Читать книгу A Question of Intent - Merline Lovelace, Merline Lovelace - Страница 7

“Rattler One, this is Rattler Control.”

U.S. Army Major Jill Bradshaw took her gaze from the moon-washed desert landscape and smiled as she keyed the transmit button on her handheld communicator. When her small detachment of military police had first gathered at this supersecret test site, she’d left the choice of a call sign designator to them. After hot debate, they’d settled on Rattler in deference to the deadly diamondbacks nesting under just about every rock and bush in this patch of southeastern New Mexico. The call sign was also intended to symbolize the fact that her tough-as-nails military cops intended to inject pure poison into anyone who attempted to penetrate their remote site.

“This is Rattler One,” Jill replied. “Go ahead, Control.”

“The sensors are indicating a breach of the perimeter.”

“Is the intruder of the two- or four-legged variety?”

“I make it four-wheeled.”

After two weeks of installing the active and passive defenses for the hundred-square-mile site that ranged from flat, dry desert to high, pine-studded mountains, every member of Jill’s team had become adept at differentiating between the varying signals emitted by the sensors. They could ID a jackrabbit on the run and the coyote chasing him, as well as the occasional hunter who missed—or ignored—the Restricted Area signs and strayed onto the site.

“The vehicle was moving at approximately forty miles per hour but is now stopped.”

Stopped? Jill didn’t like the sound of that. “Give me the coordinates.”

“Alpha-three-zero-eight, kilo-six-one-two.”

She thumbed the digits into the number pad of her eBook. The handy-dandy, palm-held device was only one of the new pieces of equipment being tested in conjunction with the supersecret Pegasus Project. The small apparatus acted as a document viewer and terminal to receive data and graphics. When teamed with a body-worn computer, it gave soldiers the ability to perform computational operations, store data, view maps, coordinate troop movements, and communicate quickly and directly with one another. At thirty-one, Jill considered herself a fairly savvy representative of the electronic generation, but the whiz-bang capabilities of this palm-size gizmo continued to astound her.

“I make the intruder only a few miles from my present location,” she told the controller.

“That’s how we make him, too.”

“I’ll check him out. Contact the patrol in sector five and have them stand by in case I need backup.”

“Roger, One.”

Jill thumbed a button to activate the directional finder of the eBook and hooked the device to the dash of her souped-up dune buggy. Standard patrol cars didn’t hack it out here in the desert, where there was a whole lot more sand than tarmac. Her detachment drove a fleet of highly maneuverable ATVs fitted with mountings for a small arsenal of weapons and the latest in high-tech navigational aids. The distinctive Military Police markings on the side of the vehicle left no doubt as to who manned them.

Despite the markings, Jill and her security forces had orders to keep as low a profile as possible in conducting their duties. Most of the intruders her troops had intercepted in the past two weeks had left the area convinced they’d stumbled onto a remote patch of the Army’s White Sands Missile Test Range. Even the residents of Chorro, the sleepy, one-gas-station town some thirty miles west of the site, didn’t know an entire test complex had been shipped in and assembled in less than two weeks.

Looking back, Jill could only marvel at all that had been accomplished in those hectic two weeks. Working around the clock, her people had completed a security grid of the entire test site and set up the perimeter defenses. Prefab buildings had been trucked in, assembled, and were ready for occupancy. Racks and racks of highly sophisticated test equipment had been uncrated and set up. U.S. Navy Captain Sam Westerhall, the tough, grizzled leader of the joint service project had hit the site yesterday. The rest of his multiservice test team would arrive tomorrow.

The day after, Pegasus would roll or fly or swim in—Jill wasn’t quite sure which. She, like the other key members of the test cadre, would find out more about the top-secret project at the team’s in-briefing tomorrow.

Tonight, though, she had another fifty or so miles of perimeter to run, two patrols to check on and an intruder to intercept. She eyed the directional finder on the eBook, saw she was still two miles to target, and pressed down on the accelerator.

The wizard in charge of her fleet had modified the ATV’s mufflers to all but kill its normal growl. As Jill jounced along the narrow, two-lane dirt road, the quiet of the vast Chihuahuan Desert surrounded her. The seemingly endless patch of sand was primarily scrub and shrub. The ubiquitous creosote bush with its tarry scent and perforated branches popped up everywhere, interspersed with yucca, saltbush, and a small, night-blooming cactus that blinked delicate white eyes in the vehicle’s headlights.

Although naturally partial to her native Oregon, Jill had to admit the Chihuahuan Desert was pure magic at night. The wide-open spaces merged earth and sky until she couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began. She felt as though she was aiming her vehicle straight at the bright, glittering stars that seemed to dangle directly in front of her.

