarterback pose. "Here goes—Elway eat your heart out!" He launched the keys high into the air, they sailed over Vic's head and landed several feet away on the asphalt.
"Oops. Don't know my own strength."
"Not to get upset." Vic waggled a finger. "Everything is under control." He went staggering into the night after the keys. He quickly realized that the black leather keycase was impossible to see against black asphalt in the dark, and got down on his knees to grope for them.
"Hey, Vic, need a hand?"
"Naah." He patted the asphalt tentatively. After a minute his hand brushed against something. "It's okay, I found 'em!"
Vic reached out confidently this time. His fingers closed on something cool and slightly moist—almost oily. He grimaced. No telling what disgusting garbage was lying there in the bar's parking lot.
And then it moved in his hand, pulsed, flexed just like a muscle.
Vic opened his mouth to yell, certain he'd just grabbed hold of a snake. But the swift, crushing pressure on his throat made screaming impossible.
"C'mon, Vic," Doyle called impatiently. "We're gonna miss curfew."
TWENTY-SIX
Suzanne sat in what was now her customary place on the sofa next to Harrison; across from them sat Ironhorse in the leather chair. The after-dinner ritual of coffee in front of the fire had already become a routine . .. and God knew, Suzanne reflected, she needed routine, some kind of stability, some semblance of a normal, regulated life to keep from losing what shred of sanity she had left.
According to the ancient clock on the mantel, it was eleven-thirty; the others had long since gone to bed, including Norton, who had retired early, exhausted after a long day's work. But Suzanne was not in the least bit sleepy; how could she be, knowing that tomorrow they might face the aliens again? From the others' expression, she knew they felt the same.
Ironhorse broke the extended silence. His powerful shoulders hunched as he leaned toward Harrison. "I don't like this, Blackwood. Don't like it at all. .. going out to Nellis without an idea of what we're doing—just keeping an eye out for any stray aliens."
Harrison stared into the dying fire, his gaze steady as one hypnotized. Suzanne thought at first he hadn't heard the question, but then he answered slowly, without looking up, "They mentioned Nellis in their transmission for a reason, Colonel. Like I said before, we've got to start thinking like they do."
Ironhorse got up and went over to the fireplace to add more logs to the fire; clearly, he wasn't planning to go to bed anytime soon. He placed the logs carefully, leaving space between them, and fanned the blaze until the fire leapt up, encouraged. "You expect me to climb into the heads of those creatures," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Harrison, "you've got to give me something more to go on." In the fire's orange glow his profile seemed to Suzanne to take on an ancient dignity, the strong, determined face of a warrior contemplating the battle ahead.
Harrison took his time answering. "The invasion was incredibly well organized, efficient. Within a few days the entire world was on its knees." He looked up as Ironhorse returned to his chair. "They sent their trained military. They're soldiers, same as you. You tell me—how do soldiers think?"
A faint, hard glint of amusement crept into the colonel's eyes and faded swiftly. "We don't. I spent four years at the Point and fifteen more in uniform. I prepare. I stay prepared. And when the time comes to act, I don't think anymore. All I do is react."
"Okay, let's start there." Harrison sat forward,
resting his elbows on his knees. "You're their leader— react to your situation."
Ironhorse settled back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. "I'd need good intelligence. Got to know your enemy. Communications—-they already have that. Supplies—got to keep the troops fed. Weapons..." He trailed off and looked down at Harrison.
"Definitely weapons," Harrison said with a trace of bitterness.
Ironhorse nodded thoughtfully. "They don't have any—except for those handmade bolas and a few guns, but nothing that amounts to anything. That's their primary weakness."
"Which makes it our strength," Suzanne remarked softly. She'd read Forrester's files. She'd seen photographs of what those weapons had done. The two men looked at her as if surprised to see she was following the conversation.
"If I were their commander," Ironhorse said, "I'd make it top priority to get my hands on some weapons."
As the colonel spoke, Harrison began to look as though he'd just had a hideous revelation. Alarmed, Suzanne turned to him. "You okay?"
He nodded. "Something just occurred to me. Colonel, have you ever heard of Hangar Fifteen?"
Ironhorse shook his head.
"Of course you have," Harrison persisted. "Hangar Fifteen, the place where the air force stores all its UFO evidence."
Ironhorse's expression became skeptical. "You
mean Hangar Eighteen." He shook his head. "Forget it, Blackwood, that's a myth."
"No," Harrison replied with such total conviction that Suzanne believed him. "Hangar Eighteen is the myth. Disinformation, created by the military. Hangar Fifteen is the real McCoy."
"I don't buy it."
"Clayton Forrester did. it's in his papers. Colonel, I think now might be a good time to call General Wilson. Ask him if it's a myth."
Ironhorse rose and glanced at the clock on the mantel. "I will." His eyes narrowed threateningly. "But you'd better be right, Blackwood. The general won't appreciate my calling him at home." He strode from the room, leaving Suzanne and Harrison alone.
