Scott

I didn't get out of bed without waking Cheryl. Never do. The Commpad didn't wake her but me getting up did.

"Going somewhere?" she asks sleepily. Cheryl is thirty-four and once in a while puts on her high school cheerleader uniform to tease old friends who are about our age. Used to anyway, until a couple of years ago. Maybe it made the move with us but if so she's never got it out again. We were inseparable for a dozen years or so after high school. Neither of us bothered going to college - we both worked at a local bank while going to the community college in Franklin City. She was a teller and I worked in accounting while I got an associates in information technology as they called it then and she got hers in accounting. We moved to Farnborough to get our four-year degrees at MSU and worked at a bigger bank there. Then I got hired by a little developer there for a lot more money and we had a pretty good time until things fell apart.

We were both in with some preppers, us both liking guns a lot and not caring for the government. When it got real in November of XX we checked out and went to an enclave on Crawleys Ridge and figured to wait it out. Somebody had other plans.

The feds had one of their little shows at one of our neighbors we found ourselves in on the fun. Several of the pigeons got loose and headed our way and while we didn't mind helping them out it got us in the mix. Three dead feds in our back yard and we skedaddled up here. It's clean so far, nobody got a clue what's going on but you never know. Cheryl and I have a little house on the south side of the ridge, a half dozen or so sheep around us. The sheep have no idea who we are and don't care and our occasional visitors don't arouse any curiosity. At least they don't let on - Gordon says they're all reliable.

"Gordon wants me," I say. The screensaver on the computer across the room clicks over to 0432.

Silence. What am I supposed to say?

"Go," she says after a minute. "He wouldn't call if it wasn't important."

She's right, and I feel like... what do I feel like? Two months ago I came back looking something like no self-respecting cat would bother to drag in. That was sixteen days after Gordon called me at 0-3-something and said he had a small problem. Gordon doesn't call me for small problems. There's a couple dozen guys can handle small problems.

I turn and slide off the bed and hit the floor in the position. Hundred and ten. Why didn't I stop at a hundred?

Cheryl is sitting there on the bed watching me. I hate doing this to her, she knows but it doesn't make it easier.

What would make it easier?

Even after three weeks at it I'm still winded at one-ten. Roll over and look up. Strawberry blonde angel looking down at me. Thing is she knows someday there might not be enough of me for the cat to drag in.

Sit up, she leans over, silk pajama sleeve brushes my forehead, kisses me.

"Go," she says. "I'll be all right."

Brush my teeth and run the clipper over the beard, shower and dress. One thing that's always easy - a dozen pairs of olive cargo pants always there, black T-shirt. Put on the knaki long-sleeved shirt over it and button it up about halfway. Pull on boots, grab my favorite boonie hat. One of a half dozen I picked up what seems like a half dozen decades ago instead of only two - this one has a bullet hole in it.

Gordon has a station on Emerald Ridge and he's been there a good bit lately and that's where he is now.. I don't know the grand strategy but I know the Southern Alliance as they call it is leaning on his organization quite a bit to keep the north border secure. That's where is is now and I'm on my way back. My old Chevy Scottsdale is about as innocent-looking as anything on the roads and fits right in here. Dad bought a couple of them new back in '75 and they stayed with the farm when he died. My kid brother took the other one and what happened to it I don't know. Him either, last I heard he was in the deal at Cherry Valley and hope he made it out but info on that has been hard to come by. Cassie as I call her is on her fourth engine and third tranny. Old Chevies were tough. Not as tough as the Dodges but there you are. Cassie and I are closer than me and Cheryl by a ways but I won't be the one to say it. Cassie is a truck and Cheryl is another thing entirely. She is kinda fond of Cassie though, but maybe because Cassie got us out of that little kerfluffle with the feds. Thirty-something miles of bad backroads trying to get to a safe place can do that to you.

It's about thirty miles from where Cheryl and I stay so Cassie and I got an easy drive. A little town called Cedar Hollow sits on the lee side of Crawley's Ridge, it being tornado country there ain't much on the other side. Population 312 according to the sign but it looks pretty old. The population might be more because of people coming out here - that's the case with some places. I suspect it is because if Gordon is using it he's got some people in there among the population. Manpower is one thing he doesn't have a problem, for reasons not known to many but it has to do with having access to very large amounts of money. So he's using this place even occasionally he's got a few hardmen in there to back up his intel folks. Sometimes guys that are good with electronics of various kinds aren't exactly special forces types.