She didn’t consider herself a romantic by any means. Few of the cops she’d worked with over the years would think of themselves that way, she suspected. Yet that incredible, sparkling curtain made her wish she had something of the poet or artist in her soul.

Tearing her gaze from the spectacular view, she checked the directional finder again. A mile to target. Slowing, she killed the headlights and activated the night-vision navigational system. A screen built into the dash showed the road ahead in glowing green detail. Night navigation would make for slower going, but there was no need to advertise her approach to the intruder if he hadn’t already spotted the spear of her vehicle’s headlights.

He could be anyone, she reminded herself as she navigated only by the light of the moon and the directional finder. A lost traveler, confused by the long, empty stretch of dirt road that cut through the desert. A hunter out to get a jumpstart on a dawn shoot. A Mescalero Apache from the reservation to the north, following in the footsteps of the ancestors who’d roamed over this land at will.

Or someone not quite as innocent.

A smuggler trucking in illegal aliens. A noisy reporter who’d gotten wind of the sudden influx of people into the area. Or a terrorist, out to sabotage the top-secret weapon the United States government hoped would be the instrument of his destruction.

Jill might not know the specifics of Pegasus Project, but the general who’d called her in and told her she’d been hand selected to head the security detail at the test site had stressed it would be a prime target for attack if word leaked out what was being done here. She’d been allowed to pick every man and woman on her detachment and had chosen only the best of the best. To a person, they were fully prepared to lay down their lives if necessary to defend the site from physical, biological or chemical attack.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” she muttered to the plastic, bobble-headed Goofy stuck to her ATV’s dash with Velcro.

She wasn’t superstitious. Not at all. But good ol’ Goof had gone through four years of ROTC with her at the University of Oregon, had sweated through the grueling Military Police Officers’ basic and advance courses at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and accompanied her on assignments all over the globe, including Kosovo and Iraq. If she ever found a man with his long, gangly build and stupid grin, she would probably jump his bones on the spot.

Of course, the fact that Goof was the direct physical opposite of the smooth, slick, rock-you-back-on-your-heels-handsome bastard she’d tangled with her freshman year at OU might have something to do with her preference for the anatomically challenged. Shoving the memory of that grim event back into the black hole where it belonged, she checked the directional finder again, slowed the ATV to a halt and keyed her communicator.

“Control, this is Rattler One.”

“Go ahead, One.”

“Unless the target has moved, I’m within fifty meters of his position.”

“He hasn’t tripped any more sensors. We make him at the same coordinates we gave you earlier.”

“Roger, Control. I’m leaving my vehicle to recon on foot.”

“We’ll track you, One.”

Jill checked her equipment before leaving the vehicle. She carried five spare clips for her pistol on her webbed utility belt, along with a set of handcuffs, a nightstick and the long, heavy flashlight that could come in real handy if she didn’t have time to reach for her nightstick. She stuffed additional clips for her semiautomatic rifle in a side pocket on the belt and flicked a finger to set Goofy bobbing.

“Watch my six, fella.”

He nodded his vigorous concurrence. That was another thing she liked about ol’ Goof. He never disagreed with her.

Clipping the communications device to her breast pocket, Jill tucked an errant strand of her blunt-cut blond hair under her black beret. Although the Rangers and Special Forces had raised howls of outrage when the Army brass decided to issue berets to all soldiers, she had to admit the headgear looked a lot meaner than the standard BDU patrol cap.

BDU. Battle Dress Uniform. What idiot had coined that term? There wasn’t anything dressy about the baggy, green-brown-and-black camouflage pants or the matching shirt worn with sleeves rolled up to form a constricting band just above the elbow.

Swinging out of the ATV, Jill slung her rifle over one shoulder. The case containing her night-vision goggles went over the other. Fully armed, she started for the target. The August night was hot and dry, but not uncomfortable…except on her feet. The desert sand had absorbed the fierce August sun all day and was now giving it up. The heat came right through the soles of her boots.

Toasty-toed, she topped a small rise and stopped to take a reading. Affirming she was aimed in the right direction, she pulled out her night-vision goggles and squinted through the viewers. The endless vista spread out before her took on a greenish glow, brighter in some spots than others because of the heat still rising from the sands.

And from the still-warm engine of the SUV directly ahead of her.

The vehicle was parked beside a clump of jagged rock that thrust up out of the desert floor. It was one of those big, muscled monsters, favored by ranchers and yuppies alike. A Chevy Tahoe or Ford Expedition, judging by its extended frame. Jill scanned it from bumper to bumper, but saw no sign of the driver. Silently she moved close enough to make the license tag.

