"I thought there was a Ryqril base just outside the main entrance."
"There is," Jensen confirmed. "That's what I want to look at."
A sudden lump formed in Flynn's throat. "Oh. Uh ... you think that's a good idea?"
"What, you worried about a simple little Ryqril base?" Jensen scoffed. "And it is only a little one."
"Has it got autotarget antiaircraft lasers on its walls?"
"A couple."
"In that case, yes, I'm worried," Flynn said.
"It'll be a quick look, just to see if they've abandoned the idea of breaking into the mountain," Jensen soothed. "We'll pop our heads over the ridge, pop them back down again, then go straight back to the nearest road and head for Reger's. Okay?"
"Sure, why not?" Flynn said with a sigh. He looked up at the wing arching over his head. "It's not like I'm driving or anything."
"That's the spirit," Jensen said approvingly, turning them toward the southwest. "Settle in, and enjoy the ride."
The three blackcollars had lost a lot of altitude while they'd been circling around trying to fix Flynn's glider. Now, as Skyler watched the tops of the mountains passing them on both sides, he realized they weren't going to make it.
Hawking had clearly come to the same conclusion. "Looks like we're in for something of a hike ourselves," he commented.
"Walking's good for you," Skyler said encouragingly, trying to hide his own misgivings. The territory west of Reger's estate was extremely rugged, and the only roads through it might well be watched by Security agents and other unfriendlies. Nothing they couldn't handle, but it would cost them valuable time.
"Skyler, look about ten degrees right," O'Hara said suddenly. "There's a very dim light about a third of the way up the mountain that's blinking its little heart out."
Skyler frowned into the darkness. There it was, as dim and sputtery as O'Hara had said.
But it wasn't just blinking at random. It was blinking in Morse code. "Can anyone read that?" he asked.
"It's going too fast for me."
"Yeah, I've got it," Hawking said slowly. "But it's not making any sense. Right hand—open, closed to fingertips, slide thumb—" With a snort, he broke off. "Oh, isn't that cute?"
"What's cute?" O'Hara demanded.
"Our friend there on the mountainside," Hawking said. "He can't know what kind of encrypt we might have with us, and even if he did we sure as hell can't do much in the way of serious decoding from hang gliders. And he can't just say, 'Welcome, blackcollars,' either, because he knows we'll suspect a trap and avoid him like the plague. So what does he do?"
Skyler frowned; and then it clicked. "He Morses us a description of a blackcollar hand signal."
"Oh, for—" O'Hara snorted. "Must be the altitude. Low oxygen flow to the brain."
"That, or senility is hitting all of us early," Skyler agreed, watching the light repeat its message. The hand signal their unknown contact was describing was the third-tier configuration for safe—come ahead.
Security agents might have observed and documented any number of the first- and even second-tier hand signals over the years, but a third-tier signal was something only another blackcollar should know.
"What say we wander over and take a look?"
The light turned out to be coming from the window of a small cabin built against a rocky cliff face. An area about twenty meters square directly in front of the cabin had been cleared of trees and brush, perhaps with hang glider landings in mind. Skyler dropped neatly into the center of the clearing, Hawking and O'Hara going for the more problematic but better concealed forested areas to either side.
Skyler had just popped free of his harness when a floodlight suddenly blazed from a corner of the cabin's roof, bathing the whole landing area in light.
Instantly, he leaped to the side, snatching a shuriken from his belt and sending it spinning toward the light. But even before it hit the light winked out again. "Welcome back, Skyler," a voice said from behind him.
Skyler turned around. Behind the purple blob bouncing in front of his eyes, he saw a slim figure emerge from the woods at the far end of the landing field. "Kanai?" he asked.
"Yes," Lonato Kanai confirmed, coming up to Skyler and bowing from the waist. "Do I take it from your arrival that something interesting is about to happen?"
"We certainly hope so," Skyler said, lifting his hand and giving an all-clear signal to the others. "How did you know we were coming?"
"I didn't," Kanai said. "But when an off-world shuttle is due in, I spend the night either here or at one of our other cabins, watching for supply shipments." He smiled faintly. "Or, even more hopefully, for blackcollar drop pods."
"Must be lonely duty," Skyler commented as Hawking and O'Hara came up from both sides. "You remember Dawis Hawking from our last pass through the area. Commando Kelly O'Hara; Commando Lonato Kanai. One of the leaders of the Phoenix resistance group."
Kanai's lip twitched. "Formerly one of its leaders," he said quietly. "No longer."
Skyler frowned. "Is there a problem with Phoenix?"
"Perhaps it's only a difference of opinion," Kanai said evasively. "But come—I have a car ready. Load your packs in the trunk and I'll take you to see Reger."
"Thank you," Skyler said. Manx Reger, one of Denver's most powerful crime bosses, hadn't been particularly pleased the last time the Plinry blackcollars had come through his territory, their presence threatening to upset the comfortable status quo that existed between the various crime bosses who effectively ran the region. Still, when they'd left he'd been cautiously interested in Anne Silcox's plans to rebuild a Resistance cell in the area.
Skyler could only hope the man was still feeling charitable toward unannounced guests.
Dragging himself out of a deep sleep, General Avral Poirot, head of Security for Denver, got to the phone on the third ring. "Poirot," he said, his voice croaking a little with dry throat.
"Bailey, sir," Colonel Pytor Bailey's voice answered. "I think we may finally have Manx Reger."
The last wisps of sleep vanished from Poirot's brain. "Explain."
"We had a drop pod breech in the mountains west of Boulder about half an hour ago," Bailey said.
"Same general location where Reger usually gets his Resistance deliveries."
Poirot scowled into the darkness. Reger had been getting those deliveries at irregular intervals for nearly a year now, ever since Lathe's blackcollar team had come roaring into town and assassinated retired North American Prefect Ivas Trendor.
Why a man of Reger's wealth and comfort had gotten involved with the Resistance was still a mystery.
But involved he was, and Poirot knew it.
But knowing and proving were two different things, even with the lax standards of evidence the Ryqril overlords permitted in cases like this. So far they'd never been able to catch Reger with the goods, or to find any other tangible evidence that he was involved. "How does this particular drop give him to us?"
"Because this one's chutes didn't open," Bailey said. "Which means that instead of being packed and ready to be thrown onto a truck, whatever it was should be scattered fairly randomly across the landscape."
Poirot smiled grimly as he swung his legs out of bed. And scattered merchandise could take quite a while to collect back together. If they hurried, they might make it to Reger's place before the goods did.
"Do we have any spotters in the area?"
"I've scrambled two from Boulder," Bailey said. "They're still en route to the drop area."
"Keep them high," Poirot warned. "I don't want them scaring away the scavengers."
"Yes, sir," Bailey said.
"And then grab a couple of unmarked cars and a strike team," Poirot added, pulling his uniform off the bedside rack. "You and I are going to be sitting with Mr. Reger in his conversation room when the merchandise arrives."