by Ronald Kelly
She made it past the state troopers and out of the building unnoticed. Checking her watch, she found it was nearing nine o'clock. She didn't go back to the boardinghouse, but went directly to Tucker's Market instead, where she knew the others were waiting.
"Well, what did the man in charge have to say?" asked Jenny as the old woman walked through the entrance of the general store.
"Nothing much," said Miss Mable. "He claims he can't start a search for Gart and Rowdy until Captain Nickles gets here, but I ain't convinced. I kinda think he's part of the big conspiracy."
"You think he might be on Eco-Plenty's payroll?" asked Glen incredulously. "The state police? You can't be serious, Miss Mable."
The elderly landlady frowned. "Hell, Glen, I don't know who to trust anymore. I used to think I was a fine judge of character, but since this business with Eco-Plenty began, I don't know who's kosher and who's not these days. But I'm pretty sure that Gart and Rowdy are up there somewhere on PaleDove Mountain…and I'm aiming to go up there and find them!"
"I don't think that would be a very good idea," Jenny told her. "I think it would be better if you waited and talked to Captain Nickles about your suspicions."
"I'm through with waiting around! I've been up all night long, walking the floor over that old coot of a sheriff, and I can't stand the thought of him being out there in the woods somewhere, maybe injured or even dead, for all I know."
"You can't go up there all by yourself, Miss Mable," Glen told her.
"I don't intend on doing it alone," she smiled. "Ya'll are going with me."
"Now just hold on there. You've got to look at this sensibly. It's a good bet that whoever did the killing at Rebel's Roost is hiding on PaleDoveMountain. What if you happen to cross paths with that murderer while you're up there?"
"Then I'll just have to use this," she said, pulling the MAC-10 from her purse. She slapped the long magazine into the pistol and snapped back the bolt, working a round into the breech.
"Where did you get that?" asked Jenny.
"I snuck it out of the evidence room at the county jail. I figured we might need some extra firepower." She took the Magnum and its cartridges from the pocketbook and laid them on the counter in front of Glen.
The storekeeper shook his head at the landlady's stubbornness. "Come on, Miss Mable, you've got to get this crazy notion out of your head. PaleDoveMountain is a mighty big piece of land. You don't even know where to start looking."
"No," came a quiet voice from the rear of the store. "But we do."
Glen, Jenny, and Miss Mable turned startled eyes on the speaker. It was the pale duplicate of Lance LaBlanc. Around him stood his entourage of albino beauties. Only two of the women were fully clothed and they were uncanny mirror images of Jenny and Alice McCray.
Miss Mable approached the tall man in the white pajamas, her desperation overpowering her fear of the strange creatures. "You know where Rowdy and Gart are?" she asked him.
"I do not know the whereabouts of the one called Rowdy," said LaBlanc. "But the sheriff is in our care. We can take you to him."
"Now we're getting somewhere!" said Miss Mable. She eyed the pale leader with a mixture of concern and suspicion. "But what happened to him? Is he hurt?"
"He was betrayed by the one called Peck," the albino told her. "The deputy and some others ambushed the sheriff and injured him badly. He managed to escape into one of our caves and we took care of him. We stopped his bleeding, but he still needs medical attention as soon as possible."
Jenny's eyes suddenly brightened with realization. "So the massacre at the tavern last night…it was done out of retaliation?"
"Yes," frowned the pale man. "But we were not responsible. That was done by the Dark'Un."
Miss Mable grinned. "Well, it looks like that fella ain't half as bad as I first thought. Sure glad to know that Homer Peck got what was coming to him. I should've known he was tied in with Eco-Plenty, if anyone in town was."
Glen had been silent since the abrupt arrival of LaBlanc and his followers, but now he spoke up. "So all this is for real? The old stories about the Dark'Un and the pale critters that can change into different forms…it's really true?"
"Yes," Jenny replied. "It's unbelievable, but it's true." She walked over to LaBlanc. "I'm afraid I have some bad news about my offer to Eco-Plenty."
"They refused," said the albino with a sad smile. "We expected as much from them. Their greed runs much deeper than we first thought."
