Hernandez was pleased to see that his people continued to look ready, jumpy but ready, and he caught a few words of the hollering over in 2 now. “Up! Shut up so I can!”
They were shouting at each other to be quiet so they could listen for helicopters. Absolutely ridiculous. They needed radar, but all they had were two more binoculars, their naked eyes, and the broken land itself. The mountains channeled sound but also confused it, continuing to echo with the dull hammer of the jets. Hernandez scanned out across the upheaval of black spaces and snow and earth. The hazy sky. Nothing.
* * * *
Forty minutes later he’d given the order to stand down as well as calling in his two lookouts. He was out of position himself. He could have kept his scouts in place but it was shit work, missing hot coffee and food. That was a leader’s prerogative.
Hernandez had climbed up to the saddle of rock at the top of the mountain with his binoculars and a walkie- talkie, hoping for some clue down in the valleys around Leadville. Instead, there was movement far out to the east, a single cargo plane accompanied by a single jet.
At this distance, even the larger C-17 was little more than a dot, but Hernandez recognized the speed and shape of it.
He thumbed his send button and said, “McKay, call in for orders. I have a C-17 and an F-35 coming out of the east. Tell them we’re weapons tight. Permission to ‚re?”
The ’talkie crackled. “Aye, sir.”
Hernandez didn’t really have any chance at the planes. He estimated their range at twenty-‚ve miles, although that might shrink to twenty if they continued in toward Leadville. Even if he’d brought a missile launcher, the surface-to-air Stingers had a max range of three miles. Still, he knew that a request to go weapons free would get a response.
It came in less than a minute. The ’talkie hissed again and McKay said, “Hold ‚re. Hold ‚re. They say it’s a Russian envoy, sir. He’s on our side. It sounds like there was some harassment from the breakaways out over the Midwest, that’s why our jets went to meet him.”
“All right. Thank you.”
So the other ‚ghters were providing a protective curtain far to the north. Hernandez felt a moment of empathy for the pilots. There was nowhere to eject if they were hit. Even when they were okay, they rode a tightrope above a world of ruins and death. For once he was glad to be on this mountain.
The two planes passed over the Continental Divide. The C-17 began to descend as its ‚ghter escort pulled ahead. Hernandez couldn’t see the marsh †ats north of Leadville, but he’d watched enough to learn that the long highway had become one of the main runways for local forces. Leadville command seemed to be bringing the C-17 there, rather than using the short strip at the county airport south of town.
Suddenly the cargo plane dipped hard and Hernandez tensed against the frozen ground. Then the plane leveled out again, as if someone grabbed the controls. It circled uncertainly, casting left and right like a bird that had just opened its eyes. It †ew like a different plane altogether. After the violence of its nosedive and the new way the aircraft handled, Hernandez did not doubt that a different pilot sat in the cockpit — and the real proof was in the change of †ight path. The C-17 was already drifting toward the city.
The ‚ghter was more than a mile in front but accelerated into a long, high loop, trying to swing back and catch the larger, slower plane. Too late.
Hernandez stared for one instant, his ‚ngers clenched on his binoculars. Was it a September 11th style attack? A heavy transport might destroy several blocks in the downtown area, but how could the Russians be sure that it mattered? Unless they got the leadership, it would a critical strike but not a deathblow. Unless the plane was loaded with explosives or worse. Some sort of nanotech?
A cold sheet of horror propelled him up from the ground and he turned to run, glancing back despite himself. His gaze fell brie†y to the miles of up-and-down terrain between himself and Leadville and then Frank Hernandez sprinted away, screaming into his walkie-talkie.
“Cover!
13
In downtown Leadville, Nikola Ulinov emerged from a Chevy Suburban into the sound of aircraft. He carefully ignored it. His head wanted to turn up toward the distant thrum of jet turbines, but he kept his gaze on the sidewalk as he followed Senator Kendricks and General Schraeder from the car. It wasn’t so dif‚cult. The sound was everywhere, rolling from the mountains, and he didn’t need to look. He knew what was coming.
“This way, Ambassador,” said a young man in a trim blue suit. Pale and clean-shaven, the senator’s aide had obviously never spent much time outside in this high place, and the lack of a beard was its own signal.
The men surrounding Ulinov all shared this luxury, like a uniform. It was the one thing in common between the security units that had accompanied Kendricks and Schraeder to the small plaza in front of city hall. The four civilian agents wore dark suits and carried only sidearms, whereas the two Army Rangers were in camou†age and boots and carried ri†es, but they were all smooth-faced and none of them had that painful thinness he’d seen in so many other survivors.
“Well, it looks pretty good,” Kendricks announced, surveying the bright ribbons and †ags that decorated the plaza.
The lead agent said, “Yes, sir.” But he was glancing over the rooftops, where soldiers stood in pairs in clear view. There would be snipers tucked into key spots as well.
So far as Ulinov knew, today was only the second time since the plague year that the top levels of the U.S. government would appear in public together. The layers of protection around this spot were intense. There hadn’t been any need to come in two Suburbans. They could have walked. The city had been shut down and the streets were empty, except for the armor and machine guns at key intersections.
“Nice day for it, too,” Kendricks said, directing a grim smile at Ulinov.
Ulinov only nodded. Kendricks seemed exceptionally pleased and was early for his little ceremony. He wanted to make this place his own before the Russian envoys were driven in from the air‚eld. The scene was well-crafted. Kendricks had transformed himself to match. He’d put away his cowboy out‚t and donned a business suit instead, keeping his string tie but giving up his white hat, exposing his rich brown hair to the sun and the cool hint of a breeze.
The squat face of the city building had been lined with red, white, and blue bunting. In the open square in front stood a podium, four cameras, two clumps of folding chairs, and the beginnings of a crowd. There were the ‚lm crews and select media. Ulinov also saw a small pack of children with three teachers who’d wisely decided to keep the kids busy by talking to an Air Force general in dress blues.
Kendricks moved away from his Suburban in a phalanx of men. Ulinov limped after the group. Kendricks didn’t look back, but Schraeder extended his hand to Ulinov’s elbow.
“We’re all the way in front,” Schraeder said gently.
Ulinov nodded again, lost in his thoughts. As if it was possible to hide from the drone of the plane.
He looked exactly like these privileged men, he knew, sharp and tidy. That made him surprisingly uncomfortable. Yesterday, Schraeder had sent over two men with scissors, soap, a razor, and new clothes, and little by little it had felt like giving himself up. He didn’t know why. He’d spent a lifetime keeping everything in its place. For a cosmonaut, neatness and details were critical, and yet Ulinov would have preferred to wear his nation’s uniform. There had been more than one in his duffel bag in the
The only thing of lasting importance was his conduct. His heart. His memory. He knew he’d done well, and that helped him control his fear. More and more, he’d taken refuge in his past, recounting the people and places of his life, his father and sister and the simple comfort of home, his girlfriends, the magni‚cent killing beauty of space. He was glad Ruth wasn’t here. He would have liked to listen to her tease him about his haircut and his suit, but the
