Perhaps, one curmudgeon suggested on Fox, the Russians had shared what they knew about the aliens with the United States government. This comment led another iconoclast to wonder why the Russians knew more about the aliens than the good guys in the white hats. Away they went on this tangent. One network segued away to various politicians for their thoughts. A competitor network sent its crew across the street from the White House to Lafayette Park for man-in-the-street interviews, carefully ensuring that they got a diverse sample of ages, races, genders and airheads.
Another producer, more enterprising, aired a live interview with a group of old farts forted up in Idaho. The aliens were already here, their spokesman said, and were probably running the White House and Congress. That was the only logical explanation for the last ten years of political theater in Washington. The militia in Idaho shook their rifles at the cameras and flipped the world the bird.
In his office, P. J. O’Reilly nodded in silent agreement at the comments of the forted-up crazies in Idaho, then used his television remote to surf on to yet another network.
Jim Bob Spicer’s face appeared on the screen, and his booming voice filled the room. “Washington is at the root of this evil. The wickedness of the sinners who inhabit this Sodom on the Potomac has dragged us to the edge of the pit. We must repent to earn salvation!” Spicer had more to say, a lot more.
There, P. J. O’Reilly thought, is a truly poisonous man. He had another snort from his Scotch bottle.
The sound of the helicopters, faint at first but getting louder, alerted Charley, Rip and Uncle Egg. The sound began echoing from the cliffs of the great canyon and sounded somewhat like a percussion band gone mad.
Rip darted into the first room of the ancient cliff house and grabbed his old Winchester and the rest of his box of shells. He climbed to the top level of the house — it was only two stories — and knelt to look out a window. The first helicopter, an evil-looking Apache, circled some distance away.
Then he went back downstairs to join Charley and Egg. “What now, Ripper?”
“Better get that saucer here, Charley, if you can. We’re going to need it.”
“Take a while,” Egg suggested.
“Better late than never.”
Adam Solo dragged himself toward them. The bandage on his back, under his shirt, was leaking again, staining his shirt with blood.
“Just sit here,” Charley said, helping him seat himself against a wall. “You should have stayed where you were.”
“They want me,” Solo said. “Or my body. If they kill me, throw my body into the canyon, then use the saucer to shoot them down.”
Rip said nothing, merely checked that the Model 94 had a shell in the chamber and set the hammer on half-cock. He didn’t take his eyes off the helicopter. It flew out of view to the right.
“They’ll put people on the top of this little mesa,” Charley told him. “They’ll rappel down. When they’re on the ropes, shoot ’em.”
“Better to just scare them off until the saucer arrives,” Egg advised. He was worried. Who knew how many thugs the Big Pharma guys had out there? How, he wondered, had the bad guys found them in this aerie? If the thugs were here, were the U.S. government’s legions close by, coming fast?
Almost on cue, Rip said, “Those are Army or National Guard helicopters.”
“Maybe these are the good guys,” Egg said hopefully, his voice rising in pitch.
The Apache appeared again, this time from their right. Now a loudhailer could be heard. Amid the whop-whop echoes and exhaust noises, the words were hard to distinguish. “… Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands up … two minutes … we only want Solo … let you go.”
“I didn’t get all of that,” Rip muttered.
“They just threatened to kill us all if we don’t surrender,” Charley Pine said acidly.
“Saucer on its way?”
“Oh yes.”
Now they heard a chopper on the mesa directly behind them, just out of sight from the Anasazi ruin where they were.
“They’re rappelling down,” Charley shouted, because the engine and rotor noises were now very loud.
“Get your heads down,” Rip roared and settled in with his rifle on the sill of the window. Almost as if he had planned it, the chopper turned so that he had a good look at the right engine nacelle. About a hundred yards, he figured.
He cocked the rifle, aimed and fired. The report was almost lost amid the noise. He worked the lever, chambering another round, and fired at the engine nacelle again. Then a third time.
The chopper accelerated away to their right with its tail up and nose down.
Rip and Charley saw it at the same time: a wisp of smoke trailing behind the machine, which climbed straight ahead for the rim of the canyon, perhaps three hundred yards away and several hundred yards above them.
Charley Pine pounded Rip on his back.
Her second slap missed. Rip rushed through the low door that led outside. He kept close to the adobe wall of the Anasazi house and worked his way to the corner of the ledge. It sounded as if one of the choppers were right over his head.
What, he wondered, if Uncle Egg was right? Could these be army dudes? What if he shot some soldier? How would he live with that?
Rip scanned the ledge above as the sound of the helicopter changed pitch. It sounded as if it were moving away …
He leaned out slightly to see if he could see it above the mesa … and a bullet smacked into the rock just inches from his head, spattering him with rock chips.
Holy…!
Rip launched himself flat on his stomach as another bullet smashed into the wall — right where his head had been.
He got behind a pile of old stones that had crumbled from an Anasazi tower and looked through a small gap in the stones with one eye, examining the edge of the rim. Two men were standing … one with binoculars, it looked like.
Then he saw the prone man, obviously behind a rifle.
A bullet struck the rock just in front of him and threw rock dust in his eyes. He curled up in a fetal position and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision.
That took maybe twenty seconds. The helo above the mesa was gone now. Soon someone was going to come down the ropes, trying to get onto this ledge.
His eyes were blurry … He blinked mightily and rubbed them some more. Eased up to look through the gap in the stones.
The two guys were still standing there like a couple of tourists from Iowa seeing the big ditch for the first time.
Rip eased the rifle through the gap. Cocked it. Rested it right on the stone. He put the front bead on the man with the binoculars and lowered the rear of the rifle so the bead was sticking up a little in the notch.
Then he squeezed that old Model 94 off ever so gently. He knew the muzzle flash would give him away, so he ducked down and was pulling the rifle toward him when another bullet smashed into the rock right above him and whined away.
“I’m hit! I’m hit! The bastard shot me!” Harrison Douglas fell to the snow clutching his right arm with his left hand. He looked down. Blood oozed between his fingers.
The prone shooter didn’t look up. He had his cheek weld and was trying to reacquire the kid on the ledge. Lucky. The kid was lucky. He was bobbing and weaving and staying down, showing himself too briefly for the rifleman to get a shot.
As Douglas moaned, Johnny Murkowsky pounded on the rifleman’s leg. “They told me you were good. Prove it! Get that kid! Get him, I say!”
“You wanta do the shootin’, old man?”
Johnny Murk whacked him again. “That’s your job, you Philadelphia moron. But if you keep missing, I might as well. Couldn’t do any worse.”