"The gold is still in the trunk of my car…"
LaBlanc waved his hand absently. "Oh, you may keep that," he said, as though he were talking about some insignificant object rather than a small fortune in gold.
"You're pulling my leg," said Jenny in disbelief.
"No, my brethren and I have no use whatsoever for the golden mineral. Keep it as a token of our appreciation. We know that you did your best in our behalf."
Jenny was about to protest the generous gift, but realized to do so would be futile. This race of strange creatures actually had no need for gold or any other precious metal. To them, gold was no more valuable than rock or coal.
"The time for a peaceful answer is past," said LaBlanc. "The Dark'Un foresaw the futility of our quest and, at this very moment, is preparing for battle. The massacre at the tavern will be the last straw for the intruders. They will attack soon. That is why you must move the sheriff to safety as swiftly as possible. It will not be long before PaleDoveMountain is under siege."
Miss Mable turned to Jenny and Glen. "Well, are you two with me now?"
"Sure," said Jenny. "Maybe we can find Rowdy while we're up there."
Glen Tucker answered by loading the revolver and sticking it in his belt. "It's all pretty damned strange to me, but I reckon I'll tag along."
Miss Mable looked around. "By the way, where are Alice and Dale?"
"They drove over to Mountain View to pick up some photos," said Jenny. "I suggested that they take the trip, if only to get Alice's mind off Rowdy for a while."
"I noticed she was pretty fond of the guy," said Mable. "And she's gonna be mighty peeved when she gets back and discovers that we went looking for him without her." She jotted a quick note on a grocery bag and left it on the front counter.
Once they had all gathered on the store porch and Glen had locked up, LaBlanc and the others stood in a close group. "We will lead you there," he told them. Then, without warning, he and the others went through their incredible transformation, quickly reforming into a flock of pure white doves.
"Glory be!" gasped Miss Mable in amazement. "I wouldn't believe it was happening if I wasn't seeing it with my own two eyes."
Glen only stood there and gaped silently. He thought of the photos of the dark dinosaurs that his son had supposedly taken on PaleDoveMountain and knew that the subjects had, indeed, been for real, just as Alice McCray claimed.
The three piled into Glen's four-wheel drive and watched through the windshield as the doves took flight and headed south for their destination. "I have a feeling this is gonna turn out to be one helluva strange day," Glen told them. Then he pulled the Ramcharger onto the highway and roared out of town, alternating his attention between the road and the flock of albino creatures who served as their airborne guides.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Sounds like old Scarface is back," said Jamal, looking up from the copy of Soldier of Fortune he had been thumbing through. The black man could hear the faint stutter of a helicopter approaching from the west. Soon, the rhythm of the blades grew louder and deeper in resonance, filling the outer compound with noise and swirling dust.
"I believe you are right," replied Khiem. The Oriental rose from his chair at the conference table and collected the magazines he had let the others borrow during their morning of inactivity—the mercenary magazine from Jamal and the special ninja issue of Black Belt from Lopez. He rolled them up, along with the copy of Guns & Ammo he had been reading, and stuck them into the inner pocket of his flack v
est.
Lopez sighed, took a last drag from his cigarette, and ground it under the tread of his combat boot. He followed his camouflaged comrades to the open doorway of the converted barn and watched as the helicopter lit delicately in the center of the compound, next to the other Hueys and Bells. The first to emerge was their commander, Frag Hendrix. He was followed by two others.
"Hey, who are the gringos?" Lopez asked his buddies. Jamal and Khiem merely shrugged. They watched as the pair climbed out of the back of the helicopter. One was a tall, tanned man with blond hair. He looked as if he was more prepared for a leisurely day of golf than a military assault—decked out in light slacks, a sport shirt, and expensive sunglasses. They saw that he had a holstered Walther PPK/S clipped to his belt. The second fellow was short and wiry, dressed in jeans and a navy windbreaker. As the draft from the chopper blew at his jacket, they saw that he carried a Browning automatic in a holster beneath his armpit. The last one to leave the aircraft was the pilot, Skeeter Newland, a lanky, abrasive Texan whose main claim to fame was his expertise as a combat flyer, as well as an amazingly detailed tattoo of the battle of the Alamo that decorated his narrow chest from nipple to nipple.