"And if you're right.. ." Suzanne turned to Harrison. "And the aliens are going to Nellis to recover their weapons . .. How will we be able to stop them?"
He stared grimly into the fire. "I don't know. Bat you've read Clayton's papers, Suzanne. You know what will happen if they get their hands on their ships, their weapons." He faced her, Ms eyes haunted, circled by gray shadows. He seemed to be looking beyond her at some horror that had taken place thirty-five years ea
rlier. "No matter what it costs—we have to stop the aliens now, or we'll never be able to stop them at all."
The living room was warm from the heat generated by the fire, but Suzanne found she was shivering.
"What the'—" Harrison said abruptly, and broke off.
Suzanne followed his startled gaze to the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms. She caught a flash of something pale and wraithlike retreating up the stairs; for an instant she thought they had both seen a ghost.
Harrison watched, too, then turned back to Suzanne with a worried expression. "She must have heard us talking, Suzanne. I think you'd better go talk to her."
"My God." Suzanne jumped to her feet, finally understanding. "Debi-—"
Heart pounding, she crossed the room in a few quick strides and ran up the dark staircase after her daughter. She caught up to her at the doorway to Debi's bedroom.
"Deb—" She reached out a hand and touched the girl's shoulder in the darkness. Debi turned. She was dressed in the long white T-shirt that she wore for a nightgown, and even in the gloom of the unlit hallway Suzanne could see her face was pale and frightened.
"I didn't mean to snoop," Debi said in a thin, tremulous voice. "I couldn't sleep—"
"It's ail right, chicken." Suzanne stepped inside the bedroom and snapped on the light. "Come on in. I need to talk to you." Miraculously, she managed to sound calm, but firm.
Deb followed her inside.
Suzanne shut the door behind them and sat down on the edge of the twin bed. The sheets and covers were thrown back in a twisted heap; obviously, Deb was telling the truth about not being able to get to sleep. Suzanne felt a pang of guilt; after what Deb
overheard tonight, chances were she'd have many more sleepless nights.
"Sit down, Deb." She patted the spot next to her on the mattress.
Deb sat reluctantly, her tangled long hair hanging in her eyes; she swept it back carelessly. "What you were saying about the aliens"—she paused to look up at her mother with wide, pleading eyes—"is it true?"
"You know that I can't talk to you about my work, Deb. I made a promise to keep it a secret, and I can't break that promise, no matter what. I have to ask you to make a promise now too—a very serious promise. What you heard downstairs tonight—you must never, ever repeat it to anyone. People's lives depend on it."
"I promise," Deb said in a tiny voice. She looked so very small and scared that Suzanne was overwhelmed with pity for her.
"I'm so sorry you heard, chicken," she whispered, stroking the girl's hair back from her warm forehead. The last thing she ever wanted was for her daughter to experience the terror the rest of them took as a matter • of course. "Even if I can't talk to you about what we're doing now—there's something that happened a long time ago—the history of something you should know about."
"This doesn't sound too good," Deb said matter-of-factly, screwing her face up.
"Why do you say that, chicken?"
Deb was scrutinizing her mother's expression carefully. " 'Cause you're wearing the same expression as when you talked about the nuclear bomb." She paused. "Is this going to be about the alien invasion?"
Suzanne's jaw dropped. "Who told you about
that?"
The girl shrugged. "Oh . . . Mrs. Stolz, our fourth-grade history teacher said something about it, even though it wasn't in our textbook. I think she got in trouble for it, though, because she mentioned it only that one time, and it was never on any tests. And Mrs. Pennyworth talked about it in one of our lessons. She has this really old book with neat pictures in it." Debi broke off, trying to keep her expression nonchalant and not quite succeeding. "Mrs. Pennyworth says she was good friends with Harrison's mother and father, and they were killed by aliens. I have the funny feeling these are the same guys you were talking about."
Suzanne's mouth twisted wryly at the thought that Mrs. Pennyworth was assuming Debi should know about the invasion without first consulting her mother —even though Suzanne now felt that the woman was probably doing the right thing. But from here on, she'd check with the older woman first before Deb was taught any more unauthorized subjects.
She smiled at her daughter with maternal pride. The kid was trying to pretend she wasn't afraid for her mother's sake, so that Suzanne wouldn't worry, but she knew that Deb had to be terribly frightened. "Look," she said, playing with a strand of the girl's long hair, "if you have trouble sleeping, you can stay in my bedroom tonight."
"Well..Deb said casually in her grown-up voice, "maybe a change would help my insomnia."
"Insomnia? Where'd you learn that one?"
"Mrs. Pennyworth."
"Well, come on then." Suzanne rose and offered the girl her hand. "I could use a little company tonight to help my insomnia too."
Deb took her mother's hand. As they approached the hallway, she paused. "Mom?" The mature preteen was gone; Deb's voice was high-pitched, childish.
