bought on the gray market, in a different town than the pistol, the shotgun was not as good a piece as the more expensive makes that used double-rail slide actions. Having only a single connector from the pump, which was less efficient in case of a jam, the weapon held five rounds — his preference was for #4 buckshot — but it had the short-barreled configuration the Americans called a riot gun, and was close enough to what he wanted when he went looking.
He could have bought a good hunting rifle and scope to increase his range. If, however, somebody wanted to assassinate him from five hundred meters out with their own high-powered rifle, he had better ways of dealing with that than a long-distance sniper duel. He had circled the trailer at ranges where a good shooter could see and hit him, and there were only a few places with a proper line of sight on his home. He had marked these and installed at these places certain defenses. Of course, they could take him while he was away from the trailer, but one could only cover so many contingencies.
Last night, he had cleaned and oiled both guns, then loaded them with fresh ammunition. He had also loaded four spare magazines for the.22, and he had ten extra shells for the twelve-gauge in loops on a belt he could strap around his waist. If he had to use the shotgun to defend himself, the situation would be close-quarters, bad, and he probably wouldn't get a chance to reload; still, one could not be certain. At that point, it would likely be a matter of selling himself as dearly as possible. He might lose, but if he could help it, the winner would not leave untouched.
He had done what he could. He could have tried to run, but it was probably too late for that. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and he was as ready as he was going to get. Now it was a matter of waiting.
He was good at that, waiting. Right now, he would get some sleep. He might not get the chance again for a time. Or ever.
He moved to his bed, set the shotgun and pistol on the floor nearby, and, next to them, a small radio transmitter. He stretched out. He took several deep breaths, relaxed as much as he was able, and, in a few minutes, fell asleep.
He dreamed of Anna.
Chapter 9
'How far?' Howard said.
'About twenty minutes,' Fernandez said.
'Turn the air conditioner down a couple of notches; it's not that hot.'
Fernandez said, 'But you don't want to let the heat get ahead of you out here, John. Probably be ninety by noon, and you know how these trucks suck up the sun.'
'If this goes as planned, we'll be on a plane for D.C. by noon.'
'Never hurts to be prepared,' the sergeant offered.
Howard shook his head. He and Fernandez were alone in the command car, a sand-colored Humvee Special. 'Automatic transmission, power steering, air-conditioning, and you're worried about staying ahead of the heat? You're getting soft in your old age, Julio.'
'Perhaps the general would prefer to ride in his horse-drawn carriage next time? I'm sure old Nelly would be more to the general's liking.'
'Well, at least she wouldn't complain about the heat.' 'And you could limber up your buggy whip if she did. One of many in your front closet, I am sure.'
Howard smiled. 'Okay, let's hear it again.'
Fernandez shot a quick glance heavenward. 'Sir. We've got three two-man teams — that is to say, two-
Howard nodded. 'All right.'
Fernandez caught the edge of his worry. 'What, John? You and I could go in and grab this sucker by ourselves — and you could stay in the car. It's just one guy, no matter how good he might be.'
'Probably what the Germans thought about Sergeant York,' Howard said.
'Jesus. You worry way too much.' Fernandez clicked the AC control down a couple of notches. 'Maybe your brain is froze. So how did Tyrone do in the boomerang thing?'
It was not the most artful change of subject he'd ever heard, but probably Julio was right, he ought not to be worrying about this one guy in the desert. Go in with the protocols, hit their marks, and it would be a big anticlimax, they'd drag the guy in and let the headshrinkers go to work on him. 'Came in third.'
'Really? That's pretty good for his first time, isn't it?'
'Yes, it is. Beat his personal best, and he was prouder of that than he was the placing.'
'He should be. You're not so bad a father — for an old guy. I might have a few questions for you once I change my own status in that arena.'
Howard smiled. He could imagine the first time Julio and Joanna's baby ran an unexpected fever, or spit up something green, or got colic. He'd made a few of those panicky late-night calls to his mother back when Tyrone had been a newborn.
'Something funny, John?'
'Oh, yeah. You at two in the morning with a crying baby. I'm going to have Joanna video it.'
Howard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was normal operation jitters, he always got them before the guns went to lock and load. Maybe if he'd been in a real war zone with some battlefield experience under his belt, it would be different. He was sure it must be.
Jay Gridley sat in a motorized wheelchair, staring at two men playing Ping-Pong. His idea of lying around for weeks in a hospital if something happened to you was apparently behind the times. They had guys who'd had heart surgery
His parents were on the way to see him. They'd be here this afternoon, and he wasn't really looking forward to that. They'd be upset and wanting to take care of him, and he… he… uh…
What had he just been thinking?
Another surge of fear washed over him, coating him with another layer of sticky sweat. The physical thing, that was bad, yeah, but they said that would respond to treatment, and in a few weeks, he'd be his old self, could walk, talk, do the funky chicken; but his mind didn't seem to be working right. He kept running his thoughts together into a big hodgepodge, a slipsum, and then losing them altogether.
That scared the hell out of him. He could interface with VR with a bad arm and leg, hell, with no arms or legs at all, but if his brain didn't… if his brain didn't…
He was afraid, and for a moment, he didn't even know why he was afraid, but then it came back. His mind. His brain. His thoughts weren't tracking. It was like trying to do calculus as you were falling asleep. You couldn't concentrate, couldn't keep the train on the track, couldn't… couldn't hold on to it!
He had to get to a VR set and get on-line. He had to see if he could still do the most important thing in all the world. It wasn't just his job, it was his life. He couldn't imagine himself without being able to access computers.