The soldiers stood in the open doorway and nodded respectfully as Frag entered the makeshift headquarters. They could tell when their commander was in a foul mood; the scar tissue on his features was oddly pale, while the opposite side of his face was red with emotion, more than likely anger, considering the presence of the two civilians who tagged along. When they had all gathered around the conference table, Frag introduced them. "Men, this is Jackson Dellhart, the one who is paying for this particular operation, and his junior officer, Vincent Russ." He then turned to Dellhart and indicated each of his own men. "These are my squad leaders—Desmond Jamal from Rhodesia, Nguyen Khiem from Cambodia, and Miguel Lopez from Nicaragua."
"Quite a diversified group,' said Dellhart.
"They're all good men," Frag assured him. "I recruited them during my various tours in the globe's hot spots. Each is an expert in guerrilla warfare and, like most soldiers that grow up in oppressive environments, were weaned on violence and conflict. I'm very privileged to have them under my command."
"Yeah, they're pretty good old boys," said Skeeter, cutting himself a chaw of tobacco and poking it into the pouch of his jaw. "Even if they are a nigger, a gook, and a wetback."
All three reacted as one, drawing their knives at the Texan's snide remark. Skeeter soon found three well-honed blades hovering dangerously close to his throat: Lopez's machete, Khiem's Japanese tanto, and Jamal's wickedly curved Gurkha. "Hey, boys, I was just kidding," said Skeeter, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing precariously amid the collection of cutlery. "Ya'll know what a big-mouthed redneck I am. Can't help it really. I was just raised that way."
"We have things to discuss," Frag told them. "If you feel the need to slice up this old string bean, save it until after the operation is completed."
The three detected the hard edge in their commander's voice and reluctantly put their knives away. They ignored the lanky pilot and focused their attention on Hendrix, watching as he unfurled a large map and secured the corners to the table top with tape.
"This is a detailed aerial map that Skeeter reconned for us a few days ago," explained the colonel. "It shows the surface terrain of PaleDoveMountain—forests, streams, exposed rock formations, and so on." He regarded Dellhart. "I worked up a feasible strike plan last night, if you would care to listen to it."
"I'm all ears," smiled Dellhart, leaning forward to study the map more closely.
"I would have preferred launching a night assault, but since you are so impatient, we will accommodate you and attack in broad daylight. It's probably a better idea anyway, since the strength of the enemy is unknown and the intimate details of the mountain's terrain are unfamiliar to my men. I propose that we leave here at precisely eleven-forty this morning, which should give us sufficient time to reach the objective by twelve o'clock noon. We will avoid the populated areas of Mountain View and Tucker's Mill, arriving from the southern end of PeremontCounty. Since the state police are mainly clustered in Tucker's Mill, they shouldn't even be aware of our strike on PaleDoveMountain until it's over and done with. Our greatest chance for a success depends on discretion. We should confine ourselves to small arms fire and avoid using the heavy artillery."
He took some colored tabs and began to place them in key positions on the aerial map. "We will have four separate strike teams, designated Red, Yellow, Blue, and Green. Team Red will be led by me, Yellow by Khiem, Blue by Jamal, and Green by Lopez. Fortunately, there are a number of clearings at the base of the mountain that are large enough for choppers to land in. Each of the four Bell transports will carry a team and each team will take a separate quadrant of the mountain—north, east, south, and west. Each team will consist of ten commandos, ascending the slope of the mountain at an even pace. While the men are eradicating the mountain of living creatures, per your instructions, Skeeter and two other crack combat pilots will be circling the mountain in the Hueys, keeping watch.
"It should take us no more than an hour to climb the mountain, where we will meet above the forest level, where the vegetation gives way to rocky terrain." Frag leaned over the map and indicated a gray splotch in the center of the map's lush greenery. "This is our prime objective…the peak of the mountain. If you look closely, you can see that there is an entranceway of some sort in the stone face of the northern side, probably a cave. If the enemy is not successfully terminated during the ascending sweep, then it's a safe bet that they will take refuge there. If it comes down to that, we have one of two options. We can send a special squad of 'tunnel rats' into the cavern: men who had experience with underground warfare in Vietnam. Or we can place a few charges of C4 around the entrance and permanently seal the enemy in."
