Even while holding the edges of his throat together, Jose Marti Cross refused to shame his Cheyenne mother. But when he nodded his head, his entire upper torso nodded too.
'Yes, the motherfucker has
Quantrill pocketed Sanger's weapon using the garrote one-handed as a leash, then rolled carefully into the side hatch. Sanger needed no encouragement to follow with the loop around her neck. In seconds they were lost from view, re-emerging in the cockpit. For a man who didn't know how to fly a sprint chopper, Howell admitted into his headset, the little shit was doing a lot of things right — and one-handed at that.
The turbines were still warm, tanks nearly full; in another twenty seconds the props were skating the craft away while Cross went into a bloody fetal crouch. In the distance a crash crew sped toward the injured man. Howell: 'He's getting it up, Control. Better pull his plug now; Sanger's as good as dead if he crashes!'
He heard the response in his headset, cursed, drew his chiller, and fired his entire magazine toward the rapidly dwindling aircraft in the futile hope of damaging it. Howell was beginning to think Lon Salter needed that little turncoat alive for interrogation more than he needed Cross and Sanger. Behind him, two of the parked sprint choppers were whistling to life. But both were dead cold — and Ted Quantrill's vehicle was already disappearing to the East. If he was smart, he'd keep low over urban areas as long as possible. It gave Control one more reason not to pull his plug until they'd played the other options out.
CHAPTER 32
'So you'll have to check out the Schreiner ranch for me,' Mills said. 'Do some of your patent screened interviews on old-timers. Take a look at their books; you're good at that, Eve. I wouldn't put it past Blanton Young to steer us into an operation that spends more than it makes on food for giraffes and other exotic animals. If it looks good to you, I'll go down later and take a second look.'
Eve Simpson gnawed her upper lip, studying Mills carefully, nodding only to purchase a few seconds for evaluation. When he came to her office, it was always to study some new media magic — or when he was too agitated to wait for her motorized chaise. Did he have some ulterior motive? For instance, sending her out to a goddam dude ranch to ensure her absence from her own office on some specified day? Well, she could cut those odds. 'I'll have to judge my schedule and let you know when,' she said agreeably. If he demanded some rigid schedule of his own, she would elevate her suspicions another notch.
But: 'No big hurry. In fact, first we've got to let a gaggle of earth scientists scratch around nearby and decide whether to discover oil or a gravel mine,' he sighed. 'I'd say no less than two weeks nor over a month.' Impeccable in summer tans, Boren Mills strode near the great window of Eve's office. It was nearer the street than his own office and gave a more detailed view. Rocking on his heels, stroking his chin: 'I'd go myself if I could afford to leave while Chabrier's juggling his priorities on me. Some things require face-to-face negotiating right here.'
'With IEE's board, or with the Lion of Zion?'
'Both, maybe. I talk to Young nearly every day just to make sure he's still,' — a finger circling like a drill at his temple—'among us. Today he's all excited about his S & R people.'
'Who've they assassinated now,' she said, yawning.
'Nailed one of their own rovers,' Mills said, amused. 'Young wants to be at the control center when —
During his previous few words, a faint whistle had become a bellow outside. He threw his hands up, ducked and whirled away from the window as the source of the noise thundered past. Eve saw the huge window bow inward, crazing the faint reflection of Mills before it reflexed, returned to normal. Even with the insulation in the IEE tower they were momentarily deafened by the catastrophic roar as a sleek black something missed the tower by scant meters.
'God almighty, what was that?' Mills was erect again, hands pressed against the window, straining to see while the thundering wail was still audible.
'I don't know, but it was below this floor,' Eve said in awe.
Then, 'I see it,' he said, and chuckled shakily. 'Must be a victory pass or something. It's an S & R sprint chopper, going like a tracer bullet!'
PART II:
CHAPTER 33
Quantrill banked northward toward Brigham City, so near the surface of the Great Salt Lake that his passage ruffled the steel-tinted wavelets. He saw Sanger's desperate gestures, backhanded the air to stop her.
He whipped the Loring around, nodding, and eased up on the turn as Sanger clawed to keep from tumbling into his lap. She squeezed his arm in camaraderie. Only then did they shrug into their harnesses.
Then in his mastoid he heard, 'Report, Q. Report, Q.'
'So you can follow my signal in a stealthy bird?'
'Affirm, Q. Presidential directive: Q's programs will be cancelled the moment he reaches Idaho.'
It made sense; he didn't doubt they'd do it and wondered why they hadn't already. 'You have a link with The Man, do you?' Meanwhile he steepened his bank again, judged his sweep over Ogden would clear the IEE tower.
The President is in Control center,' said his mastoid primly. 'He wants to avoid further violence. You must leave us viable choices, Q. Is your hostage conscious?'
Quantrill glanced toward Sanger, whose hands were saying,
'She may be possuming, Control. With my loop around her neck I don't blame her. Walloped her head on the cowl but she's a tough bitch. I don't trust her. One word from her and I'll shorten her a little.' He fought the sideslip, believed for an instant that he had delayed for a fatal fraction of a second. With six tons of black comet hurtling through an absolutely vertical bank, he skimmed past the IEE tower, then eased back on the throttles. 'Maybe I should kamikaze into you, Control.'
'If you knew where we were.'
'Maybe I do,' he said.
'We'd like to talk about that, Q. You're too valuable to waste. But if we can't raise S. soon you'll be less valuable.'
'Why not call us by names, Control, you miserable jilloff.' He was planning furiously. He'd have more time aloft if he kept the sprint chopper at cruise speed — particularly if he stayed over population centers.
Loudly, over the turbine wail, he said, 'Sanger, report!' His free hand said,
She groaned, 'Go to hell, Quantrill,' and signaled him to continue on his course. Below them was the unbroken urban sprawl that had been well underway when Salt Lake City became the heart of Streamlined America, and which now spread from Brigham City to Nephi. He nodded. His readout showed something less than a two-hour fuel supply.
'You get no more from Sanger. I just tightened my loveknot to remind her,' Quantrill said aloud, watching Sanger rifle the map compartment for hard-copy air navigation charts.
'We don't have to be nice. For example,' said Control, as a tone began in his head. No, a cacophony of tones. Its effect was something like a squalling infant dragging its nails over slate while running a power saw. It
