The Shimmer (30 page)

Feeling the heat of a bullet nicking his ear, Brent rushed to Anita and dragged her to the front of the van, out of the guard's sight. A month earlier, he'd done a story about a gunfight between three bank robbers and a solitary policeman. The policeman had survived because he'd taken cover behind the front of his cruiser, behind the engine, which--Brent was told--could stop just about any bullet.

"Anita. Anita."

He was relieved to find that she was conscious, but immediately he registered just how wide her eyes were and how rapidly she was blinking in pain. Her dark skin was pale. When he'd dragged her, she'd left a trail of blood on the dirt. The jagged wound in her upper arm was wide, and deep enough to show bone.

She'll bleed to death.

Brent almost threw up.

Straining to remember what he'd learned in a long-ago emergency first-aid class, Brent tugged off his necktie and twisted it around the top of Anita's left arm, above the wound. One of the instructors had insisted, Improvise. Sweating, he knotted the tie, pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, and shoved it under the tie. He twisted the pen, tightening the cloth enough to restrict the flow of blood.

"This'll make your arm partly numb." He remembered a doctor telling him that. "It might help with the pain, too."

"God, I hope so." Anita bit her lip.

The shooting stopped. Amid a hot breeze, Brent smelled burned gunpowder. Struggling not to panic, he peered around the front of the van. At the open door to the shed, the guard dropped a magazine from the bottom of the rifle and inserted a new one. The man's face was twisted into a grimace that suggested he was in pain. He finished reloading, looked in Brent's direction, and fired toward the van's rear tires. Again there were sparks and a spray of metallic fragments as the fences deflected many of the bullets, but enough got through to shred the tires. Brent heard them exploding.

The rear of the van sank.

We're going to die, he thought.

No matter how quickly his chest heaved, he couldn't seem to get enough air. He imagined the guard throwing their bodies into the back of the truck with the others. Frantic, he yanked his cell phone from his belt and hit the buttons, but when he held the phone to his left ear, he moaned. All he heard was dead air.

The expression made him taste bile. Dead air.

"I bet I can guess what you're doing!" the guard yelled. "You're trying to use your cell phone! Save yourself the trouble! It won't work!

There isn't any civilian service this far out!"

"My boss knows we came here!" Brent shouted back. "He'll send people to look for us!"

"When they see the sign, they'll have brains enough not to trespass on government property! How long will your boss wait before he wonders where you are? Two hours? Three? If people do come here looking for you, by then--believe me--they won't find you!"

Brent flinched as the guard fired another volley. More of the bullets got past the metal in the three fences and shattered the van's rear windows.

"Don't you wish you'd obeyed the sign?" the guard yelled. "I warned you, didn't I? I said you'd be prosecuted! Hey, Mr. Big Deal Reporter, I've got a question for you!"

"Ask me anything!" Brent hoped to stall for time.

"Did you go to announcers' school or something like that?"

What the hell . . . ? Brent had no choice except to humor the guy.

Anything was better than being shot at.

"Yes, I have a college degree in broadcasting!"

"That's what I figured! You had to have learned it! No one could be born that full of shit!"

The guard shot more holes in the back of the van.

Brent heard liquid splashing onto the ground. His nostrils felt pinched by the odor of gasoline streaming from holes in the fuel tank.

At once he heard something else--the drone of a distant engine.

Somebody's coming. We'll get help. He stared down the lane that led to the road, but he didn't see an approaching dust cloud.

The drone became closer and louder, growing into a rumble.

In the air. He turned in the direction of the lowering sun and saw the dark silhouette of a helicopter speeding toward the observatory.

Thank God, he thought.

The guard must have seen it, too. "I'll deal with you in a little while, Mr. Television Reporter!"

Mouth dry from fear, Brent eased his head around the side of the van and saw the guard vanish into the darkness of the doorway. The building was so small that Brent concluded there had to be stairs leading underground.

The last time the guard had gone back inside, he'd returned with an assault rifle. Brent hated to imagine what he would bring next.

Movement made him turn. Groaning, Anita managed to come to a sitting position and prop herself against the front of the van.

"I can't drive with this arm." She cradled it in pain. "The key's in my right pants pocket." Sweat trickled down her cheeks. "Let's get out of here while he's distracted."

Brent fumbled inside her pocket and pulled out the key. He also took the knife she'd returned to that pocket. He had no idea what to do with it. Even so, he shoved it into his pants.

Anita struggled to get to her feet.

Brent moved to help, putting an arm around her, guiding her to the side of the van. His rapid breathing was hoarse as he shoved her up into the passenger seat. He shut the door, trying to minimize the noise, and raced around to the driver's side. Fear made his legs un steady when he climbed behind the steering wheel. His trembling fingers had trouble inserting the ignition key.

Come on! Finally it slipped in.

He twisted the key, feeling a surge of triumph when the engine roared to life. Abruptly his sense of triumph turned to panic. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the guard rushing from the doorway. The rifle the man held had something thick mounted under the barrel.

Brent stomped the accelerator and felt the flat rear tires try to gain traction. The wheel rims dug into the ground, spraying a dust cloud.

He couldn't see the guard.

Maybe the dust'll keep him from aiming!

The van lurched forward sluggishly.

"Ease off on the gas. You're spinning the wheels," Anita found the strength to tell him.

Brent obeyed. The van responded, gaining more distance from the observatory. In the rearview mirror, he saw the dust settling and caught a glimpse of the guard raising the rifle to his shoulder. Above the sound of the van's engine, he heard the helicopter roaring closer, coming in to land.