"I'll let you know my decision when the time comes," Dellhart said.
Jamal eyed the man suspiciously and then turned to his commanding officer. "What does he mean by that? It almost sounds like he's calling the plays."
"He is, in a sense," Frag told them, hating to admit it out loud. "But rest assured, we'll get the job done, cleanly and professionally, no matter who is officially in charge."
"I can't say that I like the idea of taking orders from this round-eyes, Colonel," said Khiem. "You are the only white man that I trust. All the rest are lower than cow dung, in my opinion."
"I love you, too, Khiem," grinned Skeeter. He spat tobacco juice on the hay-strewn earth of the barn floor, then blew a wet kiss in the Cambodian's direction.
Khiem's hand flashed out, sending a shuriken arcing across the table. The Texan anticipated the move, however, and dodged the weapon. The eight-pointed star missed his right ear by mere centimeters and stuck in the planks of the barn wall beyond.
Dellhart seemed amused by the violent horseplay. "All I ask of you gentlemen is to earn the money I'm paying you. For the most part, I'll simply be there to observe. And just to show you what a stand-up-guy I am, I'll sweeten the pot a bit. Fifty thousand dollars extra to the first man to locate the meddler that we're after. Sound fair enough?"
Lopez smiled. "More than fair, Señor Dellhart. For a bonus like that, I would follow a gringo like you to the fires of hell and back."
"Speak for yourself," grumbled Jamal. "I trust the white man about as much as Khiem does."
Frag Hendrix didn't like the direction that the discussion was taking. As he had first suspected, the presence of Dellhart was putting them on edge. "Let's get something straight. I don't want to hear any more talk about who you prefer to trust and mistrust. We've been an exceptional mercenary force for a number of years now. We're different cogs of the same killing machine and you know as well as I do that one can't work without the trust and support of the other. So I don't want to hear any more conflict concerning the execution of this operation, do you understand me?"
Jamal, Khiem, and Lopez nodded quietly in response to Hendrix's r
eprimand, while Skeeter sat back in his chair and grinned like a brier-eating mule. "That's right, Colonel. Tell these pushy minorities to shape up or ship out."
"And you," grated Frag, directing his slate gray eyes at the lanky pilot. "You'd do good to keep your trap shut, before someone cuts your freaking tongue out and crams it down your troublemaking throat."
Skeeter's cocky grin faded. He regarded his superior sullenly, but said nothing in reply.
"Okay, I want you to outfit your respective teams with the gear and weapons they'll need for the assault, then assemble them in the compound. I'll go over the game plan once again for their benefit. Then we'll head out."
The three squad leaders saluted, then left the barn to prepare their troops for battle. Skeeter followed at a safe distance, heading for the helicopters to run a final safety and weapons check.
"You make my men nervous, pretty boy," Frag told Dellhart as he lit himself a cigar. "And you make me nervous, too. In my opinion, you have absolutely no business being on that mountain during the operation."
Dellhart's easy smile turned into a hard grimace of sudden anger. "I bought that damned mountain, Colonel, so I'm certainly entitled to be there when you and your military misfits start shooting the place up. Besides, I have to look out for my interests. How do I know that clown from Texas won't get trigger-happy and blow half of PaleDoveMountain to smithereens with that armed chopper of his?"
Frag Hendrix glared at the smirking man in the polo shirt and dark shades. "Don't worry about my men, Dellhart. They'll do what needs to be done." He matched the man's smile with one of his own. It was a cold, contemptuous smile that matched the flinty glint of his eyes. "Anyway, you ought to worry about your own self while you're up there. A lot of assholes like you died by deliberate 'friendly fire' in Nam. I'd probably have busted a cap on you myself back in '68, but you bought your way out of it. This time, however, you might just have bought yourself into it. So watch your back. You never know when an old enemy might be sighting down on you."
