How High the Moon, Part 2
An operation to destroy a powerful, secret weapon forces Nora to confront her past
An operation to destroy a powerful, secret weapon forces Nora to confront her past.
Here's why I need to stop posting things before I have the whole story written. Anyway, after a lengthy delay, here's the second part of the story (first part here). It covers the operation itself, and the aftermath, and Nora's future. I hope a recap isn't needed, but if so: in a dieselpunk alternate history, Colorado is building a death ray. Californian special forces pilot Nora Fletcher has to team up with American Bailey Hawkins to stop them--and the head of the project, who happens to be Nora's long-lost fiancé. Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff.
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
"How High the Moon," by Rob Baird. Part 2/2
"Do you think we can even trust these blueprints?" Bailey asked.
That question had been gnawing at Nora, too. The marten tapped her claws against the table idly. "I don't know. Whalen Virgil says they check out. He doesn't have a reason to want us to fail. Right? I don't think he does."
"I hope he doesn't. But he's still Californian, and I'm still not." The heeler gave her a dangerous grin. "You can understand my caution. I just don't like any of our options. It's all close-quarters, and they can bring reinforcements in any time they want. And there's, what, six of us? That's what you said?"
With enough fuel to reach the Coloradan base, the Hughes XA-3 didn't have much carrying capacity left over. "Six," Nora confirmed. "And I guess the locals probably won't help."
Captain Yazzie was in touch with a handful of disloyal Coloradans, but Bailey was quick to point out the obvious: they'd definitely want to help, but all of them together still didn't amount to an army that could take on the base's defenders. They were going to be hard-pressed just getting enough plastique into the compound to do any meaningful damage.
Felix Ruiz finally landed in late afternoon, along with a second Lockheed transport. Captain Ruiz introduced himself curtly to Bailey, and handed Nora the crew manifest. She knew all of the names, which represented the most-qualified personnel in California's Special Operations department.
"Pick two, I guess," Bailey said.
"Two?"
"Well, they'll want you, me, and Captain Ruiz here. Captain Yazzie will introduce us to the locals, and he has the maps. And the supplies they've been caching for the resistance, don't forget. That leaves two slots. And before either of you ask: no, I'm not happy about being the only American on this operation. Feel distinctly outnumbered, even."
Ruiz scowled. "Well, count yourself lucky, then: I'm not going. They're having me supervise installing some radio that works with your codes, but I'm not on the mission itself. They want another Federal soldier. Your commander recommended a 'Sergeant Berman.' I don't know who he is, but I hope he can fly an XA-3."
"She. Jodi. And, no, a marksman," Bailey said. "Berman can't fly a damn thing. Fuck--if I leave you two alone, you're not gonna conspire or anything, are you? I'll try talking Haro out of his paranoia, but I might as well try having some of my own in exchange."
"Hurry back and we won't get into too much trouble," Nora promised. When the door closed behind him, she drew Ruiz's attention to the blueprints. "Did they tell you much?"
"No, ma'am. They only said they wanted the Hopliter for a mission into Colorado territory. A joint mission, even if it means letting the Americans crawl all over our secrets."
"It's worth it. I hope," she added. "How's the plane?"
"In good shape. The Mojave team got everything fixed with the starboard wing. I cycled it a dozen times, just to be sure, and the full details are in the log if you want. Is this a radio or something? A transmitter?" He was staring at the plans she'd been working on with Commander Hawkins. "What makes it so important?"
"International relations." Belatedly, just in case they weren't meant for his eyes, she folded the blueprints up. "Did you have a chance to talk to Captain Karchey?"
The mention of her name only puzzled the bobcat further. He blinked in confusion. "No, I came right over to see you, major. What's Alice doing here? We must've found something, I guess, in Colorado. Must be pretty bad, too, if it's got us working with the federales."
"It is. They better keep you on the mission, is all I'm saying. And that'll give me a chance to explain a bit more." The XA-3 was a prototype aircraft: setting aside the military wisdom of letting the United States take a look at it, it was unreasonable to expect even Bailey to stand in for a proper test pilot like Ruiz.
But the heeler returned with bad news: General Haro wouldn't budge, and Colonel Virgil was backing him up on it. Felix Ruiz would need to stay behind. The bobcat shook his head and left with a growled: I told you so. And the pair went back to figuring out what to do with Trappers Peak.
Piecing together the technical reports, which confirmed the Pashkov beam had only a limited firing arc, and Hawkin's realization that their reconnaissance photos depicted a landed aerostat, finally hinted at a useful vulnerability. When the weapon was fully operational, the aerostat would hover directly over above it, with mirrors to deflect the beam in any direction. "Destroying that wouldn't be enough," the heeler said. "They could just build another one."
"And in the meantime, the firing arc is still wide enough that they'd be able to shoot down any bombers, if you tried that angle."
"We will." He shook his head knowingly when Nora stared at him in disbelief. "General Haro told me that if this operation doesn't work, they have 'contingencies.' That makes sense, right? It'd be a gamble if they didn't have a backup plan."
"You'd take incredible losses, though. Even if some of the aircraft make it."
"What do they say? 'The bomber will always get through.'" Bailey finished his mug of coffee like he was polishing off a shot of something more potent. "It'll be bad, I agree. So we'd better pull off our end, y'know?"
"I know. Something tells me Republic Air Command won't be as eager to volunteer for a heavy bomber sortie. We don't even have strategic bombers."
"What--you don't think the Hercules would work?"
"There's only three of those." And California had only let Hughes continue with the project because the industrialist was too important to annoy--even if the massive wooden seaplanes were all but useless. "They'd be sitting ducks for that ray."
"True. How about the Galaxies, then?" He raised an eyebrow at the look she gave him. "You know, the wing of Mitsubishi twins you used to station at Redding? Made sure the news covered it when the Japanese 'ended' the lease? You guessed nobody noticed that they quietly upgraded all your Betties to P1Ys, just because you transferred the wing down to Davis so we couldn't see 'em on radar? C'mon..."
"Look, Bailey, I don't make policy for the Republic." And she hadn't closely followed the bomber wing, although there had definitely been rumors that their Japanese allies had swapped the Mitsubishi G4Ms for Yokosuka P1Ys--faster, with twice the range for the same bombload. "I'm not sure what we'd do. Tokyo might not want to see them used like--look, it doesn't matter. We can't let it get to that point, anyway. Agreed?"
Bailey said nothing about her assertion, turning his attention back to the blueprints. "So what do you think about about the reflector in the middle? These structures around it must be part of the steering apparatus. It looks like the mirror is suspended above the ground. Taking out the supports would cripple the weapon, at least--maybe destroy the mirror altogether."
"They could just install a new one, though."
"Sure. But think about it like this: they haven't tested it with the aerial reflector yet. That'll take fine-tuning, experimentation, refinement--if we smash the beam enough to set them back, and they don't have Dr. Wittrock helping them..."
She nodded. "Perhaps they'd at least think twice about sniping your airplanes out of the sky."
"Right. Now..." He dragged one of the aerial photographs over. "I think these are guyed. Four towers, each with three stays anchoring it. And then... three of them have a larger, matching tower further out? Why only three?"
"They're upgrading them. That must be how they'll keep the aerostat in place, too."
"That makes sense, yes."
"And if that's true? Then that means this is where we hit." She tapped her claw against a collection of construction equipment. "Where the fourth tower is still being built. Look at these vehicles. That's not a Colorado Army logo on the side." The photos were, she had to admit, of remarkable quality. Alice Karchey must've been having a good time analyzing them.
"Civilians. You think we can blend in?"
"I think there's enough activity that they're less likely to notice us. I'd recommend Jim Rascon and Fred Reed. They're alright with demolitions, but they can also think on their feet. And they look very... nondescript."
By early evening, the plan took concrete form. According to the two Navajo soldiers, local partisans would be able to get the two commandos into the compound. Sergeant Berman would observe from a safe distance, with a radio and a sniper rifle, to cover them if anything went wrong. That left Nora and Bailey to take care of Remington Wittrock; her task would be to positively identify the mountain lion.
