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Cawdor or his people, except for the carbon Whittaker had discovered.
Conte played his flash over the vehicle, raking it from stem to stern. "Is it driveable?"
"Should be," Cruse replied. "I'll have to look it over some before I know for sure."
"Get it done, and let me know." Burroughs had made sure his team had been cross-trained
in a number of areas over the decades, and there wasn't a man in the group who couldn't
fix most of the vehicles they had. The major bad burned it into memory that without
mobility, they didn't stand a chance of rebuilding the nation.
"Yes sir."
Conte returned to the main room. He was of average height, but broad shouldered. His
blond hair was longer than regulation length, but Burroughs hadn't commented on it.
Turley was buttoning up his tool kit, a disgusted look on his face.
"What have you got, Mike?" Conte asked.
"Cranky bastard's still operational," Turley said, hooking a thumb back over his shoulder
toward the mat-trans unit. "But you climb in, you get a one-way back to White Sands.
Directional programmings been gutted. Just like I thought."
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"Any idea where we are?" Conte had tried the radio as soon as he'd arrived. Nobody was
in range that he could pick up, except for his own people.
"None." He let out a long breath. His brow was furrowed as he looked up over his cupped
hands and lit a cigarette. "No way to tell from this piece of shit, sir."
"Disable it," Conte said, "just in case. Even if the unit's only a receiver with one point of
delivery, I don't care to think about what may come through after us."
"Yes sir. Hadn't thought about that."
"That's why they made me sergeant." Conte went into the other room containing the cryo
units. He glanced at the dead man. "Wish I knew who the hell you were and what you
were doing here. Cut down on some worry."
A hundred years, he thought sourly, and maybe they had a lead on the information leak
they were supposed to have been guarding against in their initial assignment. He went up
the ladder to the cave. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to establish a beachhead of
sorts wherever they were. It was irritating not to know why. That was one of the reasons
Conte had always liked military life: everything was pretty much spelled out for a guy,
leaving no empty spaces or idle wondering.
He paused in the mouth of the cave and looked at the footsteps only partially covered by
snow. Then he lifted his gaze to the valley, sweeping across it. Ryan Cawdor was out
there somewhere. It might take some time, but he knew they could track the man down
and terminate him with extreme prejudice.
After all, if Cawdor wasn't going to throw his lot in with them, he was a dangerous
enemy of the United States of America. One thing Sergeant George Conte didn't abide
was a traitor.
THERE WERE FOUR WAGS, all four-wheel drive and rigged for off-road travel. Two
of them had started their lives as pickups, the third had been a van and the last a military
jeep still bearing insignia that had almost faded out.
The jeep was in the lead, bearing down on Jak, Krysty, Doc and the young Celt. Two men
rode in the back, hanging on behind a machine gun that was bolted to a crossbar. The
whine of the straining transmission drowned out all other noise.
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Doc and Krysty went to cover at once, dodging behind trees. Jak grabbed Tarragon and
pulled him behind a boulder. His .357 Magnum was settled across the top of the big rock
before Ryan had time to draw another breath.
Ryan moved behind a shelf of rock and brought the Steyr to his shoulder, scanning the
new arrivals through the rifle's scope. None of them appeared to be dressed in green, but
they weren't easy-living men, either. Scars and weapons were worn like badges of office.
The jeep came to an abrupt halt less then fifteen yards from Doc and Krysty's position.
A short, broad man dressed in a leather flying jacket and aviator's cap and goggles stood
up in the driver's seat and held on to the front windshield. He reached up and took a well-
chewed cigar from the corner of his wide, thick-lipped mouth. "Well, bloody hell,
people," he yelled. "These effing rescue efforts only go so effing far. Now shit or get off
the bloody pot."
"Who the hell are you?" Ryan shouted back.
"Blackjack Gehrig. These are my boys, devil take 'em if they ain't."
"What's your interest in us?" Ryan asked. Over to his right he saw Jak reach out and snare
Tarragon, who was suddenly trying to go back the way they'd come.
"You got those bloody tree-huggers chasing you, like to set your arse on fire if they catch
you," Gehrig stated, "You figure a bloke needs much more in this day and age than a
common enemy?"
"I do," Ryan answered.
Footsteps sounded at his side, and J.B. was suddenly there. "We're between a rock and a
hard spot if they're against us, too."
Ryan nodded. "Make them pay for the privilege, though."
Gehrig waved at the machine gunner. The heavy assault gun came around and pointed up
the mountainside. A loud barrage pealed across the valley, and white smoke from the
heated barrel twisted into the slight breeze and disappeared. Brass spewed out over the
ground.
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The line of .50-caliber bullets smashed into the mountainside. Two of the Celts went
down, and the others found cover wherever it was available.
"You're a bloody fool if you don't take the hand that's offered," Gehrig said. "Never had
anybody turn down a bona fide rescue before." He bent his head and struck a self-light,
holding it to the end of his cigar.
"Still looking for the strings," Ryan said.
"Take a look at what you have to trade," Gehrig suggested. "I'm no frigging stoneheart,
'cept to those fucking would-be dryads."
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