Suzanne looked down at her, concerned. "What's the matter, chicken?"
"Nothing. It's just. . ." Deb fidgeted awkwardly with embarrassment. "Well, I never knew that you were so brave."
Suzanne smiled. "You're a pretty brave kid yourself, Ms. McCuIlough."
Harrison lay down in the darkness on the strange bed and tried to sleep. His brain produced several perfectly logical reasons as to why he should do so: one, because he was exhausted, especially considering the number of naps he'd recently been forced to miss; two, because he needed to be physically and mentally alert tomorrow, and if he didn't get some sleep soon, he wouldn't be worth a shit; and three, because it had been almost eight hours since his last nap, and his body clock was going to get all fouled up if he didn't nod off soon. So sleep, dammit. You've got to rest. After all, the fate of the entire civilized and not-so-civilized world rests on your scrawny shoulders.
Yeah. Right. That was a great one for inducing relaxation. He squeezed his eyes shut, and again had the sensation of being pulled down into a black whirlpool of panic.
Harrison fought it, as he had when he was a kid, by 366
thinking of something funny. Eyes still closed, he did his best to recall every practical joke he'd ever played. What was the first one? Kindergarten, of course. Couldn't forget that one. The time he'd put the frog in Katie Seymour's pants, with gratifying results— though not so gratifying for the poor frog.
Then first grade, with Mr. Anderson, that tight-lipped horse's ass with the curious habit of plucking out his eyebrows and chewing on them. The old tack on the teacher's chair-—not exactly original, but still worthwhile. Harrison smiled to himself at the image of old redheaded Anderson shooting straight up from behind his desk, his eyes round as quarters.
There, that was better. Everything was going to be all right; after all, Clayton would be coming out to the ranch tomorrow. Just like the old days. Harrison felt his body begin to relax. Now all he needed was inspiration for a practical joke to play on Ironhorse— after all this was over, of course, when Harrison would be a few thousand miles removed from the colonel— or the stiff-lipped Tom Kensington, who looked like a promising target. Something to do with the horse, or the girl; maybe he could get Debi's cooperation. He drifted off into darkness, his thoughts a confusing tumble of base-three digits and practical jokes.
Then someone switched on the light.
Harrison, darling, get up.
He bolted upright in bed, heart hammering so hard he clutched at his chest. In his momentary confusion it was all too easy to imagine he was five years old
again.
"You were right," Ironhorse said. No apology. The 367
colonel stood in the doorway, still dressed in fatigues. His dark brows were knitted, his manner agitated, too agitated to register Harrison's terrified reaction to being wakened.
Harrison drew a shaking hand across his face. "I was asleep.''''
Ironhorse either failed or refused to get the point. He stepped inside the room and, without waiting for an invitation, sat down on the edge
of Harrison's bed.
"Please," Harrison said sarcastically, gesturing, "come in."
The colonel got straight to the point. "I finally got hold of Wilson. According to the general, the government has had three of the alien ships mothballed since 1953. Care to guess where?"
"I already told you," Harrison said flatly. "Hangar Fifteen. You don't have to act so surprised that I was telling the truth."
Ironhorse grunted in grudging acknowledgment. "And guess where Hangar Fifteen is?"
"Nellis Air Force Base." Harrison smiled unhappily. "So my theory was right."
Ironhorse slowly shook his head, seeming overwhelmed. "Smack-dab in the middle. We've got to get to Nellis first thing in the morning, before the aliens do. If they get their hands on those ships—"
Harrison motioned him silent. There was no point in saying what they both already knew: if the aliens got to their ships, they would be impossible to stop.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was normal morning activity along the flight line at Nellis Air Force Base. A typical day, the sun bright, harsh, superheating the tarmac until black heat waves glimmered against the near horizon. A squadron of fighters was lined up on the main runway; every few seconds one of them streaked up into the sky with an ear-splitting roar. Both inside and outside the hangars, repairmen were busy maintenancing helicopters and a couple of small prop planes. Every so often a jeepful of soldiers rumbled down the service road.
Everyday stuff, nothing unusual or suspicious at all, certainly not about the two airmen who strolled across the tarmac past a hangar toward a runway. Nothing unusual at all, except for the mottled purplish bruises that ringed each of their necks, or the slight clumsiness of their movements. No one noticed, and no one stopped them as they made a sudden detour toward two of the big troop-transport helicopters sitting on the outskirts of the runway and climbed into them.
By the time one of the workers heard the choppers start up and tried to yell out that the copters were scheduled for maintenance, not takeoff, it was too late.
Self-conscious and hot in camo fatigues, Suzanne sat in the driver's seat of the drab green Ford sedan and tried not to appear nervous. Think military, that was the key. She straightened and put her hands at ten o'clock and two o'clock—the ideal driving position— on the steering wheel.
J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection Page 27