Neither Rascon nor Reed offered any objections to their part of the job, although she doubted it would be as easy as they made it sound. She doubted the exit, too: with the explosives set on a timer, the team would return to their aircraft and escape, and with any luck they'd make it to the landing site undetected so Colorado wouldn't know where to focus their border guards until it was too late. Nora really thought she'd just be crossing her fingers: luck hadn't really been with her up to that point.
And it kept getting worse. "Good news and bad news," Bailey told her the very next day. They were having lunch when he'd been called away, and he returned looking grim.
"Start with the bad."
He shook his head. "It wouldn't make sense. The good news is, all three governments have provisionally approved the operation. The bad news is: we do it today."
"What?"
"Your experts looked at our newest pictures. They say Colorado's only a few weeks away from being able to make the device operational. And local intelligence says the Covey chain will be undergoing maintenance tomorrow evening, so if we can sneak in tonight, we'll have cover to make it back without them zapping our engines. The Colorado resistance can organize for supplies and fuel to be ready, if we are. They're saying it's now or never."
"Does the rest of the team know?"
"The update came from Captain Yazzie, so he knows. I'm having the others meet us at the hangar as soon as they can. We're getting your plane prepared. I guess I should see what we'll be riding into the Valley of Death, eh?"
"I guess."
The Hughes XA-3 looked not entirely unlike the Lockheed Electra she'd flown in on: roughly the same length, with twin tails outboard of a broad horizontal stabilizer. Its wings were high-mounted, though, and the engine nacelles faced upwards, allowing ground clearance for its two massive rotors. "A helicopter," Bailey said. "Should've guessed when you said we could land anywhere."
"Almost."
"Almost anywhere?"
She pulled the hatch open to let the plane air out. "Almost a helicopter."
"It looks a lot like the German ones, with the two rotors on the wings like that. Those still count as helicopters in my book." Nora pointed to the engine nacelle, and the shape of the inboard wing on either side. Bailey's head cocked lightly. "These move?"
"They'll come all the way forward," she confirmed. Rotated level, the engine nacelles and the outboard wing attached to them mated perfectly with the inner wing to form one continuous surface. They could not, however, be swiveled that way on the ground--not without the rotor blades digging in. "The whole wing and the control surfaces sit in the propwash, too. That's what keeps the wing short."
"How fast?"
"Unladen? At altitude? Two-fifty and change. We won't be either of those, so I'm not quite sure."
Bailey pushed himself up in the open hatch so he could look into the cockpit. "I'm just assuming you know how to fly something like this..."
"How hard can it be? Two engines, two tails--basically an Electra with bigger props, right?"
"An Electra with props pointed the wrong way. That matters, you know. I'm pretty sure it matters, at least..."
"It matters. Yeah--Captain Ruiz and I are both in the program. There's only two prototypes right now, though, and every time they almost finish a new one we have to cannibalize it for parts." She walked around it slowly, checking the machinery she'd known to be most troublesome in her history with the type. "Hughes isn't exactly known for playing it safe. I'm told this one works..."
"Okay. But now, I'm asking seriously." Bailey let himself back down, leaning around the nose to stare at her skeptically. "How gullible do you think I am?"
"Enough, hopefully." And she didn't really have the time to give him anything more than perfunctory training, so the bulk of the work would have to be on her. "They've mostly been reliable in service."
Sergeant Berman was the next to arrive: a sharp-eyed vixen, who immediately fixed her attention on the odd-looking craft. "This is how we're getting to Colorado, sir? Does it... fly? For real?"
"Our Californian friends assure us it will. And speaking of them..."
"Rascon and Reed are on their way," Berman said. "We were going over the maps, anyway--I guess this must mean we're starting early?"
Bailey smiled darkly. "To hear tell of it, the best-case scenario now is that we're starting on time."
"Beginning the operation today?"
"We'll fly in today, camp, and execute tomorrow. When the two others get here, study the maps and do what you can to figure out the questions you'll want to ask of our local contacts. We've been promised updated maps and intelligence when we land."
"Nothing from the photo boys, sir?"
"No time to plan for a launch. What we have now is it, until we're on the ground."
She whistled. "Oh, boy."
The commandos huddled in the lengthening shadow of the fuselage, talking amongst themselves. Nora read through the XA-3's maintenance log, taking periodic glances towards the sky. The weather was clear; visibility, if they wound up flying at night, would be good, with plenty of moonlight. None of it was ideal, of course, but if they had no other option...
"Major," Bailey summoned her attention curtly, and nodded in the direction of a Federal soldier striding in their direction. "I think this might be it. Let's get ready."
She climbed into the cockpit and waited. The airman came to smart attention. "Commander Hawkins?"
"At ease. What's going on?"
Nora hadn't seen the man before, but from his haste he seemed to understand the importance of his message. He handed over a few sheets of paper; she caught glimpses of a map, a telegram, and a page crowded in dense type. "United DC-4 went off-course. It's in neutral territory, now, but it might cross into Colorado airspace. We're scrambling to intercept. I'm sure they will be, too, just as soon as their listening posts figure out what's going on."
"Right. You're dismissed. Mount up!" he called to the others.
Nora buckled her harness and started bringing the XA-3 to life while Bailey checked to make sure the rest of the team was seated and their equipment was all in place. The building whine of twin turboshafts muffled any concerns the marten might've indulged. They had no time for that, not anymore.
Bailey took the other seat, leaving the cockpit door open and glancing outside. "You're clear to starboard. And they're all ready to go in back."
"Same here, I think. Ready." The RPM gauges for both engines were firmly in the green range, and the longer they sat on the ground the more the fuel-hungry turbines consumed for no good reason. She motioned for Bailey to pull the hatch shut; their takeoff clearance came only a few seconds later.
Howard Hughes thought the XA-3's rotorblades looked like spears in the line drawings he was given early on in the project--that was the official explanation Nora had been given, anyway. But "Hopliter" was first and foremost a pun: the aircraft was designed for quick, short trips within California's growing cities. She was used to flying it nearly empty, not with the plane needing full power to pull itself aloft.
Next to her, Bailey's attention flitted between the ground slowly receding beneath them and the instrument panel. "We'll be fine," Nora promised, though the further they pulled out of ground effect the less the Hopliter felt like behaving. "You don't have to look down."
"Yeah? This is one of those 'watched pot' situations?"
"Maybe. And right now, we're low enough that we'd survive the drop. So don't worry."
She rotated the engines slightly forward, until lift from the airflow over the wings did the trick. It was properly docile again by twenty knots, when she felt comfortable retracting the landing gear. "You've got at least ten level miles, straight ahead," Commander Hawkins said. It looked that way, too, from the sunset-lit shadows, but she was happy to have a navigator with first-hand experience.
Not that they'd need it. The tiltrotor was flying well, and climbing. A solid thunk announced both nacelles locking into place, with the reinforcing bolts that let her switch the engines and propellers into 'cruise' mode. They were at a hundred and twenty knots, gaining altitude steadily. "Twelve thousand feet, 130 degrees?"
"That's right. We should see our friends soon enough."
"What am I looking for?"
"I'm not sure. Probably P-84s. They'll look like Grumman Panthers. Straight wings. Smokey."
The element of jet fighters, the newest Republic Aviation had to offer, found her first. One of them settled on each wing, barely exerting themselves to match speed with the XA-3, itself at nearly full throttle. She listened silently to the radio calls between Mountain Home, the P-84s, and--eventually--the United DC-4 being used as bait.
The new voice sounded appropriately stressed. "United 17, mayday. Our radio navigation has failed and we're running low on fuel. Can anyone hear us?"
"United 17, this is Dog Four, southeast Idaho watch. How do you read us, over?"
"Five by five, Idaho. We have no direction-finding equipment. Can we get a steer?"
"Having a bit of trouble localizing you properly, ourselves. We're going to have to send aircraft to assist you, United 17. Fly with the sun on your port beam and expect two Republic P-84s from somewhere to your northwest. Once you've made contact, they can lead you through the DMZ. We'll vector them to intercept you now; stand by."
Bailey turned the radio down. "That's our cue. Let's do this."
She pushed the tiltrotor into a shallow dive. The two fighters above her held the same course until she'd dipped below the horizon of any Colorado radar operators, and then broke off to guide the airliner to safety. Nora leveled them off five hundred feet from the ground, and sixty miles west of the Colorado border. "How serious do you think Denver's going to take it?"
"Hard to say. They might figure it's a decoy and want a closer look. Or they might just want a show of force. Can you get us any lower?"
"I'm not crazy enough to try. Not at night--if those props catch anything..."
Comprehension twisted the heeler's face into a grimace. "Oh. Well... you don't have a radar stashed anywhere, do you?"
"No. Just keep your eyes peeled, I guess." She turned the cockpit lights down, so her eyes could adjust to twilight. With the whole plane dark, she hoped any Colorado aircraft would stand out to Bailey. "You'll see them first. That's, uh... that's an order."
"Yes, ma'am. And that's the Green River, up ahead. Ten-mile warning."
"Ten miles," she echoed. When they crossed the river, she uncovered two switches above the throttle and and flipped them both. The turbines surged, an effect magnified by the abrupt drop in volume of the XA-3's twin rotors. "Fingers crossed, right?"
"What was that?" Bailey looked outside, straining to see in the darkness, and returned his attention to the panel. "Your airspeed is decaying. RPMs are up, though."
"Still green?"
"The engines? Just barely." She felt his eyes on her. "Some kind of... suppressor or something?"
"I don't know how it works. I just know it costs me about a quarter of the engine's thrust--but with luck, if anybody notices, they'll at least think we're further away than we really are."
"I see. Fingers crossed," the heeler echoed her earlier words. "Past the ridge, you're going to want to turn north. Eighty degrees for maybe... twenty-five miles, give or take."
She was grateful for the full moon, and for their slower speed. As it was, winding their way through the mountains taxed her abilities to the utmost. The mission's path kept them away from roads and small towns, which denied her even the gleam of campfires or cabin lights. There was nothing but the stars above them, and the wisps of far-distant clouds.
The final turn brought them into a steep-walled valley. Moonlight glittered off still water below. Nora swung the rotors up, slowing the airplane and circling while she looked for any sign of life. Nothing stirred. She had committed the outline of the lakes to memory; it seemed like the right place. Puzzled, the marten brought them a little higher, and then higher still, trying to get the lay of the land. "No," Bailey hissed, whispering like they might be overheard. "Get down."
She'd been focused on the ground. The heeler jerked his paw to the eastern horizon--and a faint, unnatural glow spilling between the peaks. Nora settled lower, and the glow faded from sight. "What do we do, then?"
"Circle. Is this amphibious?"
"I don't think so. It's not designed to be."
"Well. If you do it right, anything'll land on water... once."
"Let's try not to find out," she suggested. They still had plenty of fuel, at least. Nora held her position, drifting over the lake at a snail's pace until her gaze snapped abruptly to the far side. "There. Do you see that?"
A red light, with an eerie firefly's glow, gleamed in the moonlight. Shortly thereafter, a second one joined it. Nora kept circling until two more marked the outlines of a shallow, sloping valley. "Thirty by sixty yards," Bailey reminded her, from the mission briefing. "It should be flat. Mostly flat."
"Should be." A brighter flare went off, illuminating drifting smoke that let her gauge the wind direction. "I'm bringing us in."
She lowered the landing gear, disabled the suppressors, and swiveled both rotors upward to give them as much lift as she could. Fortunately the aircraft had burned enough fuel on its eastward journey that their descent stayed smooth. Bailey opened the canopy, leaning out to watch their approach. "You're about thirty feet up. Twenty-five. Twenty..."
When they crossed over the lake's shore, and she felt the cushion of the ground effect, she eased the throttles back and let them drift into the meadow grass. The red lights stayed fixed in place, defying the sense of continued movement her unreliable senses reported: they had landed. Nora cut the engines, and listened to the slowing rotors through the open hatch. "Not so bad, I guess."
Bailey patted her shoulder. "No, indeed. Very nicely done."
He made his way outside while she shut the remaining systems off. Nora heard the rear door open, and voices speaking in a language she couldn't understand. Captain Yazzie was talking, though; it must've been Navajo. Bailey stayed silent, too. She counted four silhouettes in total: Yazzie, Commander Hawkins, and two newcomers.
Those proved to be a coyote and another hare, shorter and stouter than Yazzie himself. He introduced himself as Abel, and the coyote as Marcus. "Welcome to Colorado. I was telling the captain that we don't think anyone noticed you."
"Was there anyone to notice us?" Nora asked.
"A few ranchers--like Marcus here. He owns the closest private property, ten miles northwest. Those are his, too." Abel pointed to a cluster of bulky shadows that she took to be trees before one of them stamped its foot idly. "We have the fuel you requested, and... if you tell us it's safe to do, a tarp to hide the plane with."
"Let the engines cool a bit."
Abel nodded, and provided an update while they waited, marking up their blueprints and maps to show parts that had changed over the previous few days. Better still, he said, they had a reasonable alibi for getting into the compound undiscovered.
"Some professors or somethin'," Marcus explained. "They're comin' in from Boulder, but they don't got an itinerary. It's a secret inspection. The installation's bosses know it'll happen, but not exactly when. So seein' new faces won't stir up suspicion, and Abel's got ID for y'all. My brother will stop the real inspection on the highway, if they show up. Hold 'em 'til it's over."
"You're a rancher?" Bailey asked.
The coyote shrugged, moonlight glinting on the fangs in his grin. "I get bored easy."
They were a mile or so from the nearest road: five miles of dirt track until it reached the highway. Marcus had a car waiting at his ranch, he said, complete with stickers on the windshield tying it to a Colorado government office in Boulder. That would get them past a gatehouse at the facility's outer perimeter; Rascon and Reed would continue to the construction site while Sergeant Berman found a good vantage point to keep watch.
"What about the doctor?" Hawkins asked.
"Good news," Abel answered. "He was in temporary housing, attached to to the main complex. This cluster of buildings off to the south, are permanent barracks and resident housing. According to our man on the inside, he's moved into one of those. We don't think it's very well-patrolled--anybody coming in would have to approach from the highway."
"'Cause there ain't no roads," Marcus interjected. "Can't get there with a car. But if y'all had, I dunno..."
"Horses." Bailey looked over at their shadows, and then back to the map. "Six or seven mile ride, and that takes us to this forest we could use to screen our approach. How tough would that be to hike, Marcus?"
"Shouldn't be too bad. I go hunting in these hills all the time."
"Then I guess that's the plan. Not that I think we'll get much sleep, but..." He turned towards Nora. "We should try. Big day for us tomorrow."
***
Abel offered to stand watch, although after an hour staring up at the stars Nora wished she'd done so instead. If she slept at all, it was fitful; as the eastern sky finally lightened, though, she felt no exhaustion. There was only apprehension, building hoofbeat by hoofbeat as she rode east with Bailey towards the compound.
Nora knew that the demolition work would be even more harrowing--could imagine how nervous Rascon and Reed themselves would be, if they had to bluff their way into the construction site. Her job was much simpler: when the compound came into view, it looked like any small town, with paved streets and ordinary looking buildings. The apartments and houses they were using as barracks wouldn't have been out of place anywhere in the west.
She found the bungalow Abel had circled on her map. The lights were off, but she hung back, wary of any patrols. Bailey was supposed to be keeping watch, but there was no good spot for him to hide, and she'd gone on ahead. The morning waxed without any sign of guards: Colorado had grown overconfident, she supposed. At last a figure caught her attention, striding up to the door--despite how long it had been, she recognized the assertive curl and sway of its thick tail.
Nobody else entered. It's time. You have to do this, she told herself, failing to summon the conviction she already knew would be required. But they were counting on her--millions of people who didn't even know what was going on; were slowly rising to their own breakfasts back in her homeland. She made her way over, trying the knob gently. It turned without resistance, though the cabin's occupant heard the sound of the door. "I think you have the wrong--Nora?"
She closed it behind her, feeling for the deadbolt and sliding it into place. "Remmy."
The mountain lion looked... no. Not like I remember him. But like she'd expected him to look, in a position of authority. Studious and trim, without a wrinkle on his crisp shirt, and a sharper glint behind the glasses balanced on his blunt muzzle. "How did you get here? Nobody told me you were coming."
"Nobody from Colorado knows. I was... sent on a mission."
"To stop me?"
"To rescue you. To stop this project, yes, but... to rescue you. That's why they sent me."
"I thought..." He trailed off. "Did you know I was here? No, I suppose you didn't until... this 'mission,' whatever it is. Right?"
"I had no idea. At first we all thought you'd been kidnapped for ransom. Then... then, when there was no demand, we thought you were dead. I mean. They told me that. You remember Harvey? Harv told me that. Sat me down and held my paws and everything. I didn't believe it. I hounded those bastards in the investigation department over and over until they finally admitted they knew you'd been kidnapped. Not by who, though. No matter how much I asked. I figured... I figured they didn't know."
She'd let the whole story spill out in a rush, before she could stop herself--but also, she hoped belatedly, before too much emotion could tinge it. They'd been engaged, though, and Remington had never been an idiot. "They did. They just didn't tell you. I'm sorry. I should've..."
"Should've?" she prompted.
"Tried harder. I knew they wouldn't send my early letters, no matter what they promised. But later, after I'd redeemed myself, in their eyes... Well, I suppose the work was too sensitive for Denver to be comfortable with that."
"Do you know what they're doing? What it's for?"
His puzzled expression suggested the question confused him. "A Pashkov device. They must've told you that, too."
"To be used as a weapon. I told them I couldn't imagine you working on anything of the sort." He laughed. The laugh felt familiar to her; his smirk did not. "What did they do? What did they offer you?"
"Offer me?"
"No. You're right. This isn't something an 'offer' takes care of." His smile was making her uncomfortable. "Especially not you. You'd never be bribed out of your convictions. The man I knew--nothing would make you change them. I..."
"You're wondering if I'm still that man?"
Yes. She already had the sinking feeling she was lying to herself in thinking it. "When they told me you were in Colorado, and where, I thought the first time I'd see you again, it would be with a gun to your head."
"You missed that tableau by some time, thankfully."
"How? What changed?"
"I was hesitant, at first. And then, gradually, I realized it was the only way. With the weapon in place, nobody would dare attack us. The balance of power ceases to be a question. Don't you see?"
"Yes. So do the others. The United States, California, Bikeyeh--they've all come together on this mission."
"Foolishly, if that's true. With Colorado in control, Nora, the wars end. We can start rebuilding again. So what if the government sits in Denver instead of Washington, DC? They've accomplished so much in the last fifteen years--maybe this is how it was meant to be. Have you thought about that?"
"They won't let you, Remmy. My commander agreed to allow me to try and rescue you, but... if I can't, they won't let Colorado have this technology. It's just as you said: the balance of power means it can't be allowed."
Remington eyed her curiously. Holding her gaze, he drew out a cigarette; waited for it to catch, inhaled, and let the smoke spill at last from his muzzle while she watched in silence. "What does that mean?" he finally asked. "What do you think that means?"
"They'll destroy it. One way or the other. I want to bring you home, Remmy, but... one way or the other, they won't let you finish the weapon."
He took another long, slow drag. She'd never seen him smoke before, but the movements were practiced and natural. His baffled look, too, was genuine. "But it's finished. We launch this evening. You said three countries are involved in your... 'mission.' Their intelligence is all so incompetent?"
"Remmy..."
"I'm sorry they didn't give you closure, Nora." He lifted his paw, splaying his fingers to call attention to them. "I see you've moved on. I had to, as well, but... for the sake of our past, I'll let you leave unharmed. Of course. But you can't stop me."
"This isn't who you are. This--"
"Wasn't," he interrupted. "I learned better. Years of skirmishes and endless battles--I can bring those all to a close. In one instant, North America west of the Mississippi can join together as a single country again. That's what changed, Nora. They convinced me that sacrifices had to be made, and that I'd need to be the first. Colorado is the future. In the end, everyone will be grateful for that. I had to make my peace with what it required of me."
He said it with the kind of measured finality she remembered from their past--the precise, trustworthy declaration he'd used when he solved a particularly complex equation. The marten's tongue felt thick. She stared at the wall behind him, on which hung an idyllic painting of a mountain lake.
Her former lover glanced over his shoulder. "Aspirational," he said. "The reservoir behind Stapleton Dam is still filling. But the sunsets will be beautiful, I hope, even if the afternoons aren't quite so... vibrant."
"It's very blue," she murmured. "Like Crater Lake."
"Well, it won't be like that. Not so clear. Have you been up there?"
"No."
Remington grinned, and smoke roiled with his contented sigh. "Soon. When it's in friendly territory. When it's all friendly territory."
"It's a volcanic lake," she recalled.
"Yes, created by the eruption of Mount Mazama. In fairly recent memory, too--I hear the locals have passed down stories about it."
"About what it is, Remmy, or what it was? Because what it is, is empty. There's nothing living there. What if you do that, Remmy? What if you give Colorado the power to destroy mountains, and when the smoke clears there's just... nothing? A desolate view, with nobody to appreciate it. Nobody to appreciate the... the gift you think you gave them."
"What if?" he echoed, and stubbed out his cigarette. "I think you're overreacting."
"And what about everyone below the volcano. How grateful will they be when you play God with them? How many of them are going to be left to tell stories about what happened?"
He walked towards her, unflinchingly. "I suppose we'll find out. The project is finished, Nora. I told you that. And as for me, I need to get back to work. Unless you intend to shoot me?" The gun was holstered at her side, under her cardigan. Remmy didn't look in that direction; he all but ignored her, releasing the deadbolt and opening the door. "No? I suggest you leave before my housekeeper comes around."
The mountain lion left the door open, stepping out into the summer afternoon. Nora watched his back. Her paw slipped into her shirt, resting on the hilt of the gun. And then he turned, disappearing around the corner. After a moment, she came back to her senses and followed him outside, but Remington was gone.
And there was, she realized, no point in chasing him. She would not be able to bring herself to kill the man. Condemnation for that would have to come later. Glancing around, confirming that nobody had noticed her, the marten made her way back back into the hills. Bailey was no longer alone: Jodi Berman had joined him, and Nora's sense of unease only deepened.
"Welcome back, major," Bailey said. "You have good news for us, right? Please?"
"We're too late. They're going to deploy the weapon this evening."
Jodi growled. "What'd I tell you, sir?"
"I was afraid of that. Sergeant Berman was cut off from your two men and met up with me, instead. She said they couldn't approach, and the construction vehicles we'd seen in the aerial photography weren't around. They drove back towards the highway. Should be making their way back to camp."
"We should, too," Nora said. "Let our commanders know."
Jodi rode with Bailey, who was more experienced on horseback. The ride back to the lake was tense; all three of them kept looking skyward, waiting to see any sign of Coloradan air patrols. Fortunately there was nothing to disturb them. The two Republic commandos were already waiting. They, and Abel, sensed the change in mood.
"Next check-in is in half an hour," Bailey reminded them, after a glance at his watch. "Nora, let's get ready to take off, in case that's the word from command." Once they were both in the cockpit, though, he pulled the door closed and gestured for her to do the same. "Did you find him?"
"Yes."
"And?"
She swallowed heavily. "He wouldn't leave. He spoke highly of the project--of his work. It..." Her right paw bunched into a tight fist that drove claws into her palm. "What did I say back in Idaho? It's not the person I knew. And I... he said he'd let me go. Because of our past. Then he unlocked the door and... left. I told you, Bailey. I shouldn't be on this mission. It was a mistake."
"You can fly this thing, right?" the heeler asked. When she hesitated, he put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her muzzle up and towards the gauges. "Right?"
"Yes..."
"Then let's do that. Preflight it. They said they put fuel in, too. Can you check?"
It gave her something to do, at least. She walked around the XA-3, checking for any leaks, any sign that the lengthy flight had taken its toll on the plane. Nothing was amiss, and when she opened the fuel tank, a glance at the dipstick looked good. Bailey was running the team's radio off the Hopliter's batteries, so she had to switch those on, anyway; the electrical fuel gauges also reported a full tank.
Staying silent, she listened to the buzz of the scrambled radio. "Spartan to Easy Mike One, over."
"Go ahead, Spartan."
"The mission is a failure. Direct observation has confirmed that the target is already operational. We need to execute a contingency plan."
"What about the secondary objective?"
"No luck there. We couldn't make contact."
"Confirm, Spartan: you say they're already operational?"
Bailey's ears swiveled back, and his muzzle set. "That's right. Affirmative, Easy Mike One."
The pause was lengthy, and uncomfortable. "We will stand by to execute contingency code 'azure.' Be ready to depart at the next contact, 1800 hours. Send your confirmation signal then, and get the hell out of there, Spartan."
"Understood." He switched the radio back off.
Nora looked over at the heeler. "Couldn't make contact?"
"That's what it sounded like. You told me you didn't meet the man you were looking for, right?" He didn't give her a chance to reply before patting the panel ahead of him heavily. "How's the plane? We're ready to go?"
"Ready as we can be, yeah." She shut down the electrical system, and leaned back heavily. "It's going to be a long two hours."
"It is. I'm sorry you weren't able to convince him, Nora. I can't imagine what it's like. Just... I'm sorry," he repeated. "Should I... would it've been helpful for me to argue against putting you on the mission?"
"Colonel Virgil wouldn't have listened. This was too important for him."
The futility of protest didn't make it any easier to bear, though: she had failed, and failed in a moment of singular, inarguable weakness. Even if Bailey kept her secret--as she thought he might; it wasn't as though he really wanted Wittrock back in California to continue his work there--the marten herself would know.
The two of them sat quietly, alone with their thoughts, for an hour or so, before Abel rapped his paw against the hatch. She opened it. "Hey, ah, sir? Ma'am? Marcus wants to talk to you."
"What about?"
"I don't know, sir," he answered Bailey. "He just said he wants to talk to both of you--and Captain Yazzie. Wouldn't say nothin' else."
The coyote had, indeed, reappeared; his horse was nowhere to be seen, and he provided no immediate clue about what he wanted. "Let's take a walk," he suggested instead.
They found the horse a quarter of a mile away, out of sight from the camp in the shadow of the tree it had been tied to. Remington Wittrock was waiting next to it, wearing the clothes he'd left his cabin in. The only difference was an ID badge, clipped to the pocket of his shirt, and an unsteady, nervous swaying of his thick tail.
"Found him parked at my ranch," Marcus said. "He knew an awful lot about y'all. Said it was important to have a chat. Maybe not for these ears, though, I reckon."
The four of them watched the coyote pad off until he was safely out of earshot. "Which of you is the American? You, right?" Remmy pointed to Bailey.
"Yes. Commander Hawkins, United States Navy."
"Navy?" He seemed, briefly, to be caught off-guard. "Well, it doesn't matter, I suppose. I thought I was rather clever, deducing that we'd kept this all a secret until it was too late to stop us. But... Nora said it was a joint mission. You must be Navajo," he said, nodding in Captain Yazzie's direction.
"Yes."
"The United States wouldn't risk any chance of failure. 'One way or the other,' right?" he repeated Nora's words back to her. "Your rockets--the spy rockets you fire over Colorado to land in American Kansas--couldn't reach that far with a useful warhead. Not even as far as Denver, I imagine, Commander Hawkins?"
"I don't know."
"No, I suppose that's not your department. They could definitely reach this valley, though, and the Stapleton Dam. There would be significant collateral damage from the flooding alone. But if it was worth it to reach out to the California Republic to kill me and stop my work, it would be worth a few hundred lives, too. Or a few thousand."
"I don't know the details of the plans, Dr. Wittrock. Only that they exist."
"Exist, and comfortably enough to launch this mission. Colorado will counterattack with everything they have. The War Department in Washington must assume it would just lead to another minor skirmish, but it's not that simple. Denver will never stand for that provocation. They'll escalate. Against you, and your... co-conspirators."
"We haven't been left any option, Remmy," Nora said. "The surrounding territory is Colorado's to take whenever they want, anyway, thanks to that weapon you've built for them."
"I'm well aware. That means I'm also aware of another option you have been left."
"What's that?"
"The aerostat has a safety interlock built into it, so that it can't fire straight downwards--for obvious reasons. That protection is possible to override, though. If they had a target... an escaping aircraft with partisans aboard, say, while the Covey chain was out of commission... the safety might be disabled at an inopportune moment, when that target was engaged."
He had their attention. Commander Hawkins cleared his throat. "I'm not good with the passive voice, Dr. Wittrock."
"Take off, after 7:30 or so tonight, when the weapon is online. I'll make sure they're aware of rebel activity--maybe even spies, operating in concert with our neighbors--and I'll make sure you seem like a target worth testing the beam on. The safety will switch off, and when the weapon fires, it'll destroy the aerostat's controls. Without it, and me, the weapon is useless. That's the deal."
"And our side of the 'deal' would be..."
"I want to disappear again. But... for real. Not back to California, and definitely not to your Army laboratories, commander. I want to teach at a school, maybe. Run a little store... start over, in any case. I could, perhaps, spend a little time in Bikeyeh before crossing a different border. Perhaps even cross the ocean."
Bailey sighed. "Nora--Major Fletcher--do you trust him?"
"Do I?" she asked, staring at the mountain lion.
Remmy held her eyes until, at last, he had to look away. "Even if I believed everything I said, you had a point when you accused me of playing God. I can't make that choice for you. I never had the right to decide for a continent, only the hubris. Colorado... they exploit that. But they're susceptible to hubris, too."
"Well, major?"
"I think it's worth it," Nora said, as firmly as she could manage.
Bailey scratched behind his right ear, and finally shook his head. "Captain. You were planning on staying behind when we exfiltrated, anyway. Could you and your local contacts get Dr. Wittrock out?"
The hare answered him in an irritated snort. "With all due respect, commander: you mean, so you and the Republic could hold it against us, like with the previous defector? We can't afford to make more enemies. Colorado suspects we're your backchannel to the resistance already. If relations with California get strained enough that Denver thinks they won't intervene? We're dead."
"There's only two witnesses," Nora pointed out. "Nobody would have to know the first thing about what happened with Dr. Wittrock."
"And the government will learn of your involvement in this mission," Wittrock added. "When they become aware of a mission. If they become aware. They will, when the dam winds up being breached. As you said, they already have some suspicions about your country's neutrality."
"Honestly, it probably shouldn't be my decision to make." Bailey shook his head again. "But hundreds of innocent people will die if the dam goes. I'm willing to take the alternative, captain, if you are: Colorado's experiment had some catastrophic failure, and... who knows what became of the scientist behind it?"
Captain Yazzie held steady under the weight of the others, staring at him. "I don't," he said at last. "If you learned anything about the mad doctor, it must've been after I already left."
"Thank you." Remmy looked as if a great burden had been lifted from him. "In your report, commander, mention the colors. Like a prism. Mention how dazzling the light was. It seemed to pulse, almost. To shimmer."
"Alright..."
"And Nora--"
"We should get back," Bailey said. He tapped Yazzie's shoulder. "Make sure the team is ready to go. Dr. Wittrock can explain everything to Marcus, I imagine? Everything he needs in order to return to the complex without arousing too much suspicion?"
"I'll talk to him first," the hare said. "And see you at the landing site."
Nora waited. They'd been alone for a minute or so when the mountain lion stepped towards her, and took her paw in his. "What changed?" she asked.
"You're asking what you offered me?" he teased her gently. "I began to think you were right to accuse me of playing God, like I told the others. Even if I thought... even if I thought it was worthwhile, it's not my decision to make for the world. And then I realized the consequences... how futile it would be to expect anything less than another cataclysmic war... and the belief you had that I wouldn't give up my convictions, and... well..."
"Thank you for..." She tried to decide how to phrase it; how to articulate the relief she felt. "For reminding me why I believed I could trust you."
"Thank you for the trust. I'm not sorry for earlier, exactly, Nora. I wish I'd been able to question my convictions faster, but... I'd had a while to convince myself of them, and seeing you was a bit of a shock... and then the threats..."
"I understand."
"I am sorry you never knew what happened to me, though. That part was inexcusable. That won't happen again."
Her head tilted, and when he squeezed her other paw she didn't pull away. "What do you mean?"
"I'll find a way to let you know. If I manage to escape, I'll get a message to you. I promise."
"I'm not sure we'll see each other again," she said. He smiled, sadly; they both knew it. "I'll assume that wherever you are, you're safe. I'm glad that... that I saw you again, one last time. And it didn't end back in your cabin."
"I couldn't let it." Remmy seemed to chew, uncertainly, on his next words. "The American. He called you by your first name. I think it's naïve to hope that friendship alone can cross the borders we've created. But it's a start, isn't it? Is he a good person?"
"Bailey? I think so. He'll keep his word."
"I didn't just mean that. I can tell that he trusts you--that he's fond of you--by how quickly he listened to what you said. I hope you two..." Again he paused, thinking. "I hope that I haven't misread that situation. And you're not kept apart. And that you're not... waiting."
"I, ah... I did wait, Remmy. I--"
"You don't have to explain." He let her paws go. "In a way, I was happy to see that you weren't wearing your ring. I hope you didn't keep it on too long out of sentimentality, or..."
"That was never something either of us indulged," she admitted. "I took it off when it was the right time. As for what happens next, we'll have to see."
"I thought that I was making something of my life. I have a chance now to start again--to do it for real. You should, too, Nora. Whatever form that takes."
"I will. Good luck, Remmy."
"Good luck," he echoed, and hugged her.
Marcus met her on the way back, nodding his silent understanding about what had occurred. At the landing site, Commander Hawkins repeated the explanation he'd given the others, for her benefit: that the coyote had brought news of a delay in the maintenance on the Covey network, and they might need to wait.
It was nearly time for their next checkin. Nora accompanied the heeler to the aircraft. He said the same thing to the surveillance aircraft, circling high above American territory where it could pick up their transmissions. After a spell of apprehensive silence, the voice on the other end confirmed their new schedule.
Bailey checked his watch. "Two hours?"
"Two hours. More night flying. That should be fun."
Sergeant Berman was making her way over to the tiltrotor; apprised of the delay, she suggested they range forth to conduct a final patrol, lest they be discovered. To Nora's surprise, Commander Hawkins agreed to go with her--she'd felt sure he would want to talk privately over what had happened.
But then, she supposed, it might raise suspicions. And, tactically speaking, keeping a lookout was prudent. It kept them occupied, too, although Nora stayed behind with the aircraft so that it could be ready to depart at a moment's notice.
No Coloradan scouts appeared--nothing at all to hint that they weren't simply alone in the wilderness. On schedule, the others made their way back to the clearing. She took the pilot's seat while the team boarded; Bailey was the last to do so, and pulled the hatch closed heavily. "Well?" she asked.
"It's dark. Time to go."
"Time to go," she agreed. Lights came up on the panel, flashing steadily; the APU whirred to life. "Let's see."
"So." Now, finally, he said it. "Can we trust Dr. Wittrock?"
It was too late to be asking that question, of course. Nora started the fuel pumps, watching the gauges instead of looking at the heeler. "I'm not sure. I'm not really sure what to believe. But I hope we can. How's that?"
"Not much to go on."
"Did you know about the rockets? The ones he mentioned--the whole part about destroying the valley, and attacking the dam. Did you know that was the contingency plan?"
"No." She heard Bailey's claws click against the buckle of his harness, in the quiet that followed his denial. "Do you believe me?"
Nora considered her answer while she waited for the left engine to start. The rotor began to spin, at last, slowly. "Yes. I have to."
"Good. I have to believe you, too. I need... I guess I need to hear you say that you trust him."
She looked over. Past Bailey's silhouette, the right engine had started, too, and long blades swept the darkening sky. "I trust Remmy."
"I believe you," he said. "Let's finish this."
After one final check, Nora opened the throttles, and the XA-3 hummed airborne. She turned their nose towards the lake and picked up speed until they were climbing steadily, and the marten could bank them back east, facing the glow on the horizon. The aerostat was now visible, hovering a mile or so above the compound, ringed with glowing lights like a flying saucer.
"Something's happening, major. It's... I don't know. It's activating."
She could see it, too: the lights were steady, and seemed to be brightening. "Maybe don't look. Just in case--" a dazzling white glare flooded the cockpit before she could finish. If she squinted she could just barely make out the artificial horizon, and try to keep them level. "I guess they've found us."
"If we die, I'd like the record to show that we're both awful judges of character."
"Yes."
"But you were worse."
Even with the beam right behind them, it was all but impossible to see anything in the cockpit. "Fair enough," she growled through gritted teeth. "If we don't die, though..." Everything went black again. She turned the instrument lights up as far as they would go while her eyes adjusted, focusing on the gauges that showed them climbing steadily, already above the western peaks.
"Come right," Bailey said. She did so in time to catch a glimpse of the aerostat's shadow sinking below the horizon--then another, brighter flash like distant lightning. For a few seconds the mountains were framed in stark relief.
Then darkness again, so total it took a full thirty seconds before she could make out the moon. "We're still alive, aren't we?"
"And good judges, after all," Bailey agreed. "Hold us steady for now, but maybe back off the speed. We'll want to be low when we cross the border. No telling if those engine-disabling rays are operational after all, right?"
They saw no lights at all, though, not even when they should've been able to make out the western town of Meeker. Whatever happened back at the Trappers Peak compound had, apparently, taken the western Colorado power grid with it. The country prided itself on the extent of its electrification: she could, at least, relish the commotion that would no doubt be visited on the local governments for that failure.
Bailey's radio buzzed. She heard pulsing Morse code; the letters were random. Hawkins wrote them down, waited until the message started to repeat, and took a codebook from his pocket. Pulling out a tray at the bottom of the radio set revealed a small keyboard; he typed slowly, and with every sideways glance Nora spared she saw his head tilt further to the side. "Hmm," he finally said.
"What is it? Is it to us?"
"No. It's to every unit commander. It says: 'surveillance aircraft detected a possible explosion in western Colorado at 2015 Mountain Time, origin unknown, followed by a loss of electrical power through the observable territory. There are no signs of Colorado mobilization. At this time, all forces are directed to stand down and suspend any patrols. Continue passive observation and make regular reports but do not approach the border under any circumstances.' Message ends."
"Trying not to provoke them," she guessed. "Nothing in the clear?"
"Nothing in the clear."
"You all are really that certain Colorado's broken your military codes?"
He slid the keyboard tray closed and put the book back in his pocket. "Y'all think they haven't broken yours?"
"I guess that's a good point."
She flew cautiously, in case they might be seen, ducking them back into the valleys as Bailey requested, until they were back across the Green River and safely into neutral Deseret. Sixty miles further on, and she felt comfortable enough to bring them up to higher altitude, watching the rolling, moonlit-bathed scrubland unfurl beneath them. Bailey sighed. "I don't know what you were going to say when you started off: 'if we don't die.'"
"Probably telling you I was right."
"Well, I guess you were. I owe you another drink, at least."
Nora laughed, the relief palpable for both of them. "I don't know. You remember what happened last time..."
"I do, yeah."
"Did we decide if that was fraternizing? I think we decided it wasn't."
"I'm willing to call it whatever you need, for the paperwork." When she turned to look at him, Bailey grinned, and leaned across to nip the marten's nose. "God, I'm glad we made it back."
"We haven't yet. But, uh." She stuck her tongue out at him, and found she herself was giddy with the ebbing adrenaline. "You're important, right? You can pull some strings to get us debriefed in Mountain Home... keep us from having to go back right away..."
"Well, General Haro will want to know all about the weapon, I'm sure. And we have to wait for Captain Yazzie's report. Probably by telegram, I guess. At least a couple days, that's what I figure..."
A car was waiting for them when they touched down: the joint commanders wanted to speak to Bailey and Nora immediately. General Haro and Colonels Begay and Virgil were waiting: all three tense and alert, despite the lateness of the hour. "It's good to have you back," Haro began. "We figured we should at least have a quick debrief while everything's fresh."
Bailey spoke first: "We'll do our best, sir. Honestly, though, you might know more than either of us. I got the order to stand down, so something must've been clear to you--clear to the wider world, too."
"News from Wyoming has started reporting on the power outage," General Haro explained to them, although the broadcasts knew only that something had transpired. "The White House has apparently cabled Denver offering assistance, too. There's no sign of retaliation--at least not yet. Would you like to tell us what happened, from your perspective?"
"We'd like to, but--"
"Major Fletcher?" Virgil prompted, as if she could countermand Bailey's hesitation.
"He's right, sir, unfortunately. We departed just after 8 o'clock, based on our understanding of when the Covey chain would be down for maintenance. We could see the aerostat had been deployed, but I had no reason to think we'd been detected. And then... suddenly, it was like we'd been hit with a spotlight."
General Haro looked up from his notepad. "They shot at you, major?"
"I think so. We think so." She looked over at Bailey, nodding in his direction. "Commander Hawkins was doing his best to observe."
"Based on the aerostat's altitude, there was no way she could've put us below its horizon. We tried to run instead. Suddenly the light grew brighter, and it was... I'm not sure how to describe it. Shimmering, sir."
"Like being caught in a prism," Nora added. "The only way I can describe is 'dazzling.'"
Colonel Virgil leaned forward. "Colorful?"
"Yes, sir. Very."
"And then it wasn't," Bailey Hawkins continued. "Just blackness. My vision cleared enough to see the aerostat losing altitude. Shortly after it dipped below the horizon, there was an explosion. We didn't see anything else. No lights on the ground until neutral territory."
Virgil's expression had the particular sort of pensiveness that suggested he was debating whether to reveal a secret. "It was a test failure. Either a misaligned lens or perhaps some impurity in the crystal. They should've picked it up earlier, but perhaps this was their first test at full power. It's one of the main reasons we don't think the design is feasible--I'd assumed Dr. Wittrock would have figured out a way around it."
"Apparently not," General Haro said. "Were you able to gain any information about facility itself before its destruction?"
"Plenty of pictures, sir," Bailey told him. "Perhaps once those are developed, there'll be additional clues to what happened?"
"Perhaps."
The photos, analyzed by Alice Karchey with Colonel Virgil's assistance over the next two days, only confirmed that the facility had indeed been close to operational. They couldn't determine what had happened to the construction equipment, or if Colorado had been trying to mislead them as to how far along the work had been.
Aerial pictures, taken by the spy rockets Remington had revealed to Nora--though Alice had also guessed their source--further confirmed that the complex now lay in ruins. Captain Yazzie finally reported in, with news from Colorado partisans that the state's army had stepped up its patrols and begun searching the mountain roads extensively.
Whatever deception might have accompanied the weapon's development, Colonel Virgil seemed comfortable in saying that its destruction was unambiguous. He congratulated her, and the team, for having successfully infiltrated Trappers Peak even if the mission hadn't been required--and then asked her to remain behind, while the others left. "Sir?" He seemed uneasy, and some of that crept into her own thoughts. "Is there something else?"
"Yes. I thought you should know that we've..." the buck's stern demeanor unexpectedly softened while he searched for the right words. "The Pashkov beam might not have been destroyed in an accident."
"What do you mean?" Nora asked, cautiously, mindful now also of the change in his tone.
"A defector made contact with the Colorado resistance. Their plane was shot down by the Free State's air force; it crashed a mile or so into neutral territory. The Navajo reached the site about half an hour before Coloradan troops did. They say there were no survivors, and identification was... difficult in the time they had, but..."
She swallowed hard. "You think the defector was Remmy."
"Yes. We think he might've deliberately sabotaged the weapon and tried to escape."
"But, if they couldn't identify anyone..."
Colonel Virgil handed her an envelope, badly singed along one corner and bulging oddly with its contents. To Nora Fletcher was written on the outside. A letter opener had finished the job started by the fire, and since she assumed Virgil had already read whatever was inside Nora didn't bother asking for privacy when she pulled the paper free.
Nora, my love.
I don't know if my letters have reached you. In a way, I hope they haven't, for it would explain your lack of reply. I've grown used to my new surroundings, and to the solitude, but never content with either. This will not, and cannot ever be, my home. Your silence confirms that, whatever the reason. Some day I hope to leave here, and to learn the answer myself. But if the time comes, before that, when I am absolutely confident that a message will indeed find you then it will be this one.
I wish I'd been able to spend my life with you. It seems fate had other plans. I hope that among those plans is delivering you the happiness and fulfilment that is so rightfully yours. I have been, am, and always will be happy for you: even without knowing the course your life has taken, I'm blessed by the time we shared and heartened by the thought of what you must be bringing to the world. I trust that you are reading this and that, even if we never see each other again, you know how unfailing my faith in you is.
You must remember the afternoon we picked out wedding rings: I, convinced to surrender to your impulsiveness in that regard. You, telling me how the metal held echoes of moonlight. Perhaps, one day, I'll hear you tell me that again. But even if I never do, consider it a token of a promise kept, and take what solace you can from that knowledge. And know that--" __how still, my heart"--the darkest nights will always shine on your account, even if not on mine.
Au revoir,
Remmy
"It's his handwriting," Nora said softly. She tipped the letter over, catching the ring in her paw. The silver band, studded with turquoise, was undamaged from the crash. "It's been years since I thought of this."
"The letter isn't dated, as you can see. Neither was the envelope. The Navajo intelligence agent figured maybe the last line was a reference to the weapon, but... it's just a song, isn't it?"
"Just a song," she agreed. "I wondered... I always wondered if he'd forgotten about me. I'm not sure if I should hope that he wrote this letter last week or last year."
"I'm sorry for your loss, major, either way. It is a loss. I know you would've wanted him to come home."
"Yes."
"You should keep the ring. And..." He thought quietly. "Even if the mission wasn't a success, I meant the praise I gave you and the others. It was superbly executed, on very limited time. You're truly a credit to the California Republic, Major Fletcher."
"Thank you, sir."
Then he smiled, and dismissed her. She returned to her quarters, sat down, and stared at the ring. It was such a simple thing--the quality of its craftsmanship clear in the very elegance of its design. He would've liked that, she decided. That's what he saw in it, the genius of the artisan. It would've meant something to him.
And it was pretty, too, in its own right. Someone knocked on her door--though, even as she got up, she knew it would be Bailey Hawkins. Nora put the ring away and went to greet him. Sure enough, it was the heeler. "I thought I should talk to you. My commander wanted to meet. New intelligence about what went down in Colorado."
She tilted her muzzle down, towards the bottle he was holding in his paws. "And I take it you assumed I'd been briefed, as well?"
"I thought I'd judge how you reacted to this, yeah. After that last meeting..."
"Yes." She let the dog in, and closed the door behind him. "Colonel Virgil wanted to talk to me alone. What did they tell you?"
"It's classified." He took a seat, and set the bourbon on the table, waiting for Nora to join him. She did, and he looked towards the ceiling. "Dr. Wittrock might have sabotaged the weapon and then tried to flee. He was killed in a plane crash. Shot down by Colorado, is the working assumption."
"That's what I was told. There was also a letter." She saw his muzzle twitch. "You've read it, I guess?"
"Sorry. I didn't have a choice."
"It's fine."
He went quiet, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "Do you want a drink?"
"I'd rather be sober for what I'm about to say," she admitted.
Bailey looked over, and then the ring she was holding caught his attention. "Uh..."
"This ring was in the letter. Remmy... Remmy's not a sentimental type. I'm not, either. We never picked out rings. He promised me that if he got to safety, he'd let me know somehow. This is it. He must've written the letter after he crossed into Navajo territory."
"Silver and turquoise," the blue heeler pointed out. "That would make some sense..."
"He never liked silver." Nora slipped the ring back into her pocket. "You understand what I'm telling you, right?"
"What's to understand? I just stopped by to see how you were holding up. You showed me a wedding ring; I offered condolences for your loss. Condolences and a drink."
"Yeah."
He smiled. "The ring caught me a bit off-guard. Was gonna say I thought we were maybe moving a bit fast."
"Are we?"
"A torrid affair, a joint military operation, and a conspiracy? You tell me."
Nora hadn't really thought through what might happen if she told Bailey her suspicions. She realized, though, that she only had told him because she knew how he'd react. The marten grinned. "You didn't seem to mind the parts of it that just involved the two of us, is how I see it."
"Nah."
"Even if it was fast. I mean, did we have a choice?" She twisted to look at him. "Did we?"
The dog turned, too. And, when she followed her question with a smirk, he leaned towards her, and a moment later she found herself pinned to the sofa's back, with his lips on hers. "Not at all," he growled. "Under pressure..."
She slipped her arms around him, and pulled herself into a second, deeper kiss, giddy and out of breath when she let go. "Right. Didn't--didn't have much time. Made the most of... of what we had..."
His paw was on her waist, and he squeezed her playfully. "You think we have more time now?"
"Don't we?" She wanted to hear him say it.
There was no mistaking the glint in Bailey's eye: he knew. "You are leaving tomorrow..."
"True."
"So get your clothes off before you have to explain what happened to them."
He pushed himself away and, as she undressed, she was acutely aware of the way he watched her. The dog's fingers pushed into her bare fur, and he stole another kiss before letting her slip out of her trousers. "Not just me, right? We're equals. A joint operation."
"Of course. You're very dedicated." He groped her breast, impulsively, and she heard the pleading tone in her gasp. "I appreciate that side of you."
"Oh, is that... is that so?" There was something reassuringly certain about it. All the politics--her future with the Republic, the delicate balance of admitting their cooperation to her comrades back home--seemed fuzzy and unimportant. The handsome man staring at her, desire evident in his gaze: that was something she could rely on. "You appreciate it?"
"Turn over," he said. Bailey's voice was a low, commanding growl. Sultry.
She obeyed. Even without being able to see it, she could all but feel the heat in his gaze. The dog bent over her back, another growl rumbling through her fur as he worked his way from the nape of her neck up to the marten's ear. A shiver ran through her, unbidden. "You like this side, too, Bailey?"
"Mm. You," he began, and turned the nuzzling into a soft nip that held her ear between his teeth for a delirious second. "You're dangerous, Nora."
"Oh? How dangerous?"
Just like their first time together, the conclusion had been inevitable from the time he'd made his way through her door. The sound of his belt being undone, and his pants sliding to the floor, thrilled her anyway. He nosed her again, roughly. "What do you think?"
She thought: I would let you do anything to me. With every passing second her sense of the world dwindled by another few inches. Her nose caught a hint of his scent, now. "Tempting you into a bit of... frater--" the word broke apart as his paw slid across her back, running down her side to end with a pointed squeeze at her hip. "Fraternizing?" she asked again, when she could manage it.
"More than 'a bit,'" he promised, and his muzzle left her. Bailey settled on the sofa, spreading her legs apart, and the heeler's paws circled her waist. He tugged her upwards; her muscles were so unsteady she was surprised she could hold herself in place.
But she did, somehow. Even after he let go of her. Even after she felt heat push against her, hard and slick and pulsing. Even after he growled, and thrust firmly, and his shaft sank inside, stretching the marten around him, and the sense of being filled stole her ability to do anything more than gasp breathlessly into the sofa, she held herself upright.
When he was hilted, achingly deep in her, his paws took her rear again and Nora moaned aloud. With her eyes closed, the big dog's next slow penetration sent little sparks of color playing against her eyelids. She begged for him, in wordless panting, to start taking her properly--
And he answered. A half-dozen thrusts, each harder than the last, brought the dog into a heavy tempo that drove him solidly into her rump. His cock plunged her full in quick, surging strokes, and his claws fixed her haunches in place like he owned her, and she wouldn't have have thought for an instant of denying it.
Bailey groaned his pleasure behind her as he took the marten, already bucking faster, tugging her into his rocking hips. "Oh, God, Nora--oh, that's it!"--the word accented by a hilt-deep thrust, a solid grind that lifted her a half-inch from the sofa and forced her muzzle into the cushion that obligingly muffled her abrupt squeal.
Vaguely, catching her breath from the cry as he started moving again, she thought there should've been something unseemly about the act. They'd known each other less than a week--a soldier of a hostile power, no less!--and here she was, being rutted on all fours like an animal.
But it felt so good. He felt so incredible, throbbing in her, his strong body warm as it pounded her braced rear. His grunts and strained groans were so telling. So exciting. So rewarding. Better yet, she could properly anticipate the finish now--judge from how thickly he claimed her how much the dog had left in him.
And this time he didn't hesitate or hold back. Didn't need to ask if she could take his knot. He must've been sensing resistance--a hint of extra effort in claiming the marten--because with a snarl he pressed forward, and his thrusts shifted to hard, forceful shoves.
Quicker now. Shorter. He was definitely swelling inside her--she could feel herself being spread wider. Feel the way it pushed his tip deeper, and the way he throbbed warningly. She whimpered; called his name. Cried it out, a second time, and it must've been louder than she'd intended because in an instant the heavy pressure of his paw clamped on her muzzle.
And now he was bent over her back, his hoarse panting and low growls washing her neck. His solid weight was inescapable: heavy, dominating. She could tell the dog's erratic humping was building to a shuddering finish. Bailey grunted into her ear, then nosed lower--then there were teeth on her scruff, and it was an exulting, hot eternity before she was consciously aware that he'd bitten down.
Before that she wailed into his paw, and her body arched in pleasure. Climax rolled through her, the light bursting against her eyelids until it was all but dazzling. Prismatic, even. Consuming. She caught a twisted, guttural snarl of her name, and a profane oath, and she realized Bailey was using the bitehold to quiet his own noises.
She understood him anyway. Even if she hadn't, words weren't really needed to explain what had happened. His cock jerked rhythmically against her folds, and as he nudged his hips forward he tugged back on her scruff, and the heat deep inside her spread a little more.
The words were nice to hear, anyway, though. He repeated it, softer. His movements slowed, and he settled on her back by degrees, as if his strength was flowing into the marten with each gentler pulse of his seed. And at last, he rolled to the side, and took Nora down gently with him.
"We have made good use of the time," he finally told her. "We were good about that."
"We work well together."
"We do. Hell with borders..."
"Yeah." And once again she felt certain she could say it before dwelling on the risk. "The mission was... was a good opportunity to figure out some next steps."
"Was it?"
"Yeah. I was thinking that it might be time to consider a new line of work."
"Really? What would you do?"
"I'm not sure." Aircraft companies could use test pilots, she figured; the economy was picking up, and the various manufacturers had a vested interest in trying out new ideas. Hughes wouldn't be the only one. "I'd take some time to consider it."
"But resign your commission?"
"Yes. I think, after this mission--with what happened to Dr. Wittrock, and everything? I think they'd understand. And I could... plan what's next. Start over."
She felt him nod, his muzzle dragging through her pelt. "Around the Four Corners, maybe? Black Mesa..."
Within the Navajo's borders, in other words, with all that implied. "I don't know. Mount Shasta is interesting, though. I've been wondering about the rest of the Cascades. Have you ever been to Crater Lake?"
"I have, actually, yes."
"Would you recommend it?"
"In general, or for you?"
Nora twisted around enough to look at him. "For me."
The heeler's arms tightened their hold. He nosed her cheek thoughtfully. "Yeah, I think I would."