I know to turn into a gap in a fence grown up with weeds and vines this time of year. It's almost exactly a quarter mile from the highway and since it's the only one for a couple hundred yards it's easy to hit. Another couple hundred yards and I'm at the compound gate. I stop and wait while a couple of guys in camo BDUs emerge from the brush and open it - they look me over good as I go through. Not taking any chances.

An bunch of old farm buildings and grain bins that don't look much different outside than they did ten years ago are quite a bit different inside. I park at a half-circle of six bins with a stair leading to a walkway that accesses all six. It's the only way in except for the secret one - it's on the ground hidden in vegetation. I've been in here a couple of times and Gordon has put a good bit of work into it. I park Cassie and dismount.

Two guys in plain khaki nod casually as I head up the stairs. Damn things are thirty-something feet high - not high as some of these things go - and the walkway is three floors up. And I'm going to the fifth one - not the first, not the last, the fifth. Gordon is paranoid about three times as much as he needs to be but I'm used to it.

The inside of the old grain bin - about thirty feet across - is pretty luxurious for a field office. Hardwood floor and wood paneled walls, windows all the way around. At the top of the stairs I'm greeted by a beautiful young woman. No surprise there, Gordon always has one or two of those. This one is wearing the unadorned knakis I see a lot, a cool beauty probably in the mid thirties. Five seven or so, willowy build, shoulder length black hair. Old school 1911 in a cross-draw holster. Gordon's people are different some say. I'm not as old as Gordon but old enough to know things some don't.

"This way," she says and I follow here across the big round room to a partition set about ten feet or so from the wall. It's about twenty feet long and we walk around one end. Gordon is sitting facing the window, feet up on the ledge that runs around the room, chewing on a cigar.

He's probably ten years older than me, somewhere in there. Retired Air Force colonel - never one to play the game to get a star. He only retired a couple of years before the big blowup, had already moved up here and was in with a group preppers which is how I first met him.

He turns around and puts his feet up on the desk and doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

"Might as well sit down," he says after a bit. I sit down.

"One to ten," he says, "how are you?"

I'd be lying if said a hundred percent or even ninety, but what if I said I feel like shit?

"Three-quarters full I reckon," I say.

Gordon gets up and walks over to a little bar, pours a couple of glasses half full of Wild Turkey. Rare Breed. He doesn't do it to impress me - he doesn't need to impress anyone. But he wouldn't do it for just anyone - even though he has a serious stash of liquor laid in before. Tobacco too, and other stuff. You know some things will be expensive when the supply gets throttled.

Hands me a glass and a pack of Backwoods cigars. I take one and light it, he lights his. We sip whiskey and smoke.

"If you're not a hundred percent," he says after a while, "it's not that important. What I need is security and I've got the warm bodies - I need you to make sure they get the job done. As in absolutely positively no leaks. You'll have a force of a dozen men, already vetted by Darkstar. You approve them before they're accepted."

"That's it?" I ask.

Gordon grins, something he rarely does. Blows some smoke.

"What do you think?"

"You don't call me unless it's bad. Or about to get that way. Or already did."

"It could," he says. "And that's why I need you. Do you know who Peter Reynolds is?"

"Not a clue."

"The Black Monday affair? The most recent one anyway. Pete Reynolds was one of the most wanted after that. Probably the most wanted.

"Refresh my memory."

"Pete Reynolds was one of the main ones they were after. Of the others one bought the farm and took out three ISD agents in the process and Will Chambers was captured. Shot up good and they had him in a hospital at Clarendon. Nearest place that had a hospital that had a chance at keeping him alive. Pete got clean away. Along with a handful of others that weren't considered that important."

"Yeah, I remember seeing that in a briefing. What was it, three, four months ago?"

"Six," Gordon says. "Remember the rest of it?"

"Don't remember gettin' any updates. Should I?"

I'm beginning to get annoyed for some reason but I can't quite put a finger on it.

"Probably not," Gordon says. "It wasn't seriously high-priority even if Pete hadn't put together a squad and busted Chambers out. They didn't have much security, between him being not much in shape to make trouble and the place being easy to secure. Small town, you could see anybody coming easy. They decided to move him, had an ambulance disguised as a delivery truck. He didn't need anything special by then - IVs and such - this was three weeks after they got him. Just him on a gurney and a couple of guards in the truck and a half dozen escorts, chopper covering them. They still don't know - but we do - how he knew we would extract him. He was in better shape than they figured so when they isolated the truck and neutralized the guards he got up and walked to the getaway vehicle. Anyway it wasn't bad enough they lost a dozen or men on top of losing Pete."

Gordon hasn't talked that much as long as I've know him. I wait.

"Pete has one third of the keys to Premium Upgrade," Gordon says. "It's a pretty big operation. A dozen critical targets hit simultaneously. Has to be all at once, within an hour or so. Tolerance is for two to fail but absolutely no more. Problem is they know Pete is here, approximately, and are trying to get him. This time it's just a straight-up hit. They don't care what else he may know - just stop him from getting back with the other Archangels."

"You seem to have it pretty well under control," I say. "Intelligence-wise anyway."

"We do. We just need Pete secured. In a coupls of days we need him at a meeting at Point Greco. No big deal there - just manage the convoy that will deliver him. It'll be six or seven days - I need you to make sure no one gets close to him or even knows where he is."

Gordon calls Peter Reynolds Pete like they're acquainted on a personal level. Not like him to let emotions into things - maybe it's not important. Or maybe it is.

"OK," I say. "What do you need me to do?"

"Keep him safe and get him to Point Greco two days from now. You know where Point Greco is?"

"Nope."

I have a general idea but I'm probably not supposed to.

"It's about a three hour trip," Gordon says. "You'll be in a convoy, multiple decoys, two choppers. Should be a milk run but the fact is we don't always know what the enemy knows. Statistically they should have no clue where Pete is but we can't take any chances. You drive him, just you and him in the car. Half dozen vehicles in front and back of you. If there is trouble you make sure he stays alive."

"What's the straight on Reynolds," I ask. "This is a lot of rigamarole that shouldn't be that hard."

"You don't know Pete."

I don't say anything and Gordon grins and gets up. Goes over to the bar. Brings back a couple of fresh drinks.

"Pete and I are about the same age," he says. "Known each other about that long - that's not something most know. We grew up in Vanndale, little wide spot in the road south of Brookland. Paranoid didn't come close to describing Pete forty years ago. But he's one of the smartest people on earth, got Asperger's which is the case with a lot of people like that. I told him about you, he looked you over and said he's good with you as his bodyguard.

"You got about a week to keep him company before delivering him to the meet. You just keep an eye on him and make sure he's delivered. He's actually pretty entertaining, you won't be bored."

Boredom was about the last thing I was worrying about.

"Just hang out with him and make sure nobody whacks him or absconds with him?"

"The latter is what they'd like," Gordon replies. "But it would be pretty difficult so if they can locate him they'll just try to kill him."

I don't ask why they don't just go ahead and move him now. There's probably a good reason that I don't need to know.

"Where's the data on the team?"

Gordon takes a USB stick out of his pocket and plugs it into a computer sitting on a table beside his desk. Airgapped.

I sit down and Gordon takes our glasses over to the bar. He brings another glass and sets it down on the table.

I don't know any of the guys but if I can trust the dossiers they should do.

"Looks all right," I say. "Where are they?"

"I assembled them two days ago. They're in quarters waiting for you to show."

---

Point Greco is an hour near due west of where Gordon's place is. From there it's about three hours to where Peter Reynolds is stashed. So four hours later Cassie is rolling up he drive to Peter's domicile. The squad is coming along later - I going to get myself settled down. Gordon said Reynolds is eccentric and there's some indications in his dossier. Refuses to fly even the two-hour trip to Yardway. Take off, fly a couple hours and land. Ride back on the ground if you want.

No, and Pete's never even been in a crash. I have and figure it's kind of like being struck by lightning - it could happen twice but generally that's even unlikelier than it happening the first time. He apparently was present for an IFE or two and figured sooner or later they'll get him. I figure he could be right but are you never gonna fly again no matter what?