The van moved a little faster down the lane, its flat rear wheels fighting the dirt.

Frantic, Brent glanced at the rearview mirror again. The guard suddenly changed the direction in which he aimed. He turned west, toward the rumble of the approaching helicopter. In silhouette, the object attached to the rifle's barrel seemed thicker.

Brent stared to his right, past Anita, toward the massive shape of the chopper, which was close enough that he could see the faint shape of the pilot's face through the canopy. He switched his gaze toward the rearview mirror and saw the rifle buck as if it had been fired. Something flew from the object mounted under the barrel.

The front of the chopper exploded. As the shock wave rocked the van, the fireball of a second explosion--perhaps from fuel tanks--tore the aircraft apart. Wreckage flew in all directions. Chunks of rotors, sections of fuselage, fragments of engines crashed onto the dirt. Smoke billowed. Grass started burning. A flaming skeleton of the fuselage hit the ground and rolled, crushing a section of fence.

"Madre de Dios," Anita said in shock.

The speedometer showed fifteen miles an hour, probably as fast as the van would go with shredded rear tires and wheel rims grinding into the dirt.

"We're going to make it," she managed to say.

Brent glanced toward the rearview mirror again and felt pressure in his chest, seeing the guard turn toward the van to realign his aim.

"Anita, brace yourself."

Brent saw the rifle jerk upward. Something rushed from the launcher mounted under the rifle's barrel.

Another shock wave rocked the van. In the rearview mirror, Brent saw an explosion tear up dirt.

"We're far enough away!" Brent shouted. "Yes, we're going to make it!"

The words caught in his throat when he saw flames erupt behind the van.

The bullet holes in the fuel tank, he realized. We're leaving a trail of gasoline.

His bladder let loose when the flames began to chase the van.

"No!"

The rear of the van heaved as the flames reached the fuel that streamed from the holes in the tank. The impact wasn't like the grenade explosions. It didn't produce a loud roar. It didn't tear the back of the van apart. It was violent nonetheless, filling the rearview mirror with an image of erupting smoke and flames.

Brent stomped the brakes. As the flames spread forward, he was relieved to see Anita muster the strength to open the passenger door and drop to the ground. He shoved the driver's door open, jumped out, and hurried around to where she'd landed. She was on one knee, struggling to stand.

He grabbed her and lunged toward a furrow, collapsing, pushing her down.

The flames spread toward the middle of the van.

"Need the camera," Brent said.

"Don't take the chance. You'll be hit."

His heart pounded so violently that he was certain it would burst against his ribs. He surged upright, sprinted to the van's side door, and shoved it open. Flames licked at him as he grabbed the camera.

Something snapped past him. A bullet.

Coughing from the smoke, he crouched and ran, holding the camera with both arms. Another bullet snapped past him. He reached the furrow and protected the camera by falling onto his back.

"You're a fool." Anita stared through wide eyes and looked paler.

"My mother always thought so."

He pushed the record button and pointed the camera toward the burning van, panning from the fiery back of it until he reached the front seats, which burst into flames. Then he got a close shot of the shredded rear tire on his side of the van, the fire beginning to melt it. The smoke spread dramatically.

"You've been shot," Anita said.

"Where?"

"Your right ear."

Brent reached up and touched the wound, feeling the slippery blood and the gash on his earlobe.

"Blood's streaming down your neck and onto your shoulder," she murmured.

"Good. If I help you position the camera, do you think you can get a shot of it?"

"You really are crazy."

"You expect me to just wait here and do nothing while he tries to kill us? The camera's the only weapon I have. I'm going to record as much of what's happening as I can. If we get out of this, this'll be the story of a lifetime." The word "lifetime" made him pause. Desperate to distract himself, he added, "I can win an Emmy for this."

"We."

"What?"

"We can win an Emmy."

"Right." Brent aimed the camera at her, emphasizing the blood that soaked her safari-type jacket. He got a close-up of the tourniquet he'd made for her arm.

The helicopter, he realized. Need to get video of the helicopter while it's still burning.

He squirmed along the furrow until he guessed he was far enough that the guard wouldn't look in that direction. Easing up, he saw the smoke and flames rising from the chopper's wreckage. He aimed the camera's lens and zoomed it toward the part of the fuselage that had crushed a section of the fences.

Yeah, he thought, I'll get an Emmy for this.

He corrected himself. The two of us will get Emmies.

If we live.

Chapter 53.

Sergeant Lockhart drove the motorcycle past the TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED sign and stopped at the gate to the observatory.

To the west, he heard a faraway helicopter. The lowering sun angled toward his eyes and made it difficult for him to distinguish the enlarging speck of the chopper. Presumably it was the Black Hawk that Colonel Raleigh had told him would be delivering more equipment.

So far no problem. Everything was on schedule.

Plus, Lockhart had gotten the chance to enjoy a motorcycle ride.

The truth was, any opportunity to get away from the colonel was enjoyable. The guy had threatened to send him to a war zone, and Lockhart had begun to wonder if maybe that would be preferable to his current assignment. Just about any place would be better than that creepy facility under the abandoned airbase.

Shoot the dog? What the hell was that about?

The sergeant reached into a jeans pocket and pulled out the key the colonel had given him, preparing to free the lock on the gate.

Then he noticed that the barrier felt unsteady. He glanced along it and saw that the opposite end wasn't resting on its hinges.

Frowning, he pushed the gate open. As he guided the motorcycle toward the lane that led to the observatory, a noise made him pause, then crouch protectively. He'd heard the noise many times in Iraq.