EarthRise (16 page)

The security chief had made use of such devices before, but only on training exercises, and didn’t care for the unicorn-like lens that stuck straight out in front of his face, what amounted to tunnel vision, and the need to cope with a surreal landscape.

Thanks to the ambient light provided by the moon, the orbital mirror, and the stars, Manning could theoretically see out to approximately seventy-five yards, but that was out in the open rather than deep in fifth- or sixth-generation evergreen forest. A forest that seemed determined to whack Manning with moisture-laden branches, toss him over half-rotted logs, and dump him into half-seen gullies.

None of which seemed to apply to Deac Smith, who slid through the trees with the surety of an elemental spirit, paused to listen every now and then, and waved the security chief forward. Manning swore under his breath, followed the greenish white blob through a swiftly flowing creek and up the opposite slope.

Both men paused there while the ex-Ranger checked the riverbank for footprints, found nothing remarkable, and continued on their way. Manning looked left and right, confirmed that other blobs were crossing the creek to the east and west of them, and knew they were members of Deacon’s Demons. A paramilitary group that consisted of veterans, historical reenactors, and hard-core survivalists. The kind of people who still knew how to hunt, fish, and survive in the wild. More than that, the kind of people who didn’t sort people out according to the color of their skin, the way they worshiped God, or who they slept with so long as they loved freedom and were willing to fight for it.

The trail, which was little more than a deer path, led them deeper into the trees, and Manning felt the forest close in around him. It wasn’t the sort of place where the Kan were likely to lie in ambush since they preferred open areas where they could jump. But the forest was perfect for humans. Racialists, like the group his sister had been part of, bandits, more interested in loot than freedom, and religious groups, all on multiple missions from God.

Though not necessarily out to get Franklin specifically, any group strong enough to survive was heavily armed and often unpredictable. A factor that made an already difficult situation even worse.

The trees began to thin, the light level increased, and so did the clarity of the images that Manning could see. There was an open area ahead, what he knew to be stacks of logs off to the right, three ghostly loaders, rows of neatly stacked lumber, and a building that glowed as if lit from within. It had been a sawmill once, a relatively small one, but large enough for this new purpose.

Smith paused, spoke on a channel other than the one Manning had been told to monitor, and waved the security chief forward. “The area is secure,” the ex-Ranger said confidently, “all except for the interior of the building, and that falls to you.”

Manning nodded. “Thanks! Your people did one helluva job. Let’s turn them inside out.”

Smith knew what Manning meant. Having swept the surrounding area and secured the perimeter, it was time for the Demons to take up defensive positions within the clearing. Positions prepared over the last few days and strong enough to withstand an infantry-style assault launched from the edge of the forest
or
an orbital bombardment. Not for a sustained period of time—but long enough to evacuate the resistance leaders. A subject on which Manning had been somewhat vague.

Smith, who had seen what the Saurons could do to people, understood the concern. He didn’t absolutely need to know how that part of the plan would work, so he didn’t. “Yes, sir. My people are taking up their defensive positions now. We’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“Good,” Manning said approvingly. “Don’t forget that one of the people I’m supposed to protect is
you
—so get your butt inside as soon as you can.”

Smith smiled. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“And you know where you can shove the ‘sir,’ stuff,” Manning said with a wave. “Right where the orbital mirror don’t shine.”

Smith grinned and watched the blob jog toward the sawmill. What method would Manning use to bring the president in? the resistance leader wondered. The noise generated by a helicopter would alert everyone for miles around, produce one hell of a heat signature, and point a big red arrow right at the sawmill. But Manning wasn’t stupid . . . or was he? The ex-Ranger had a tendency to be somewhat cynical where civilians were concerned—even ones he liked.

Manning was about twenty yards from the building by then. He removed the goggles, clipped them to his harness, and flipped a switch. The wire-thin mike curved down in front of his mouth. “Snake One to Snake Two . . . Over.”

There was the sort of delay that Manning had learned to expect from Amocar followed by the flat wary sound of his voice. “This is Two—go. Over.”

“Status? Over.”

“Everything is A-OK. Over.”

“Good. Hold where you are . . . over.”

“That’s a roger,” Amocar confirmed. “Out.”

