at the Pike’s Ford CP and printed them out, bringing them along in a folder. They were crude and incomplete but workable as a rough guide to the sugarloaf butte’s underground world. They would be of little use, however, unless a starting point was first found.
Sanchez said, “What exactly are we looking for?”
Jack said, “Anything that might indicate the presence of some or all of Prewitt’s two dozen Zealots in the recent past or right now. For all we know, they could be holed up in some nest up here or nearby. Or down below, in one of the abandoned tunnels. Some of them could be watching us right now.”
A ripple went through the others, causing the squad members to spread out so they wouldn’t be bunched up in one tight target group. Bailey said, “That’s a happy thought.”
Holtz scanned the landscape and shook his head doubtfully. “It sure looks deserted.”
“So did Red Notch last night but there were two killers there, and now a CTU agent is dead.” Jack paused to let that sink in before continuing. “Zealots might be using this as a base, a rendezvous, or a staging area. They might have stored hardware or vehicles here. They might have left a cell behind for security while the others moved on. They might have come here for some unknown purpose on Wednesday night and moved on.”
Holtz said, “They might not have come here at all.”
“It’s possible. But even then this won’t be wasted effort. If Silvertop comes up clean, that’s one possibility we can cross off the list and narrow the search perimeters in the hunt for Prewitt and his crew.”
Anne Armstrong said, “A final word of caution. Silvertop is what’s called an attractive nuisance. It’s a hangout for high school kids and might also harbor squatters and hoboes. So if you see someone suspicious, make sure you know who you’re shooting at before opening fire. We don’t want to accidentally shoot some teens who came up here to get high or make out.”
The team split up into two search groups, one consisting of Jack and Frith, the other of Armstrong, Holtz, and Sanchez. Bailey stayed behind to guard the vehicles and keep watch on the canyon below.
Jack and Frith would start at the southern end of the hilltop and work their way north, Armstrong’s group would begin at the northern end and work south. Jack and the squad leader crossed on a diagonal toward the southwest, a path that skirted the southernmost of the ruins.
The air was still, with barely the breath of a breeze. The sun was moving toward its zenith. Jack hadn’t gone very far before breaking out into a sweat. His face was slick with wetness, and beads of perspiration trickled between his shoulder blades and down his back.
Frith said, “What do you reckon our chances are of finding something?”
Jack said, “I think it’s worth a look or we wouldn’t be out here. We’ve got a witness who saw Prewitt’s blue bus and some other vehicles heading for this vicinity around the time of the disappearance early on Thursday. There’ve been no reported sightings of the convoy west of Dixon Cutoff. The Zealots may not be here now but they might have been here and left evidence that’ll point toward where they went.”
“The area was covered yesterday by search planes. They didn’t turn up anything.”
“As an old GI ground- pounder, I believe there’s no substitute for on-site recon to see things the flyboys might have missed.”
Frith grinned. “I’ve got to agree with you there. I’m ex-infantry myself.”
Jack said, “I’m also a firm believer in taking the high ground.” He pointed to the ridge at the western edge of the bluff. “That should be a good spot for surveying the terrain.”
Bare dirt gave way to weeds that soon reached mid-calf height. Frith said, “Watch out for snakes.” Jack looked to see if he was kidding. Frith was dead serious. He said, “Rattlesnakes like to prowl the tall grass for field mice and other varmints.”
Jack was careful from then on to keep an even warier eye on the ground he trod. Ten minutes’ hiking put him and Frith at the foot of the western ridge. It was a short walk to its low, rounded summit. The far side of the ridge dropped steeply into a deep hollow with a thin trickle of a creek running along the bottom. A higher, more heavily wooded slope rose on the other side.
Jack and Frith stood on the near side of the ridge, below the ridgetop to avoid skylining that would more readily reveal their presence. They faced east toward the ruins on the bluff. Jack took off his sunglasses and slipped them in the left breast pocket of his jacket. The jacket was thin but it still added to the oppressiveness of the heat. He would have liked to have shucked it off but it held his spare clips and loose rounds, and it was worth putting up with a little additional discomfort to have the extra ammo ready to hand. He reminded himself that compared to summer in Baghdad or the Sudan — he’d gone on missions in both — this was brisk, crisp weather.
Sweat stung his eyes and he wiped them against his sleeve in the crook of his arm. The field glasses hung from a strap around his neck. He tilted back the lid of his cap, raised the binoculars to his eyes, peered at a row of ruins, and adjusted the focus, sharpening it to clarity.
He mentally divided the landscape into grid squares and methodically scanned them one by one, working his way along the line of structures from south to north. He saw empty window frames with weeds growing behind them, blackened timbers that were the skeletal remains of a house’s framework, ash heaps, and piles of rubble. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, no deviation from the pattern of abandonment and neglect.
Jack said, “Nothing.” He removed his cap, freed the binocular strap from around his neck, and handed the field glasses to Frith. “Maybe you’ll spot something.”
Frith scanned the scene, studying it long and hard. “Nope.”
“Let’s try it a little further to the north.”
They went north along the ridge. Jack contacted Anne Armstrong via his transceiver headset. She reported that so far her results were negative, too.
Jack and Frith halted some fifty yards north of their first position. Jack pointed the optics at a new section of the scene and resumed his methodical grid square survey of the ghost town.
More of the same unrolled itself through the twin lenses until he came to the shell of a long, shedlike structure whose long axis ran east-west. Its short, western wall was mostly intact but slanted inward at a forty- five-degree angle. The part of its north wall he could see was also tilted inward at an acute angle. The southern side was no wall at all but a heaped- up woodpile that was holding up a section of the collapsed roof.
There was something vaguely off and out of place about the ruin’s outline that caught his attention, prompting him to give it a closer study. The roof, what there was of it, which wasn’t much, was broken into sections that stuck out of the heap at odd angles.
There was a hole in the south side of the roof. It was covered with what looked like a canvas tarp. The fabric was a tan, sandy-gray color. It would have been hard to see from ground level on the bluff, and even from the elevated vantage point of the ridge, he had to look twice to make sure what he was seeing.
He looked a third time and still saw it. He handed the field glasses to Frith. “Take a look at the roofline on the south side and tell me what you see.”
Frith peered at the shed, the lower half of his face impassive below the binoculars. He fiddled with the focus knob and looked some more. “There’s a covering on the roof… a tarpaulin of some sort.”
Jack said, “Who puts a tarp on an old ruin? Somebody who wants to hide something inside, maybe.”
Frith lowered the field glasses and looked at Jack. Jack said, “Let’s go see.”
He took the field glasses and slipped the strap on around his neck. He and Frith started downhill, angling toward the shed. Jack said, “Let’s make sure it’s not a false alarm before alerting the others.”
Frith nodded, said, “Right.” He’d been carrying his M–16 so that its barrel pointed at the ground; now he held it level but off to the side. Jack reached inside his jacket to give his gun butt a little nudge, adjusting it in the holster so it would come free easier if he needed it in a hurry.
They came down on the flat and made for the shed’s southwest corner. Each step closer made it more evident that a tarp was fixed to part of the roof. Its tan, sandy color was much like the terrain at the top of the bluff — surely no coincidence. The ground around the shed was churned up with a lot of tire tracks, ruts, and broken earth.
Frith suddenly made a wide detour around a patch of ground. Jack froze, said, “Snake?”
Frith shook his head, showed a toothy grin. “Bear scat.”
Jack took a closer look. The ground was littered with animal droppings. A sizable pile, not human. He said, “You can tell they’re bear?”
Frith said, “Hell, yeah. I grew up in these parts and I live here now. The bear population has been allowed to grow until now they’re a real nuisance. They’re not afraid of humans and they like the taste of people’s garbage