“Rattler Control,” she called in softly. “This is Rattler One.”

“This is Rattler Control. Go ahead, One.”

“I have the vehicle in view. Run a twenty-eight/twenty-nine on New York tag Lima-Echo-Alpha-six-four-four.”

“Will do, One.”

Jill waited while the controller put the license number through the National Crime Information Center. He was back with the requested information in less than a minute.

“The tag checks to a corporation called Ditech, Limited. The vehicle is listed as a 2001 Lincoln Navigator and doesn’t come back stolen.”

“Roger, control.” She swept the area again, searching the open stretches of desert and the shadowed rocks some distance from the parked SUV. “I don’t see the driver. I’m going in to check out the vehicle.”

Her boots crunching on the sand, she approached the midnight-blue Lincoln and aimed her flashlight at the darkened windows. The powerful beam confirmed there was no one sitting behind or slumped over the wheel. A cautious circuit of the vehicle showed all four bucket seats were empty. A roll-out shield covered the rear luggage compartment, giving no clue as to its contents.

Frowning, Jill made another circuit, aiming the flashlight at the ground this time. The sand was hard here, not like the snowy, fine-grained white stuff farther north, but her boot prints showed clearly enough. As did the faint indentations leading toward the rocky outcropping.

Jill eyed the single set of prints. Their size and shape suggested a male. A big one. That didn’t particularly worry her. She’d learned enough tricks over the years to take down any two drunken soldiers stupid enough to get crosswise of her. What worried her was why the heck this guy had stopped just inside the perimeter of the Pegasus site.

Easing her semiautomatic rifle from her shoulder, she nestled it in the crook of her arm and rested her finger on the trigger guard. The M-9 was light enough to carry easily for long distances and accurate enough to be fired on the run. Jill could attest to both attributes from past experience. Aiming the flashlight at the tracks, she followed them toward the rocks.

“There’s a set of footprints in the sand,” she advised Control, tilting her chin down to speak softly into the mike. “I’m following them to… Damn!”

What happened next was just the kind of unexpected situation she’d learned to anticipate in her years as a cop. Still, she just about jumped out of her boots when a shadowy figure suddenly rounded the rocky outcropping and almost collided with her.

“What the hell!”

His deep snarl shattered the stillness of the night. Jill danced back, her heart pumping pure adrenaline, and whipped up both her weapon and the flashlight. She caught a glimpse, only a glimpse of his startled expression before he, too, reacted with razor-edged instincts. One moment he was squinting into the blinding light. The next he was hurtling through the air like a NFL linebacker with a ten-thousand-dollar bonus riding on his next quarterback sack.

Jill’s instincts were every bit as quick. She danced to the side and resisted the impulse to bring the butt of her rifle down on the man’s neck as he barreled past. She’d been trained to use force only as a last resort, but she wasn’t above stacking the odds in her favor by thrusting out a boot.

He went down with a grunt and a thud that raised puffs of sand. If she’d been out to cuff him, she would have barked out an order for him to plant his face in the dirt at that point. Instead, she stood well away from his feet and kept a wary eye on his hands as he rolled onto his hip. As an added precaution, she aimed the powerful flashlight right at his face, effectively blinding him.

He threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the intense light, allowing Jill to catalogue his wavy black hair, a square jaw and powerful shoulders under an open-necked red knit shirt. The rest of his body matched the shoulders, she noted in a swift sweep. Narrow waist, lean hips, well muscled thighs that strained the fabric of his well-washed jeans. She also made note of the gold watch circling his left wrist.

The Lincoln and the obviously expensive watch suggested he wasn’t a hunter or a smuggler running illegal aliens. Nor did he look like your average lost tourist. A few years ago Jill might have said he didn’t look like your average terrorist, either, but the Oklahoma City bombing proved even clean-cut, ex-Marines were capable of committing the most despicable acts of violence.

“Is that your vehicle parked by the road?” she asked, keeping him pinned in the flashlight’s beam.

“Yes.”

“Who are you and what are you doing in this area?”

“The name’s Richardson. Cody Richardson.”

Jill sucked in a quick breath. She recognized the name, if not the face. Commander Cody Richardson, Public Health Service. Dr. Richardson, if she accorded him his title instead of his rank.

Jill had thoroughly reviewed the background dossiers and security clearances of every test cadre member, including that of Dr. Richardson. But the head-and-shoulders photo of the PHS officer assigned to the Pegasus Project didn’t come close to matching this hunk of raw maleness. The subject of that photo had worn wire-rim glasses, a white lab coat and scowled into the camera as if annoyed at being disturbed.

