The Shimmer (35 page)

"The plane's blowing dust!" the reporter shouted from the back. "I can't see the guard!"

Which means the guard can't see the plane, Page thought. But that won't stop him from shooting toward us.

Their speed reached fifty-five knots. Page pulled back the yoke and felt the aircraft leave the ground. He stayed low, wanting to gain more speed before he went higher. Right now distance was the key, not height. When he thought he'd gone a sufficient distance, he eased farther back on the yoke and pointed the plane's nose toward the horizon.

He was abruptly aware that his shirt was soaked with sweat.

"Tori, take the controls."

He put on his headset. It muffled the engine's roar as he activated the radio system.

"Taking back the controls," he said.

He couldn't contact Medrano on the police radio. After all, his excuse for entering the prohibited airspace was that the police radio had failed. Instead he used the plane's standard radio. Although Rostov's airport didn't have a control tower, he hoped someone in the office would hear him.

"Rostov traffic. Cessna Four Three Alpha has an injured passenger.

A gunshot victim. We need an ambulance at the airport. My ETA is five minutes. Rostov."

"I hear you, Four Three Alpha," a voice said through Page's headset. It belonged to the man in the frayed coveralls who'd given Page his rental-car papers. "I'll get that ambulance."

Page tilted his head toward the reporter in back. "How is she?"

"Unconscious. But it looks like the duct tape sealed the wound."

To Page's right, the stock pens outside Rostov came into view, as did the courthouse on the main street. People and vehicles seemed everywhere, exploring the town before night settled and they went to the viewing area.

He descended toward the airport northeast of town, but not before he took a hard look at the collapsed, rusted hangars and the cracked, overgrown airstrip on the abandoned military airbase in the opposite direction. There wasn't any sign of the vehicles he'd seen on the base the evening before. Beyond the ruin of the airbase, he frowned toward the boulders that looked like giant cinders strewn in a chaotic semicircle, all that remained of the volcanic rim that had spewed them to the surface eons earlier.

Chapter 60.

Lockhart lay on the ground and spoke into the radio.

"The plane's taking off. There's a lot of dust, but I can see that the guard's still running and firing."

"Shoot the son of a bitch," Raleigh's voice ordered.

"I'm not within accurate range, sir."

"Get closer."

"Yes, sir." He scanned the sky. "It looks like the plane escaped."

"By tomorrow there'll be no way to contain this. If I hadn't put a quarantine on that place, there'd be police cars all over there by now.

I don't want anybody guessing what that facility really does. After you take care of the guard, destroy all the equipment in the observatory.

Make it look as if he did it."

"Yes, sir."

Remaining low, Lockhart watched the guard continue firing toward the departing airplane--he kept squeezing the trigger even after he ran out of ammunition. As the lowering sun made the dust look scarlet, the guard glared toward the sky, then turned and took long, angry strides back toward the first of the three fences.

Lockhart was to the guard's right, just behind him and about two hundred yards away. Bullets from an M4 could travel that far, but Lockhart couldn't depend on where they would hit. To stop the guard, rather than merely startle him, he needed to get closer.

Satisfied that he wasn't in the guard's line of vision, he stood, tucked the radio into the duffel bag that hung from his shoulder, picked up his M4, and broke into a run. As the man passed the burning van and got closer to the observatory, Lockhart increased his pace, the duffel bag bumping against his side. His thick-soled shoes crunched on the pebbly soil, but the breeze was blowing in his direction, so the slight sound wouldn't carry.

He couldn't allow the man to reach the door to the shed. He strained his legs to their full length. Charging across the scrub grass, he ignored the sweat that dripped from his face.

The guard reached the first gate.

Lockhart raced nearer.

The guard reached the second gate.

Lockhart had seen the difficulty that the guard had experienced when trying to shoot through the three fences. Continuing to rush forward, he simultaneously veered toward the lane.

Need to shoot through the open gates, he thought.

A hundred yards.

Abruptly the guard stopped walking toward the tiny building.

Does he hear me? Lockhart worried.

The guard turned, but instead of looking in Lockhart's direction, he came back and reached for the first open gate. As he started to close it, he froze at the sight of Lockhart racing toward the lane.

Lockhart stopped, raised the M4, fought to control his breathing, and leveled the rifle's sights on the target. His exertion made his arms unsteady. Years of combat training enabled him to brace his muscles and keep the barrel from wavering.

The guard raised his weapon and tried to shoot first, but nothing happened--he'd used all his ammunition when he'd fired at the airplane. He turned and ran toward the middle gate.

Lockhart pulled the trigger. The selector switch on his rifle was set to deliver bursts of three shots. The first group missed. He took a deep breath, held it, and fired again.

The guard lurched but kept running. He passed through the second gate and headed toward the final one, each frenzied step taking him farther away, making him a more difficult target.

Lockhart fired another burst, and again the guard seemed to lurch.

But he made it past the open-backed truck, disappearing into the darkness beyond the shed's open door.

Cursing, Lockhart fired into the void of the door. His ammunition ran out, so he ejected the empty magazine, pulled a fresh one from his duffel bag, slammed it home, freed the bolt, and fired yet again through the open door.

Then he realized how out in the open he was and what an excellent target he made now that the guard had been given the opportunity to reload. He darted to the left of the lane, stopping where the three lines of fences provided some cover, and dropped to the ground, making himself a smaller target.