There was a click as Amocar went off-air, and Manning wished for the thousandth time that Kell, not Amocar, was his second-in-command. There wasn’t much he could do about it, however—not so long as Franklin continued his sponsorship. Not because the chief executive thought Amocar was especially outstanding, but as a check on Manning, a man originally chosen by Hak-Bin himself, and forced into his present position. Yes, the relationship had evolved since then, but not to the point where Franklin was willing to reverse himself on the subject of Amocar and potentially lose face in the process.

The security chief crossed the invisible line of demarcation that served to separate security zone
two
from security zone
one
, and was immediately challenged. “Hold it, bucko . . . and keep those hands in sight. If you know the word then cough it up.”

Like all of Manning’s agents, the African-American female had been chosen because of her intelligence, attitude, and experience. Unlike most of the security types, Manning knew Garly Mol had a preference for cold steel, as evidenced by the knives stashed on various parts of her anatomy. Not that the ex-Border Patrol agent was averse to using firearms—as the ugly little Heckler & Koch 9 mm MP7 submachine gun made perfectly clear.

“Save it for the bad guys,” Manning replied lightly. “The password is: ‘rhino.’ ”

Mol grinned and jerked the barrel of her weapon up toward the sky. “Nice to see you, boss . . . How was the stroll through the woods?”

“It sucked. Smith and his people are crazy . . . but what else is new? How ’bout our guests? Have any arrived?”

“Only one so far,” Mol replied, a smile stealing over her face.

“What’s so funny?”

The ex-agent shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Go see for yourself.”

Manning shrugged, admonished the agent to keep her eyes peeled, and walked toward the blacked-out building. It seemed to crouch there, anchored by the darkness. A generator purred somewhere nearby. A great deal of time and energy had been spent trying to disperse the engine’s heat. Would it work? Only time would tell.

One of the shadows had more substance than all the rest, and the security chief was far from surprised when it took two steps forward and morphed into a rather formidable man. Jonathan Wimba was six and a half feet tall, weighed more than 250 pounds, and had belonged to ROTC while in college. It was later, while doing his time in the army, that the sociologist mastered the care and feeding of the M62 machine gun now leveled at Manning’s midsection.

The weapon, a direct descendant of the classic M60, fired caseless ammo at the relatively poky rate of 550 rounds per minute. So slow that an artiste, a person like Wimba, could fire single shots if he chose to. “Pick an animal,” the security agent growled, “and keep those hands where I can see them.”

“Rhino,” Manning replied, and was relieved when the machine gun went vertical. “How’s it hanging?”

Wimba grinned. “Long and limp . . . How ’bout you?”

“Short and shriveled. Maybe you army guys enjoy running through the boonies, but I’ll take a sidewalk every time.”

Wimba laughed. A deep, rumbling sound reminiscent of distant thunder. “I’m with you, boss . . .
especially
at night.”

Manning nodded his agreement, felt for the door handle, and pulled it open. “Keep ’em peeled, Jonathan—there’s a whole lot of strange shit out there.”

“You can say that again,” the big man said, as a feral dog howled somewhere in the distance. “You can sure as
hell
say that again.”

But Manning was inside the building by then. Heavy fabric had been draped over a makeshift frame to create an effective light lock. Manning felt for the opening, slipped through, and squinted into the electric lights.

The interior of the building was two and a half stories high. It smelled of lubricants, sawdust, and freshly brewed coffee. Down at the far end, above some enormous doors, blank windows stared out over a maze of motionless machinery.

Manning noted that some of the wood stored outside had been brought back in and hammered into a crude but serviceable conference table. And it was that, along with some mismatched chairs, that would provide a focal point for the upcoming meeting.
If
those who had been invited actually showed up,
if
they could put their differences aside, and
if
the Saurons left the humans alone for a while. It seemed like a whole lot of “ifs,” but not to Franklin, who was eternally optimistic. “People are basically good,” he liked to say. “The United States is proof of that, so give them a chance.”

The words sounded good, almost
too
good, coming as they did from a man who had flirted with being, if not actually functioned as, a collaborator prior to finding the patriot within. Still, even though Manning harbored no illusions about Franklin or his past, he continued to take hope from the man’s words. Especially when he heard the chief executive talk about the United States of America. Even though the country lay in ruins, Franklin refused to give up on it. He truly believed that the Saurons were vulnerable, that alliances could be forged, and the nation brought back to life. And it was that, more than anything else, that made the man worth protecting.

