Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) (2 page)

They'd been hiding out on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation for five months—living in a little cabin off Muddy Creek Road for—but Rick was still awed by the size of the Montana sky. In the days, he sometimes just sat and watched the almost-solid clouds drift over like enormous sailing ships on some invisible water line. At night, the sheer number of stars and the broad, crowded stripe of the Milky Way felt like being on another world—a world much closer to the center of the Galaxy where stars were still being born—pushing and shoving to find a place in the sky.

Day or night, it was beautiful, no doubt about that, but a bit frightening as well. It made Rick feel small and powerless, a speck on the landscape. On the other hand, being a mere speck made it considerably easier to stay hidden.

When they’d left Washington, DC last Christmas, they had left four dead bodies behind them. Hector had been given a sendoff by the Dawn Riders—the motorcycle club he’d led—and Rick assumed that whoever had cleaned up all the other traces of mayhem from that affair had disposed of the bodies of his friend Dina and the two government agents or, more likely, deniable assets who’d been put on his trail by the White House. It wasn’t an assumption he particularly wanted to test until a good amount of time had passed.

He had accidently tripped over a secret—something that would have blown the city apart—and now that months had gone by and it hadn’t appeared on the front page of the Washington Post, he hoped that everyone would just assume it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. Of course, he wasn’t willing to let the betrayal of his fellow soldiers go unpunished; but he had arranged things so his revenge would be slow, painful, and impossible to trace back to the source.

Assuming anything about your enemy was a mistake, however; so, like Eve’s ancestors, they had set tripwires on their back trail to warn them of pursuit. Eve's friends and relatives were one, scattered across the Northern Cheyenne Reservation. Then there were her classmates from law school now working in legal aid clinics, foundations, and prestigious law firms back in Washington. Finally, there was the flood of gossip that Corey Gravelin gathered from his network of gay friends who worked in almost every office on Capitol Hill, most political campaigns, and even deep inside the White House.

They had waited patiently for several months; but no mysterious strangers had appeared in Lame Deer, no indictments had come down with his name on it, and there hadn’t even been any news stories about bodies found in an abandoned building on the 14th Street riot corridor. Finally, Rick had managed to reach one of his housemates from the single pay phone in Lame Deer. The call was so filled with clicks, whines, and roaring static that he could barely make out that it was Steve Lord on the other end of the call. Steve apologized for the connection, explaining that his roommates' attempts at "blue box phreaking were still in the alpha stage of development."

Rick had said, "I understand," even though he didn't have the slightest idea what "phreaking" was. He'd learned long ago that his housemates were so far out on the technological frontier that asking for an explanation could lead to a long lecture on computers, electronics, or physics that usually left him even more confused.

After a while, he simply pretended he knew what they were talking about; it was kind of like jazz—impenetrable but pleasant to listen to all the same. Steve and his other housemates, Scotty Shaw, and Zeke Pickell—known as "Epsilon" or "Eps" because he was short and no one could seriously call anyone "Zeke"—had become his friends under the pressures of the deadly attacks of the past Christmas.

Rick wasn’t all that happy about it. He had never wanted friends after most of them had died in one terrible week of battle deep in the Ia Drang valley. It wasn’t just that they had all proven to be tough and resourceful under pressure but they’d also accepted that the nightmares and demons in his head were just as much a part of his wounds from Vietnam as the scars patch-worked down his right side.

The fact was he was screwed. The guys had become as close as anyone he’d served with and Eve was… Well, as much as he’d fought against it, he loved her; and the tough and caring woman was now an essential part of whatever it was that made up Rick Putnam.

His own family was totally screwed up, thanks to his mother’s drinking, and now that he apparently had a new family, he’d just have to hope everyone lived forever.

Or he’d die first.

But that felt a little macabre, even for him.

Steve had reported that he and Eps had managed to break into both the FBI and CIA computer systems whereupon they "took a walk around the files and cleaned things up a bit." They had decided they couldn't go back to the Capitol Hill place they'd shared last year. It wasn't that there were any blood or bullet holes left—the nameless agency had removed that evidence literally overnight—it was that none of them wanted to run into the sort of people who could make blood and bullet holes disappear that easily.

Now that their computer analysis had made them reasonably sure no one in the CIA or FBI was on their trail, the three had slipped out of their bolt-hole in the all-woman Evangeline Hotel and begun to customize a house Scotty had found in the northwest part of Washington DC Steve said that they were holding a room for Rick and then was silent, letting the howl of the electronic storm fill the line.

It took a while for Rick to work out the problem. "Oh, I'm in, but I think Eve will be getting her own place," at which point he was sure he heard Steve sigh in relief. Rick knew it wasn't a problem of old-fashioned values. It was just that none of the three were quite ready to deal with a real live woman 24 hours a day.

Rick and Eve had already concluded that any danger stemming from the events of last Christmas had diminished to a reasonable level. President Nixon was being attacked on all sides, congressional investigations were popping up like mushrooms, and the constant pressure of prosecutors and grand juries was producing a steady stream of confessions and convictions.

Rick doubted that anyone was still worried about a motorcycle courier who knew a little too much, and the people who had known anything about his involvement in the discovery of presidential High Treason were either very close friends or very definitely dead.

Eve had an offer of a job as a paralegal in one of Washington's most prestigious law firms. The whole "paralegal" concept had just been invented, and no one was quite sure what she was actually supposed to do; but she thought it would give her a chance to do some legal networking while she slogged through the months it would take to study for the bar exam.

When two hippies had run out of gas and money right at the end of the gravel road that led to their cabin, it felt as if the fates were giving them a not-so-subtle hint. The hippies gladly accepted about half what the VW Camper was worth and caught the Gray Rabbit the next time it came through on its way to California.

The day after the Gray Rabbit—a beat-up school bus with the seats pulled out and replaced by mattresses—disappeared into the west, a sparkplug blew out of the VW's cylinder head, and Rick stopped wondering why he’d gotten such a great deal from the glassy-eyed couple. A tattered copy of
How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive—a Guide for the Compleat Idiot
, a matched set of barked knuckles on both hands, and a heli-coil on the busted sparkplug got the bus on the road and Rick and Eve on their way back to the East Coast.

The VW seemed happiest at about 50 miles per hour, so they’d taken side roads that wound through the desolate but beautiful landscapes. An enormous coal truck smashed past in the other lane and the van felt like it was going to overturn in the windblast. Rick fought the large flat steering wheel until the VW stopped rocking.

"Damn, there are a lot of those monster trucks out today," Rick said after he'd coaxed the bus back into its lane. "Why didn't I see any coal mining on the reservation?"

Eve looked out her window and regarded the brown and almost treeless landscape for a long time. Then she turned to Rick and he could see that tears were beginning to show in her eyes. Her voice was desolate, "You probably will. The reservation is in the dead center of the Fort Union Formation—the biggest soft coal find ever—and our friends in the Bureau of Indian Affairs have already leased out half of the land to Excacoal."

She shifted in her seat and put her feet up on the dash. "Some of us are ready to fight. After all, these guys will be tearing away everything that makes this place our ancestral home—the center of our religion for that matter. But the tribe is so poor, people are just thinking of jobs and not what it's going to do to the land. You've got kids who aren't getting enough to eat, and you could feed them right if we just let them rip away everything that makes us Cheyenne." Eve was silent for a long time after that. Rick just kept driving. Every once in a while, he’d drive with his knee, letting the chugging bus drift far into the left lane while he lit a cigarette. The landscape had begun to change, pines covering more of the bare ground with its occasional clumps of brown grass as

they ground their way up a long slope.

It was when they’d passed the sign announcing that they were entering the Custer National Forest that Eve seemed to make a decision. "We’re going to make a detour."

Rick didn’t really care where they were going, he was happy just to be moving, but it did seem appropriate to ask. "Do I get to know where we’re detouring to?"

She took the cigarette from him, took a drag, and handed it back. "Wounded Knee. We’ll turn right up ahead just past Broadus and head south."

"OK, cool." He glanced at her briefly. "I know your movement buddies are there, but what can we do? I do appreciate that they've tied up most of the U.S. Marshals and FBI agents who might otherwise have been looking for us but—"

"They're in trouble, and they need my help. So, I'm going to help them. I don’t think they’ve got a lot of time left." She looked out the side window again. "You don't have to come."

"If you're going, I'm going." After a pause, he added, "After all, I promised your dad I'd keep you out of trouble."

She swiveled on the seat and shot her bare foot into his hip.

Rick sighed. "See, that's what he warned me about. He said you were always in fights with the boys when you should have been at home making him dinner."

"He didn't say that!"

"No." Rick grinned. "I think that was your grandfather, actually."

Another kick landed, and he groaned theatrically. "Hey, watch it. The shrapnel in that area is property of the U.S. Army. I'm responsible for returning it in good condition. So, do me a favor."

"What?”

"Put your foot on the accelerator. Yep, just like that." He pulled his left foot off the dashboard. "Now, hold on to the steering wheel."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to take a nap, so I can drive all night. You did say that we had a time factor, right?" With that, he stepped into the clear space between the front seats and walked back to the rear.

Eve was left stretched out with an arm and a leg on the left side of the bus and her butt still on the passenger’s seat. She gave a short yelp and scooted into the driver's side.

"Damn you, you could have killed us."

"Nah." He began to pull out the rear sofa and flatten it into a full-length double bed. "Plenty of time for that when we get to Wounded Knee. Wake me when you get tired."

"No need to wake you," she said. "You'll be up in about three hours. You always are."

"Yes, Vietnam, my personal alarm clock." He stretched out on the cushions and pulled a small pillow from the cabinet on his right. "But a man can hope, can't he? I've got to stop fighting that damn war someday. Play that tape we picked up. Maybe that will soothe my mind."

He could hear her rattling through the cassettes stashed on the dash. "Umm, you want that guy from Asbury Park or…dammit, I can never pronounce this band."

"Lyn-erd Skin-erd. That's the one." He put his hands up in the air and called softly, "Play Free Bird!"

The music and the steady rhythm of the four-cylinder engine under his head put him to sleep quickly.

Three hours later, the nightmares began.

As they approached Wounded Knee, they knew that they were moving into a 360-degree kill zone where a combined force of federal and state law enforcement agencies were trying to ensure no one got in or out. They dropped into a ravine where there was covering brush and a few small trees. In the center of the gulch, even the soft light from the stars disappeared.

Rick concentrated on setting each foot firmly before he shifted his weight forward, aware that any lurch or stumble would be magnified by the heavy pack. He heard a muffled rattle as a rock moved under Eve's boots. They had stopped talking a long time ago.

He stopped and, when she bumped softly into his back, found her hand and slipped it inside the back of his jeans. Her fingers immediately burrowed deeper—searching for warmth. He took a long slow breath, and after a quick rub that promised more, she took a firm grip on one of his belt loops.

He returned his attention to the path and slowly rose from the slight crouch that had kept his tall frame below the rim of the ravine. It was bitterly cold and, though the remnants of a blizzard that had hit a few weeks before had melted in the sunlight, the tough grass was bright with ice.

The ground on each bank sloped down until the gully merged into the surrounding flatland. At that junction, probably better watered than other areas, was a final thicket of brush and stunted trees. They continued their slow careful progress until he reached the edge of the brush and could see the expanse of open prairie again.

Ahead and to both sides, he could make out the blocky forms of pickup trucks and 4-wheel-drive Suburbans parked behind what he recognized, even in the dim light, as sandbagged revetments.

The dim glow that had begun to spread across the eastern horizon gave his night-adjusted eyes enough light to see the long slope toward the trees and low buildings of Wounded Knee where a few campfires still glowed. Burned to embers by now, most likely.

Not a great location for a defensive battle, he thought. The Indians were dug in on the low ground and surrounded by a bowl of gentle hills. The FBI and the marshals were on the high ground, good for observing, aiming, and sniping. A smile touched his mouth as he realized it was the opposite of all those old movies. Usually, the cavalry was filmed looking up and seeing mounted warriors outlined against the sky.

He kneeled and Eve moved around his pack to rest her chin against his right shoulder so her mouth was next to his ear.

"How do we get in? Just walk past all those guys?" she whispered. "I mean, after all, you're the expert."

He couldn't help but notice how warm her breath felt as it brushed his ear.

"I guess that's the plan," Rick said without much enthusiasm. "It's not a particularly good plan, but it's all I've got. The truth is we're depending on the song. I hope she wasn't just translating this week's Top 40."

Eve tightened her hand on his shoulder and whispered sharply. "Don't make fun of medicine. It makes you sound like a jerk. Anyway, the magic won't work if you don't believe, and magic may be the only thing we've got going for us."

Rick swept his gaze across the open land, trying to pick out and memorize a path that would avoid as many of the bunkers as possible. "I guess it's like a rifle. If you don't think it'll work, you won't clean it."

He adjusted the heavy pack straps where they had cut deep into his shoulders during the long night. "And then it won't work. You're dead, but you will have won your argument."

Suddenly, Rick felt a sharp point prick his neck on the left side, and a hand slid over his mouth. It was big and roughened, and it sure as hell wasn't Eve's.

A man’s voice whispered into his ear, "Do not move."

The sharp point rotated until Rick could feel the cold length of a knife against his throat. The voice, so low it was hard to pick out from the sounds of the night breeze, continued, "Just relax fella. I'm on your side. Could you please pass that along to your girlfriend? I'd hate for her to take a sudden fright and wake up all those nice cops out there."

"She's a lot more likely to leave her hunting knife between your ribs," Rick said in a voice only slightly louder than his regular breathing. He reached back on his right side and touched her cheek. He slowly rotated his head and whispered in her ear, "Eve, stay quiet. We've got company."

He could feel her stiffen, but she didn't make a sound.

"Good." The hand and the knife both withdrew. Rick looked to his left and could just make out a man kneeling by his side—a thin guy in a denim jacket with a bandanna headband holding down long, straight hair and the line of a hunting rifle poking above his shoulder.

There was a flash of white teeth in the darkness as the man smiled. "We can relax for a bit. The best time to head into the Knee is in about 20 minutes—just before dawn when the ground fog rises."

"You the welcoming committee?” Rick asked.

"In a manner of speaking." He could hear a smile in the other man's words. "I come out most nights to find lost sheep and guide them into the Free Oglala Nation. Let me introduce myself. Pete Talltrees. Pawnee out of Oklahoma."

Rick felt a strong grip on his hand and gripped back. "Rick Putnam. BMW out of Washington, DC."

He could hear a smothered laugh.

"And this is Eve Buffalo Calf, Northern Cheyenne from up near Lame Deer."

"Good morning, ma'am."

"A bit chilly but it should improve," said Eve quietly.

"Yes, it should," the man responded. "Back to you, Rick. Where'd you serve?"

"You knew I was in 'Nam?"

"Sure. I could tell by the way you moved." Talltrees settled back on his haunches. "You're no hunter, but you've been jungle-trained. I've been following you for a fair piece. I was ready to move in earlier, but you seemed to have it under control. So who were you with?"

"Seventh Cavalry." Rick paused then continued, "Which might not be too popular around here, I suppose."

There was a low, almost soundless chuckle. "Are you kidding? Toby Braveboy was walking point when the Seventh was hit at Ia Drang. Nice Cree kid."

"I'm sorry."

"Huh?" Rick could see Talltrees shake his head. "No, Toby survived. Managed to make it to the riverbank and sink into the mud. They picked him up three or four days after the NVA pulled out. Except for the fact he tried to stay in the shower for a couple of days to remove the smell, he was fine. Why? Were you there?"

Rick felt the familiar chill run down his spine. "Yeah. I came in on the third day and saw how hard the other units had been hit. I just assumed he'd been KIA."

"Well, it was a meat grinder from what I could see," Talltrees said. "Of course, I did my best to make it a barbecue. I was up top, dropping napalm from a Skyraider."

"Now, that makes me want to shake your hand again," said Rick. "Wait, did you have a feather painted on the tail of your plane?"

"Yeah, I figured it couldn't hurt to have a little medicine on my side." Rick could see the man's head turn toward him. "Why?"

"You came in over my position on Day Four about six inches off the trees and pulled straight up, dropped a full load of DuPont's finest so close I could read the warning signs on the cans." Rick grinned. "Felt like I was going to get cooked when it went off, but you hit square on a machine gun nest we hadn't seen at all. Got a nice long look at your feather as you climbed out. Never thought I'd be able to say 'thank you'."

"Not a problem," the whisper came back. "Now you owe me one. We'll make it a drink once this is over."

Talltrees stood up. "And it's going to be over a bit earlier than planned if we don't get that food on your backs to the people inside."

Rick and Eve stood, stiffly after the long break, and settled each other's heavy packs. Talltrees said, "Stay extremely frosty."

"What do you mean, 'frosty'?” Eve asked. "I'm damn near frozen already, but I don't think you mean I should relax and take it easy either."

Rick said, "In the war, 'stay frosty' meant to move carefully, listen hard, and watch in every possible direction because you were deep in Injun country. Umm…I mean hostile territory."

Talltrees chuckled. "No, 'Injun country' is exactly what we'll be going through. Sadly, it's not Indians you need to worry about. Don't stop and don't run. Just keep moving as quietly as you can. I'll be making a little noise but it's an operational necessity. You might call it a bit of psyops. Let's go."

They set off in a single line, Talltrees in front and Rick in the rear. The day was getting brighter and, as promised, a ground fog was rising from the frozen ground. After ten or fifteen minutes, Rick realized that Talltrees, who was walking point, was singing a very low chant. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like the one the young woman had sung when she had sent them off.

The fog thickened and the sharp edges of the prairie landscape faded into soft-edged blurs. Sounds came through the mist with almost preternatural clarity. Rick could hear snoring over to his left, the chunk as a truck door opened, the scrape of a cigarette lighter.

In contrast, he felt that the three of them were drifting through the landscape. Silent. Sure-footed.

A tent appeared out of the mists. A man was sleeping with his head outside the mosquito flap. Rick almost stopped, but Eve reached back, grabbed the strap of his backpack, and pulled him on without a pause. They passed close enough that Rick could see the man's "high and tight" military haircut and a day's worth of stubble on his face. His eyes never opened, and he was soon behind them, lost in the grey fog.

Talltrees kept softly chanting, and they walked another mile or so before he stopped, bent down, picked up a small stone, and threw it ahead of him. The sound of a rifle safety being released was clear, distinct, and right in front of them.

"Walter," said Talltrees softly, "it's me. Don't shoot or you'll ruin today's groceries."

The response was a muffled laugh.

Talltrees waved them forward and around a bunker dug deep into the frozen ground. A young man wearing a surplus Army jacket and a red bandanna waved as they passed. "Save some for me."

The full force of the sun struck, dissipating the fog, as they walked into the tiny hamlet. Slit trenches and bunkers were everywhere. Massive walls made of I-beams and packed earth protected some of the rickety wooden buildings.

There was something familiar about the layout, the seemingly random but effective defensive works with their complete and overlapping fields of fire. It was a shock when Rick realized it was a replica of fortified Viet Cong villages he'd studied as part of his headquarters duties.

Looking around, he realized why. Most of the men he saw waking, making breakfast, or standing guard were clearly veterans. He could tell by the casually careful way they held their weapons, the bits and pieces of uniforms they wore, and the watchful eyes that scanned the surrounding hills.