Unfortunately, while the fences gave him some protection, potentially deflecting bullets, they also protected the guard.

Lockhart studied the open door.

I hit him twice. I'm almost positive. He's probably bleeding to death in there.

The void taunted him.

Sure. It's just a matter of time. I'll wait for a while and let him bleed out. After that, there'll be no problem getting inside.

Right. No problem.

Abruptly the door was slammed shut.

In the weakening light, Lockhart stared at it. Cautiously he stood, walked to the lane, and went through the three open gates. He looked for blood on the lane but didn't see any.

I didn't hit him after all. He just stumbled.

Aiming his weapon, he approached the closed door. It was solid metal. Yesterday, when he'd arrived with Colonel Raleigh and the team, he'd noticed how thick it was. He had no doubt that it locked automatically, just as he had no doubt that similar thick metal lined the entire concrete structure. The pad next to the door would require a specific sequence to unlock it, and it wouldn't matter if the colonel knew the numbers that had been used yesterday--the guard would almost certainly have changed that sequence by now.

Even if I had grenades, I wouldn't be able to get through that door, Lockhart thought.

He studied the ground again but didn't see any blood.

He walked to the open-backed truck and smelled the corpses before he saw them.

To vent his frustration, he shot the security camera above the door and a security camera on one of the fence poles. There were plenty of others to destroy, and he did so, one after the other. Now the guard wouldn't be able to see what he was doing, but the destruction didn't really accomplish anything because Lockhart had no way of getting inside.

The colonel isn't going to be happy.

Lockhart waited several seconds before making himself reach for the two-way radio in the duffel bag.

Chapter 61.

Page landed as softly as he could, keeping the nose wheel off the ground as long as possible so the injured woman wouldn't feel a jolt.

He taxied from the runway toward the airport's adobe office, where the man in frayed coveralls stood waiting.

After shutting off the engine, Page quickly got out, tilted the seat forward, and eased the woman from the back seat. She remained unconscious.

The man in the coveralls rushed to help.

"The ambulance is on the way," he said as they set her gently on the pavement, using the Cessna's shadow to keep her out of the sun.

Page heard the wail of approaching sirens.

"The Highway Patrol's on its way, too," the man said.

Page didn't look forward to that conversation.

Tori and the reporter joined them.

Tinted by the red light of the sunset, the reporter faced him.

"I didn't get a chance to introduce myself." He had the television camera on his shoulder, and it took some effort for him to hold it with his left arm while he extended his right hand. The sleeve of his suit coat was torn. "Brent Loft."

"I know who you are," Page said.

Loft missed his tone, evidently pleased that Page recognized him.

"And I certainly know who you are."

"Excuse me?" Page asked.

"You have red hair," Loft said, turning to Tori. "You're the couple I've been looking for--Daniel and Victoria Page, from Santa Fe. I've done my homework. You stopped the shootings on Thursday night."

"Is that camera still on?" Page asked.

"It's worthless if it isn't."

Page had been through so much that his emotions nearly overwhelmed him. His need to shield Tori almost made him yank the camera from Loft's hands and hurl it onto the concrete.

The approaching sirens helped him keep control.

He took a deep breath.

"Can't this wait? It's not something we want to talk about right now. We saved your life. With luck, we got your friend back here in time. Isn't that worth something? Give us a break."

Loft glanced in the direction of his unconscious companion and nodded. As he turned back to Tori, the sirens wailed closer.

"I have only one question."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Really. Just one question."

"What is it?" Tori demanded. "I'm tired of hiding from you. Let's get this over with."

"I can understand how your husband was able to do what he did. He's a professional, trained to take charge in emergencies. But you're a real estate agent. In your place, most people would have panicked. Somehow you found the strength to pick up a pistol and stop the gunman. Your courage was remarkable. How on earth were you able to do that?"

"There wasn't a choice," Tori answered. "He was trying to kill my husband." She looked directly at Page, then back to the reporter.

"How could I not have tried to protect my husband?"

"So you're saying it was love that gave you courage?" Loft asked.

"Yes." Tori looked again at Page. "Love gave me courage."

Loft lowered the camera and studied each of them. "Thank you for saving Anita and me."

The sirens became terribly loud. An ambulance sped into view and skidded to a stop next to the airport's office, followed closely by a Highway Patrol car. Attendants jumped from the ambulance, hurrying to unfold the wheels of a gurney. One carried an emergency kit as they rushed toward the woman lying on the pavement.

Medrano got out of the patrol car, put on his Stetson, straightened to his full height, and took powerful strides toward Page.

His voice was strong. "I told you not to fly into that area."

"That's news to me," Page said. Next to him, the ambulance attendants put an oxygen mask over the woman's face and attached an IV line. "You said the government gave me clearance to ignore the restriction."

"And then they revoked it. I warned you to get out of there."

"If you told us to leave, we didn't hear it," Tori said. "The police radio stopped working."

Loft stepped forward, balancing the television camera on his shoulder, focusing it on Medrano.

"Captain, I'm Brent Loft from First-on-the-Scene News in El Paso.

This couple did an amazing thing. At great risk to their lives, they landed their aircraft on hazardous terrain at the observatory so they could stop a guard from killing us. In fact, as you can see, he'd already shot my partner. They loaded us on their plane and took off.

The entire time, I was afraid the maniac would fire another grenade at us."