I suppose he could. The war is mostly over for him - he got shot up a bit in that affair and he's as old as Gordon. He's carrying around some information that some people want and some more people don't want the ones who want it to get it.

Something like that. I park Cassie and dismount. Nobody around but what I'm guessing is the main part of this affair is in front of me. It looks like a big log cabin - a really big one - but of modern construction. All the logs are regular and smooth, like enormous Lincoln Logs. The roof looks like the modern sheet-metal you see everywhere though. Dark green, logs look like they're stained brown.

I see a pair of doors somewhere around the center of the wall and head that way. They open before I get there.

I know him from the pictures. Not looking bad for his age, could be a few years younger than the dossier says. Taller than me and but I'm just a hair above average. Got all his hair and it's all grey, still got that catlike walk, the look too. Not missing a thing. Beard a little longer than most of us wear it but neat.

He's wearing an olive five-button Henley tucked into a pair of jeans, pricey-looking boat shoes that look like my Timberlands. Carrying a shotgun, a single-shot shotgun. A little one most likely a four-ten. A pair of cats some running from somewhere and Pete points the shotgun at some trees and fires. The cats go running towards the tree he shot at. He breaks the gun and ejects the empty and fishes another out of a pocket and reloads. After a while he shoots at the trees again and I see a bird drop the the ground.

"I about got'em spoiled," he says. "Dunno why cats are so crazy about birds, hard as they are to come by. That's a mama and one of her kittens. Cats are generally good about sharing food but they won't share a bird. If I just shoot one and mama gets it she'll growl and snap at junior if he gets close."

"Cat's are hard to figure anyway," I say. "For me at least."

Cheryl and I had a cat for a few years before, she liked it a lot and it mostly ignored me unless she was gone for a while and I had to make sure it was fed. It got left behind and we didn't get another one even after we got kind of settled again. Too many other things to deal with

"Better come on in," he says. "The boys they got watching me feel better when I'm inside."

Gordon said he had six guys up here, all in sniper's nests around the place. Any hostile visitors have a surprise if they try sneaking a small team in. If they send up heavy equipment we'd haved plenty of warning but infiltrators are a possibility.

Inside I find a huge room that looks like it takes up most of the building but I see a row of doors at each end suggesting there are some rooms there. A humongous oriental rug has got some chairs around a coffee table. One of the doors opens and a young woman emerges.

Dusky skin and silky black hair, slim and about average height. Parachute pants and a tight T-shirt, flimsy sandals with chains on both ankles. Couple of bracelets on one wrist and one on the other, necklace with what looks like a locket. I'm guessing she's wearing a belly chain. Or two.

Stop dammit! Cheryl knew what I'm thinking....

Actually Cheryl has a pretty good sense of humor and knows there's nobody but her for me but she also knows I like to look at pretty women. Who the hell doesn't?

"Get you something to drink?" she asks.

"You good with Jack?" Pete asks.

I nod and look at the deer heads on the wall. Pretty woman goes towards a corner where there's a kitchen affair with a bar.

Pete and I sit down in lazy-boys and he takes out a pouch of cigarillos and tosses it over. I take one and toss it back and we light up as the beautiful young woman brings us glasses of what I presume is Jack Daniels. Most us either had a stash before things started coming unglued or know someone who does. I know people who do.

"Alex," Peter says, "this here is Scott Walker. You've heard his name a few times, here he is. The way he lives he may not be around long enough for you to run into him again. Scott, meet Alexandra Paulson. She keeps stuff in order around here and I try to stay out of the way."

"I've heard a lot about you," Alex says with a nice almost shy smile. Not fooling me, she looks like a gymnast that's been retired for a couple of years and moves like she has some martial arts training. Not surprising, there isn't any window dressing in this business.

"Nothing good I hope," I reply.

"Opinions vary," she says. "But since I get to see you in action..."

"If there's any action it means someone has screwed up big time," I say. "Except for when the convoy rolls out day after tomorrow."

"I can't imagine you screwing up," she says. Pete just grins and keeps his mouth shut.

"If anybody tries to get in here they'll be the ones screwing up," I say. "Let's hope they know that."

"Do they know you're here?"

"Probably by now," I say.

"That should be enough to dissuade them," Alex says.

"Don't bet on it. This is big. And they know how big."