The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (24 page)

“We’re salvaging the hydroelectric generators from the Grand Coulee ruins and with the cooperation of the Navy, I have dive teams attempting the same at Hoover, but the only good news from there is the abundance of power line wire from all the transmission high lines that ran from the dam.”

Joseph nodded and asked, “How deep?”

“Anywhere from sixty to one hundred feet for the stuff we can get at. Anything deeper...well the generators at Hoover are more than nine hundred feet under water. We can’t reach them, Sir.”

He slammed his hand onto the map, shaking his head.

“It’s chickens and eggs, Sir. We can’t restore heavy industry without power and we can’t restore power without heavy industry.”

“So, it’s the same for wind farms and tidal generators?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I suppose Solar is too high tech,” Joseph said, knowing some of the materials needed to produce photovoltaic panels and rechargeable batteries were no longer available.

Richard simply raised his eyebrows at the suggestion.

“Then we have to stick with hydro,” Joseph said. He thrust one large index finger at a cluster of yellow pins in the map. “Start the new dams. I’ll have a word with the Minister of Industry.”

Later that evening, as the King read battlefield reports from his sons, he wondered why rebuilding civilization was so damned hard.

Chapter 22: The Sax Player

Nephi, Utah

July 7, 13 A.I.

Chris Herrera, the Troubled Land Band’s sexy saxophonist, wiped her sweaty palms against her thighs. Now, what was she going to do? She’d been dating one of Prince John’s intelligence officers for more than a week, fending him off for the first several dates, whetting his appetite. Finally, tonight she had consented to accompany him to his place, only to have this happen.

She stared down at his dead body. A pool of blood seeped from the man’s head and a wave of revulsion shook her. She leaned down and pulled the dagger-like tip of her high-heeled shoe from the man’s temple, carefully cleaned the blood off the shoe in the man’s bathroom, then slipped into it. She gathered up the papers, stuffed them into his briefcase, lifted his I.D. and tip-toed out his door. She had to get the briefcase to Denise and Jacques. They would know what to do with it.

As she walked down the street, her mind went back over the details. The evening had started decently enough with a standard dinner, dancing and champagne-at-my-place type seduction. She had been willing to go along. The pillow talk might prove interesting. Besides, the man was attractive enough, if she ignored the fact something about his eyes bothered her.

In spite of all the booze he’d been drinking, they arrived at his place without incident. He dimmed the lights, put on a Sinatra CD and opened a bottle of Dom Perignon ‘68. Chris had always enjoyed extra dry champagnes and found the Dom Perignon too full-flavored for her tastes. The sacrifices one must make, she sighed to herself playfully, then remembered she was, after all, going to bed the jerk.

They danced for a short while. Then he suggested a tour of the premises, which she knew would terminate in the bedroom. They strolled through the house. He had taken great delight in pointing out the fact that all the modern conveniences had been fully restored since the King’s Army had come to town. Yeah. Right. By slave labor, she thought, all the while acting very impressed. What is it about men that makes them think all pretty women are air-heads? She shrugged, admitting that pretty women sometimes found it advantageous to act that way.

As she suspected, he had saved the bedroom for the grand finale of the tour. He had come up with a glowing description for his King-sized, heated waterbed. The Orgasmisizer, he called it. No conceit there, she mused. Besides, she was more interested in the unlocked and open briefcase he shoved under it with his foot when they first entered the room.

They kissed, full-bodied. One thing led to another and soon they were naked on the bed with him fondling her breasts and saying how pleased he was that, though small, they were perfectly formed. She almost bit through her tongue to keep from saying the same thing about his penis.

She knew her breasts were small. Being only five feet tall and weighing a mere 98 pounds, she was small. She also knew she was perfectly proportioned (and in the manner of beautiful women everywhere) knew full well that she was beautiful, without hearing him repeat it every five minutes. Though she had to admit there were harder things to listen to. Her blue-black hair hung almost to her shoulders, when it wasn’t being mussed. Her rich, lustrous, brown eyes were warm and inviting. Her skin was the flawless cream of a full-blooded Castilian from Spain. She was actually Tex-Mex and should have been much darker judging by her father and mother, but as she’d told herself on more than one occasion, there’s no accounting for genes.

She’d been contemplating ways to get into his briefcase when they heard a knock at the door.

Grumbling about duty always interfering with his social life, he grabbed a robe and excused himself to answer it. While he was gone she got busy. Diving into the briefcase she was horrified to discover that Prince John knew about the Allied plan to flank his army with Jim Cantrell’s force. There was also a note that the Garcias were hiding in the Freeholds. She wondered briefly how the Prince knew Sara and Raoul Garcia and why he would care where they were? There were detailed estimates of Allied troop strength and technological capability. No way they came by this information without spies in both Provo and the Freeholds.

“Interesting reading?”

She was so engrossed in the material she hadn’t heard the conversation in the living room end, or the front door close as the uninvited caller left. Nor had she heard the intelligence officer approaching the bedroom. She blushed and shrugged.

“Just curious,” she said in what she hoped was an innocent tone. “What’s a girl to do when you go running off leaving her all excited?”

“You’re a stinking spy,” he said and his voice had gone flat and cold. “Know what we do to spies? We skin’em alive.” He smiled a distinctly unpleasant smile. She had seen the grisly trophies displayed on poles outside the Governor’s Palace.

“But first I’m going to have me some pussy-slaving fun,” the officer said as he slipped out of his robe and started for her. His eyes took on a slightly oily look that made her skin crawl.

In desperation, Chris flung the briefcase at him, rolling across the bed and placing it between them. He batted the case aside and dove over the bed, missing her only because she was faster than he’d anticipated. She sprinted for the doorway, but he lunged after her, catching her tiny ankle in an iron grip and spilling her near her discarded clothing. In a flash he was on her, flipping her onto her back, slapping her so hard her head swam, forcing her legs apart, battering into her.

She screamed as his vicious thrusting tore her.

He laughed, grabbing her left hand when she tried to claw his eyes out, but her right hand escaped his grasp and found one of her stiletto heels. With all her strength, she swung the shoe and connected.

He actually came as the heel of her shoe pierced his temple and killed him, collapsing onto her. She squirmed from beneath him, trembling, then sobbing as her anger died.

She couldn’t control herself. She knew she should gather the information and get out fast, but instead she darted for the bathroom. In the shower, with hot water streaming over her, she cried herself clean.

She shivered at the memory and forced her legs to walk faster through the poorly lighted town. Her heart almost stopped when she was hailed by a security patrol, but she flashed the dead man’s I.D., said official business and brazened her way through. The same ploy worked at the checkpoint she had to pass through to get out of the military district, but this time she added a wink so there would be no mistaking the kind of “official business” she was on. The officer laughed knowingly and sent her on her way.

Ten minutes later, she was seated in the Lachelles suite, waiting for them to finish reading the documents she had brought so they could leave the hotel and have a safe talk. Within an hour they decided it would be too risky for her to stick around. Several soldiers knew she was dating the intelligence officer. Her only hope was to sneak out of Nephi now and make contact with the Allied scouts who Jacques and Denise Lachelle knew would be watching the King’s camp.

Chris worried about the band staying behind. The officer’s death and her flight would throw suspicion onto them, but Denise assured her the band was so much a part of the Governor’s social life they could bluff their way through such a scandal. Jacques told her they would all feign shock and disbelief at the discovery she had been a spy and was wanted for murder. Then a few band members would start a rumor about how Chris always had been a bit flaky and soon the whole thing would blow over.

Jacques helped her sneak out of town, asking Chris to warn the Allies about the King’s planes in case Ken Bilardi hadn’t made it. He gave her a quick hug, told her to take care and retraced his steps back into the enemy camp, leaving Chris alone in the dark, her weapons and survival gear her only comfort. She gathered her courage and headed north.

She moved deeper into the forest, away from Nephi. Starlight was fading and she wanted to put a lot of distance behind her before dawn.

Chapter 23: The Valkyrie

North of Nephi: July 10, 13 A.I.

Chris Herrera scrambled up the talus slope seeking cover, a narrow, rocky shelf less than thirty feet above the floor of the box canyon. The flat rock flakes running from above the shelf to the canyon floor were so loose she slipped repeatedly, clawing her way up on hands and knees. From down below, a shout rang out.

“There she is!”

Bullets ricocheted off the stones around her as she dove behind a boulder large enough to hide her tiny form. Her breath came in gasps and gulps. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging and making it hard to see. She tore a long strip of cloth from the hem of her flannel shirt, wiped her brow with her shirt tail and tied the strip of cloth around her head as a sweatband.

One problem down. Now if she could evade the soldiers hunting her as easily. She whipped around the rock, fired three quick rounds to keep their heads down and was rewarded by a cry of pain. Lucky shot, she thought, ducking back under cover.

Leaning against the rock, cushioned by the daypack that contained the documents she was delivering and her meager water supply, she cradled her rifle in her hands, checking its clip and noting she only had four rounds left. The .22 pistol hanging at her side was fully loaded with ten rounds in the clip. She wished it was a .357 or a .44, something with killing power.

Her mind raced, discarding possibilities almost as soon as she thought of them. She had been running from this patrol since they jumped her three hours ago, playing hide and seek, snipe and dash. She’d put lead into a few of them, but slowly, relentlessly, they had forced her up this box canyon. Of course she hadn’t known it was a dead end when she turned into it, but it was obvious from their actions they did. And now she was trapped at the back of it. The glimpse she had when she was shooting at them told her there were at least six of them still standing: too many.

Her eyes darted about seeking a way out. She couldn’t stay where she was. They were already spreading out to flank her. Oh hell, she sighed. She was tired of running anyhow. She took off her daypack and buried it under some loose rocks, then fired off her last four rifle rounds to slow them down.

There was nothing she could do to buy more time, but--she shuddered--they wouldn’t take her alive. She pulled her pistol out of its holster, cocked it and placed it under her chin, pointing up though her mouth toward her brain. She took a deep breath and one last lingering look around, reddish rocks, jumbled together, scrub oak and a few twisted pines. “What a place for a banker’s daughter to die,” she whispered.

Her parents were Catholic and though those days seemed more than a lifetime ago the early training forced her to wonder if suicide really was a mortal sin. She decided to find out. No way she would let those beasts below get their hands on her, knowing too well what would happen then. She closed her eyes, braced herself, said a quick prayer and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

“Shit!” she exclaimed, trembling. “A misfire.”

She ejected the worthless shell and replaced it with a new one, then tried to bring the pistol back up under her chin. She couldn’t. Once was enough. The pistol in her hand shook like a building in an earthquake and tears leaked from beneath her long, dark lashes.

A bullet ricocheted off the sandstone cliff behind her and a hot rock chip burned into her cheek, shocking her, reawakening her anger at those below. From the sounds they made, she could tell they were at the foot of the slope.

There’s another way, her mind whispered. A better way. If she went to them, maybe they wouldn’t find her pack and the documents inside. Get going, Chrissy, before you change your mind, she told herself. Screaming like a banshee, she leaped from behind the rock onto the talus slope, bounding and sliding downward into their midst.

Three men fell as she emptied her pistol. A fourth jumped at her, swinging his rifle like a club, but Chris side-armed her pistol at him and smashed his face.

Hot pain lanced through her. She spun and fell, stunned, unable to move as two men stepped out of the rocks and walked toward her.

“Regular goddamned hellcat,” the tall one said.

“Viperous little bitch,” sniffed the other. “I think we both got her.”

“Check on George and Willie,” said the tall man. “Mike and Barry are dead.”

The second man disappeared behind some rocks. A few seconds later his voice floated back. “George is gone, but Willie’ll make it.”

“Christ, Sammy,” exclaimed the tall man. “She killed four of us and wounded everybody but me and you.”

“I was there, Mick, goddamn it. I know what she did. Now make sure she’s dead while I go find that pack of hers.”

He turned and started clawing his way up the talus slope.

Mick stood over Chris looking down into her eyes. He could see she was still alive, even if she was fading.

“You played hell, bitch,” he said, kicking her viciously. “I’m glad you’re alive. Now you can pay for what you’ve done.”

Chris tried to say “Fuck you” but she just didn’t have enough breath left. Still, she mouthed the words and Mick understood them because his eyes flared and he lifted his foot to stomp her.

The thin tongue of a bullwhip snaked through the air and coiled around Mick’s neck. Mick dropped his gun and grabbed at the whip, eyes bulging as his throat collapsed. He toppled sideways, his tongue swelling up as his face purpled. He died without ever seeing the man who killed him.

“I got it!” Sammy yelled from behind the boulder that had shielded Chris. Silence greeted him.

“Mick?” He stepped out from behind the rock.

The quarrel from the small crossbow took him at the base of his throat. He let the daypack fall and grasped the bolt’s shaft, sinking to his knees. His dying eyes locked on the man who had killed him and the look the gray-eyed Indian returned chilled his soul. Sammy fell forward, rolled down the rocky slope and died with his face in the dirt.

Daniel Windwalker stepped over to where Chris lay. Through the pain, her eyes implored him to bend closer.

He did so, saying softly, “You’ll be okay now.”

“Pack,” she gasped weakly, then slumped into darkness.

Pain stirred in Daniel’s breast as he knelt beside her. Then a smile formed on his lips as he felt her pulse, weak, but there. He bound up her wounds, one in her back and one in her side. She’ll live if I get her to a doctor, he thought. She’d better live!

The intensity of that thought surprised him. After all, he’d never really gotten to know her, even when her band traveled with his tribe. He’d looked her over. He was a man and any man would notice such beauty. Once, when he was lonely, he gave her a tape by Kenny G., not knowing Kenny was her favorite. When she touched his hand to take the tape, emotions he had long ignored seethed within him and he fled before she could thank him. He had avoided her since then, occasionally catching her eyes on him as he moved about the camp.

But what he had just witnessed was impossible to ignore. So much spirit for one so small, he thought.

He moved her gently into the shade, the pop-pop of distant gunfire telling him that Mitch Stonehand and Susan Redfeather were eliminating the rest of the enemy patrol.

His eyes turned cold again as he sought out Willie.

“No way to treat a lady,” Daniel explained as he slit the man’s throat.

Daniel gathered up Chris’s pack, glancing just long enough at the contents to recognize their importance. Then he picked Chris up in his arms and headed for his horse. The nearest doctor was at Adam Young’s camp. He offered a prayer to Mah-hay-oh and held her close as he spurred his horse out of the canyon.

*

Two days later, Daniel was sitting beside Chris’s hospital cot, holding her hand. The bullet in her side had gone clean through her body after glancing off a rib, breaking it and causing a lot of nasty bruising.

The second wound was more serious. Doctors had operated yesterday, removing a bullet next to her heart. Fortunately, her blood type was O-positive so they had plenty on hand to replace what she’d lost, but she remained in critical condition, pulse feeble, each breath an effort, as if she couldn’t decide whether to live or die.

So Daniel sat there holding her hand, letting her know she wasn’t alone.

He was still there the next day when her eyelids fluttered and slowly opened.

“Good morning,” he said, eyes shining.

He leaned forward and placed a hand on her brow, gently brushing a few strands of hair aside.

“Wh...” She rasped. Her throat was too dry. Daniel held a water glass to her lips, tilting her head so she could drink more comfortably. She took a few small swallows and turned her head away. He laid her back onto the pillow and replaced the glass on the nightstand beside her cot.

Daniel, she thought, puzzled, surprised, pleased. She’d always found him attractive, dark and mysterious, but definitely attractive.

“What happened?” Her voice worked better on the second try. She started to shift her position on the cot, winced and grunted. “Ugh! Did I get kicked by a mule?”

“You got shot,” he said. “Usually happens when you charge a bunch of men who are shooting at you.”

Memory flooded back--her personal Charge of the Light Brigade.

“My pack.” Her eyes darted about, then settled on him, questioning.

“Mitch Stonehand’s taking it to Bob Young in Provo. Adam’s already seen it.” Anticipating her next question he added, “I read enough to know not to deliver it to anybody but them.” Bob Young, the former Mayor of Provo, had been placed in command of the Provo garrison by his older brother Adam.

Relief showed in her face momentarily, then her visage clouded over.

“Do you know about the planes?”

“What planes?” He asked, wondering if she meant the ultralight that had attacked him.

“The King has planes,” she replied. “We don’t know how many or what kind.” She explained about the mysterious crates and continued on right up to being discovered by the King’s patrol.

Daniel filled her in on how he and his men had cleaned up the enemy soldiers she’d left alive and transported her to the hospital. While he talked, she watched his eyes and the movements of his hands, suddenly struck by what a beautiful man he was. Another memory revived.

“You carried me in your arms,” she smiled. “I remember rousing, drinking some water, feeling safe.”

Daniel nodded and looked away. He’s blushing, she thought and her smile grew.

“I better get word of those planes to Bob,” he said, thinking and Adam and Jim Cantrell. What she had described definitely didn’t sound like ultralights.

“Will you stop by and see me later?”

“I...uh, I may have to be gone for a couple of days,” he apologized. “But I’ll look you up as soon as I get back.” He touched his medicine bag, looked at her and came to a sudden decision, removing it from his own neck and placing it around hers. “This will look after you while I am gone.”

She nodded her understanding and sent another bright smile at him as he left. He likes me, she thought as her eyes closed and her tiny hand caressed his medicine pouch. Good!

*

The tall, lean man with dirty, thinning white hair and a dent in his skull moved a fifty pound chunk of cement from the hole and sighed. His broken fingernails were encrusted with filth and his clothing was stiff with dried sweat and accumulated grime. Driven by a compulsion so powerful it ruled his muddled mind he’d spent the best part of the past twelve years at this thankless task. Removing broken concrete one piece at a time, hack sawing though rebar that tied busted bits together, sledge hammering large slabs into pieces small enough to haul out, he slowly tunneled into the heart of the Edwards Launch facility.

He renewed his grip on the long piece of rebar he used mostly as a pry bar, but also as a club and spear on those rare occasions people attacked him. He smelled so bad not even cannibals were tempted to eat him. The few locals in the area soon learned to avoid him, for his years of labor left him far stronger than he looked.

He wedged the rebar under a chunk of debris, heaved and...he dropped the rebar, which clattered against steel and sat down with a thud, unable to believe his eyes. Tears flooded his vision and he howled with manic laughter. It was there, after all these tortured years, it was there.

The safe that contained hope, the control codes for the Sunflower satellite, sat undisturbed in the heart of Joseph Scarlatti’s Empire.

Carl Borzowski, who no longer remembered his own name, squatted before the metal box and recalled with no difficulty the combination the black general with the stern visage and uncompromising courage entrusted him with all those years ago. He slid down into the hole and spun the dial back and forth, heard the slight click, twisted the handle and opened the door. He pulled the computer disks from the interior and placed them in the battered Samsonite suitcase he called his memory box.

Now all he had to do was get them to the President.