The security chief’s eyes had just come to terms with the light when Amy Vosser, Franklin’s newly named executive assistant, bustled over. She had gray bowl-cut hair, a face held together by worry lines, and the manner of a marine corps gunnery sergeant.

“Mr. Manning—I’m glad you’re here . . . It’s 9:00 P.M. and the president’s guests have yet to arrive.”

The words were delivered in an accusatory tone, as if the security chief was at fault somehow, and caused him to raise an eyebrow. “I’m in charge of the president’s security, Ms. Vosser . . .
not
the punctuality of his guests. Besides, one of them
has
arrived, or so I was told.”

Vosser produced an audible sniff. “The guest,
if
he qualifies as such, is over there. Agent Asad was assigned to baby-sit him.”

Manning, curious as to why this particular resistance leader had been found wanting by two people as diverse as Mol and Vosser, followed the woman’s blunt finger. There was a series of staccato hissing sounds as the security chief rounded a massive piece of equipment and entered the far aisle. Asad was there all right, along with a scraggly adolescent who sported a chain-mail shirt made out of what looked like aluminum beer tabs, a battered belt comp, and raggedy spray-cloth pants. They ended a good three inches above a pair of well-worn REI hiking boots. A fairly common look by pre-Sauron standards. Not so typical, and clearly homemade, was the bandoleer of spray cans that the youth wore bandit style across his scrawny chest.

One such can hissed loudly as the teenager made one final pass over the highly stylized four-foot-by-six-foot sketch that decorated the wall, took two steps back, and paused to admire his work. It showed a Kan, one foot planted on a woman’s chest, ready to shoot her in the head. In spite of the fact that the Sauron wore a sneer, something the chitinous creatures simply weren’t capable of, the characterization worked. Though not especially realistic, it was supposed to evoke emotions, a goal which it certainly achieved.

More than that, the security chief knew that the artist, an individual who went by the name Cyan, was the leader of a group that referred to itself as The Free Taggers, a sort of free-form tribe comprised mainly of children. Children who took enormous risks to post their anti-Sauron graffiti where slaves could see it, and sometimes paid with their lives. Manning had seen their little bodies crucified heads down with spray cans jammed between their teeth. Asad, who wasn’t all that much older than the graffiti artist beside him, nodded approvingly. “That’s rev, man, truly rev. Hey, I want you to meet my boss, Jack Manning.”

The street artist turned, nodded in a perfunctory manner, and said “So where’s the prez? Let’s get this shit in gear.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” the security chief answered dryly. “Now, if Agent Asad would be so kind as to escort you over to the conference area, we’ll see how many of your esteemed colleagues have arrived. Then, depending on the answer, maybe we can ‘get this shit in gear.’ ”

The threesome arrived back in the conference area to discover that the rest of the resistance leaders had arrived and were being guided, instructed, and downright bullied into the chairs chosen by Ms. Vosser. Dro Rul, who had risked his life to visit the planet’s surface, was assigned to a child’s high chair located between Professor Boyer Blue and Deac Smith. The woman called Storm, clan leader for the Sasquatch Nation, and Doo-Nol, one of the few surviving members of the Fon Brotherhood, were placed on the same side of the table as Sister Andromeda, who, in the wake of the humiliating journey up Hell Hill, had decided to throw in with the resistance movement. Unless she didn’t like what they said, in which case she would pull out and go her own way.

Franklin, who was watching from the windowed office located at the other end of the building smiled. Those who didn’t know any better would assume that the effort to tweak the seating was just one more manifestation of Vosser’s high-control personality. Others, who knew the players as
he
did, would note the way Rul had been placed between two utterly reliable humans, and the manner in which Sister Andromeda had been paired with the representative from the Fon Brotherhood. Organizations that had befriended each other in the past. Or would the word “used” be more accurate? Whatever the case, a relationship existed, and he would take what he could get. As for the heavily tattooed Storm, well, who knew? She and the clan she represented were something of an enigma, so one position seemed as good as the next.