This man wore a red knit Polo shirt that clung to his wide shoulders and a pair of worn jeans that displayed lean hips and muscled thighs. Evidently the doc—if he was the physician and brilliant researcher expected at the site—believed in keeping himself in shape.

Squinting at her from under his upraised arm, he rapped out a question of his own. “Who are you?”

“I’m Major Jill Bradshaw, United States Army.”

Some of the belligerence seeped out of him. “U.S. Army?”

“That’s right.”

His tense, corded muscles relaxed. “Sorry I came at you the way I did, Major. Chalk it up to the fact that you surprised the hell out of me. I saw the rifle pointed straight at my middle and my self-preservation instincts kicked in.”

When she made no comment, he angled his head behind the shield of his upraised arm, trying to see her.

“How about you get that light out of my eyes.”

“How about you show me some ID?”

The cool response didn’t win her any Brownie points with the doc. Above the muscular forearm, his black brows snapped together. “My wallet’s in my back pocket.”

“Get up, plant your hands against the rock, and spread your legs. Please,” she tacked on after a moment.

He rolled to his feet with an athletic grace that didn’t impress her a bit. The butt-head who’d attacked her in college had been a star skier, golfer and swimmer. Personally, Jill preferred the gangly, gawky type.

She patted him down for hidden weapons, then asked him to extract his wallet from his rear pocket. Slowly. Carefully. He did so, turning around to hand her the slim leather billfold. She examined both his driver’s license and Public Health Service ID card. The ID confirmed he was, in fact, the expert in biological agents who’d been tagged to work the Pegasus Project, but Jill still had a few questions that needed answering.

“May I ask where you were headed?”

“I’m en route from San Antonio to San Francisco. I decided to cut across country and pick up I-40 in Albuquerque, but took the wrong road out of El Paso.”

She gave him full marks for a good cover story. He must have figured out by now she was with the Pegasus security team but wasn’t going to admit it until she asked for the code. She took her time doing so.

“Why did you stop here? Did you run out of gas?”

“No.”

Neither his expression nor his stance altered, but Jill didn’t miss the slight hesitation before he continued.

“I stopped to admire the view from the top of the rocks,” he said ruefully, as if admitting to an embarrassing character flaw. “It’s pretty awesome.”

Yeah, right.

Jill had been a cop too long to accept a trite explanation like that. Particularly when it was accompanied by a grin that showed a flash of even white teeth and crinkled the skin at the corners of too-blue eyes. If Dr. Cody Richardson had left his vehicle to climb the rocks, her instincts told her it wasn’t to admire the view.

Still, Richardson had been cleared for this project by the highest levels at the Pentagon. He matched the physical description in his dossier, more or less. He wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow but could have made good time on the road and decided to press on. Jill saw no other choice but to put him through one more gate.

“Do you have the time, Dr. Richardson?”

He bent his elbow. She caught another flash of gold and the ripple of muscle under his knit shirt when his shoulders lifted in a shrug.

“Sorry, my watch seems to have stopped.”

Jill dipped her head to acknowledge that he’d given the proper response. Something about this guy still didn’t sit right with her, but he’d passed every test. Filing away the nagging little doubt for further examination later, she handed him back his wallet and rendered the salute he was due because of his superior rank.

“Welcome to Site Thirty-Two, Dr. Richardson.”

He returned the salute with a precision that surprised her. Although the Public Health Service was one of the seven uniformed services, the members of their small officer corps were more noted for their medical expertise than their strict adherence to military customs and courtesies.

“My vehicle’s just over that rise,” she informed him. “Wait here until I retrieve it, then I’ll escort you to the compound.”

Cody slipped his billfold into his back pocket and watched the major stride off into the darkness. Damned if the woman hadn’t taken five years off his life, popping up out of the desert the way she had.

Given the security briefings he’d received after being selected for the Pegasus Project, Cody had fully expected to be challenged when he arrived at the test site. He just hadn’t expected that challenge to take place out here, in the middle of nowhere. Or in the form of a bristly female soldier.

Well, maybe not all that bristly. The woman’s smooth sweep of silky blond hair softened the Amazon image considerably. Not to mention the trim, tight butt he’d taken note of when she turned and strode off. Despite the beret, combat boots and bulky web belt with all its accouterments, Major Jill Bradshaw looked pretty good in her BDUs. Cody ought to know. He’d studied the human form in all its variations for going on fifteen years now.

Lord! Was it really that long since med school? That many years since he’d tumbled into love with a bright-eyed Red Cross volunteer? