Steve

This is somewhere past the middle of nowhere. Another hour I'll be on the fringes of some kind of civilization.

A small rise was ahead. He intended to stop on the other side for a smoke and to call Ed. Then he saw the town.

This ain't the desert so that ain't no mirage.

He stopped and got out, lit a cigarette. When he finished it he took out the Commpad and tapped HQ.

"What's up sweetie?"

Miranda? What's she doing there?

"Wish you were here," Steve replied. "Or I was there."

"Me too. Sorry I didn't get to see you before you left."

"Same here. Could you have changed Ed's mind?"

"Not likely," Miranda replied. "What you're doing is important. Important enough to ask for you."

"How much do you know?"

"What you know. Unless you need to know something I don't."

"Probably not. I don't believe there's anything new. Ed's on his way down."

"Steve. About time you got there."

Ed. Edward Morris Stevens the third. Mantis chief.

"There being a couple of miles from the middle of nowhere?" Steve asked.

"You're about a quarter of a a mile from there," Ed replied.

"That bunch of buildings is the middle of nowhere? How'd it get there?"

"Affirmative. You're covered by a Mantis squad and your contact is expecting you. He'll be in the square."

Somebody stuck a little town in the middle of nowhere, gotta have a square. I guess.

"Mike Charlie," Stevens said. "It's a Mantis installation but your contact is need-to-know and only a few in there need to know."

"Gotcha."

He lit a red band cigarette. A modest shot of cannabis wouldn't hurt - whatever was up Stevens wouldn't have sent him if it was gonna be a cakewalk.

The smoke done he dropped the butt and stepped on it. There wasn't much to burn as far as he could see and anyway it was all wet.

As far as he could see the town was one street about two hundred yards long. Metal buildings of various sizes on both sides, an occasional side street. The square was just that - an empty space a hundred or so feet on a side.

As he entered the square a door in one of the buildings opened and a man came out. Steve lowered the window and stopped as the man approached. He held the big Glock 24 across his knees ready but out of sight.

The man was wearing a black commando sweater and didn't let his hands get close to his body. When he was close enough Steve saw the shield on the left breast side. The four-quartered shield with M in the upper left and a C in the lower right.

"Que pasa, Mongoose?" he said.

"Buenas tardes, Viper," Steve replied.

"Call me Ishmael for now," the man said. "Park anywhere."

There were a handful of vehicles, mostly four-wheel-drive trucks like Jenny but not as old. He'd been driving her the day Gordon Williams called him and told him to get himself out of where he was. The only certain viable destination was where Gordon was so there he went. Jenny was a 1976 Chevy Scottsdale on her third engine and second tranny. The latest engine was a diesel and with a third fuel tank gave it an impressive range. He parked near the entrance where Ishmael was waiting and climbed down.

Ishmael held the door while he entered. The room appeared to occupy most of the interior of the building with doors along the sides and back indicating individual rooms. A large conference table occupied the center, a dozen or so high-dollar chairs parked around it. A couple of large digital whiteboards and a very large monitor surrounded by a group of smaller ones were present.

He didn't notice when Ishmael departed because he was looking at the group at the end of the table. A young woman rose and came to greet him.

She was wearing the common khaki - cargo pants and military-styled long-sleeved shirt. She was carrying what looked like a Beretta Brigadier in a crossdraw holster. The only likely indicators of status were an enamel pin above the left shirt pocket and possibly the bracelet occasionally visible as she moved. The Emerald Serpents were a subtle bunch and he was apparently in one of their lairs.

"Welcome, Steve. I'm Bonnie Carver, come over and I'll introduce you."

The grey-bearded guy wouldn't need any introduction, he thought. The explanation might be interesting though. He followed her to the table and both men rose to greet him.

"J. R. MacDonald," Bonnie said indicating the non-gray-bearded man, "Steve Houston." J.R. MacDonald looked about forty-something, early forties. Good-looking healthy outdoors type but clean and well-dressed in the paramilitary khaki. The name rang a bell.

"Meridian?"

MacDonald grinned.

"Heard you were in the area later. Surprised we didn't bump into you."

"I was an observer," Steve replied. "I observed. You guys got the job done."

"We did that. Good to see you in person at last."

"Ed said I would be enlightened upon arrival," Steve said. "I now know the who - how about the why?"

"Grab a seat," Bonnie said. "I'll whistle up some refreshments. Anything special?"

"Whatever the captain is having," Steve replied. He sat down across from MacDonald and Bonnie sat beside him and opened her Commpad.

"Ed said you know Anthony," said Bonnie.

"He could talk when I knew him before," Steve replied.

"He could," Bonnie replied. "He still can but it's taxing. He can hear and think just fine. And he's accustomed to sitting and listening to people talking about him - it's not pleasant but it's what it is."

"What happened?"

Anthony Parker had lit a cigarette and was watching without expression. A young man and woman entered with a serving cart. Both appeared to be about the same age and related. Siblings?

"Captain's favorite," the woman said, setting an amber bottle at his place. She set an ice bucket with a bottle of wine on the table with a glass for Bonnie. It was the Captain's favorite for MacDonald and the Anthony as well.

By the time they were finished and departed Anthony had finished his smoke and poured his beer. Steve and MacDonald did the same.

"Mark and Marie are twins," Bonnie said. "They're Bill Garrrison's youngest kids. You'll meet him later."

Heard of him. Wasn't sure if he existed.

"Thought he was out in Colorado," Steve said.

"Normally he is," Bonnie replied. "It's his base. He'll explain."

"Beer's good," Steve said.

"You passed through Amagon about twelve miles back," Bonnie said. "Did you notice a place called Arthur's on the main drag?"

"Looked like a restaurant or bar," Steve replied.

"They have a small brewery. This is one of their house beers."

"Arthur have a relationship with you besides selling beer?"

"Henry does. Henry Porter. Arthur's is the name of the establishment."

"I wondered where he went," Steve said. "He disappeared after Black Sunday."

"He was shot up pretty good," said Bonnie. "He and his group covered the getaway. They blew the bridge over Caney Creek to stop the pursuit. He lived but barely. Arthur's is a cover for an observation post and a network of safe houses, and other things."

"How is he?"

"Pretty good actually, considering. He's got steel rods holding his left leg together, has some pain but is as mobile as he needs to be. There's still plenty he can do."

"Makes good beer. What next?"

"Business," Bonnie replied. "Let's get