Slayne scanned the bleak landscape. “Get in. There might be more of those monstrosities around.”
They gave Billings a wide berth. Later, twice, they spied antelope, but always at a distance. Once they came upon a dog moving stiffly at the side of the highway. Montoya wanted to stop until he saw that most of its hair was gone and it was covered with sores.
Between Bozeman and Butte, as they crossed a barren flat, Slayne braked and got out the binoculars.
“What do you see?” Montoya asked.
Slayne pointed. “You tell me, Ricco.”
To the north was a cloud. Not in the sky, but on the ground. It was green, bright green, so bright it seemed to glow, and it was moving, crawling across the ground as if endowed with a will of its own.
“What is that?”
Slayne didn’t know. It wasn’t much bigger than the Hunster and was heading east, away from them. He resumed driving and commented, “Welcome to our warped new world.”
Roadblocks had been set up around Missoula. A National Guard unit, judging by their uniforms and equipment. Slayne spied them from half a mile out and decided to go around.
The Bitterroot Mountains of eastern Idaho were a pristine wonder. Except for areas of scattered fallout, the Bitterroots were as they had always been. Or so Slayne thought until it occurred to him that there should be more signs of animal life.
They were east of Wallace—and only twenty miles from Smelterville—when they rounded a curve and a crudely made billboard warned Checkpoint Ahead.
Slayne quickly stopped. Several hundred yards down the highway were concrete barriers topped by barbed wire. Heavily armed men moved about behind the barricade. They weren’t in uniform.
“What do we have here?” Montoya wondered.
“To the right of the roadblock is a sign.” Slayne gave him the binoculars. “It explains a lot.”
Montoya read the sign out loud. “WARNING. YOU ARE
ABOUT TO ENTER THE FREE ARYAN NATION. WEAPONS ARE
SUBJECT TO SEIZURE. No DRUGS OR ALCOHOL ARE ALLOWED
BEYOND THIS POINT.”
“Read the fine print at the bottom.”
“No PERSONS OF COLOR ADMITTED.” Montoya lowered the binoculars. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Northern Idaho was an Aryan stronghold before the war.
From here to the Washington border must be their territory now.”
Slayne pondered for a few moments. “A lot of them were survivalists. They mobilized at the outset of the war and I would guess that it was Ben Thomas’s bad luck to run into them.”
“Do you think they killed him?”
“Who knows? The important question is what have they done with the SEAL? We’re not leaving without it.”
Montoya nodded toward the barrier. “Before we can leave we have to get in. And I’ll be damned if they’re confiscating my weapons.”
Slayne shifted into reverse. “They don’t appear to have noticed us yet.”
He backed around the curve and made a U-turn. “Thor, you’re being unusually quiet. What’s going on in that crazy Norse head of yours?”
“A man is more important than a machine.”
The forest bordering the highway was thick, the undergrowth heavy, but Slayne managed to find a rutted track that suited his purpose. He went far enough to ensure the Hunster couldn’t be seen from the road, then stopped. Climbing out, he slid his blue trench coat from over the back of his seat and shrugged into it.
“A little warm for that, isn’t it?” Montoya said.
“I like to sweat.” Slayne hadn’t told anyone the real reason he always wore it. The trench coat was custom-constructed to his specifications. Woven from the newest Kevlar weave, it was so soft and pliable a person would swear it was cotton or wool. Yet it was impervious to small-arms fire.
Montoya went to the rear of the Hunster and swung its back door up. He donned a backpack and a helmet, then passed wafer-thin headsets to Slayne and Anderson. He didn’t need one; his helmet came with an internal com link. He switched it on and tweaked the gain. “Testing. Testing. Are you picking up?”
“Clear as can be,” Slayne said.
Soren adjusted the clip around his ear and nodded. “I hear you.”
Slayne reached in and brought out the MP5. “Listen up. We go in, we find the SEAL if it’s there, and we get out. We avoid contact as much as possible. We don’t want a firefight if we can help it.”
“What about Ben Thomas?” Soren wanted to know.
“More than likely he’s dead by now. We have to focus on getting the SEAL back now.”
Soren frowned.
Slayne slung the MP5 over his shoulder. “From here on out only use code names. When I say Alpha Triad, it means both of you.” He headed back down the track toward the highway.
“Single file,” he snapped into his mouthpiece. “Ten-yard intervals. Ricco, after me. Thor, you bring up the rear. Stay frosty.” “Yes, sir,” Montoya said.
“Thor?” Slayne prompted when there was no response from him.
“I hear you.”
“Then say you do. We’ve been through all this, Anderson. Strict military procedure, remember?” “I’m not reallv a soldier.”
“You better start thinking like one. You’re a Warrior, damn it.
Get that through your thick Norwegian head. Our lives are on the line here. I don’t know about you but I want to make it back to the Home.”
“As do 1.1 have a lovely wife and two fine children. Don’t worry. As the son of Odin does his duty, I’ll do mine.”
“The who?”
“The real Thor. The defender of Asgard and protector of Midgard. The bringer of the storm, the lord of the thunder and lightning.”
“Spare me the mythological garbage and concentrate on the mission.”
“As you wish.”
When they reached the highway they crossed to the other side and paralleled it until they neared the barricade. Flattening, they crawled within earshot.
Slayne counted nine Aryans. Two had SMGs, the rest high-powered rifles.
Several were playing cards. One man was writing on a sheet of papet. No one was paying much attention to the highway.
They were sloppy, this bunch. He could drop half of them before they knew what hit them, but he didn’t. He was about to crawl on when a short
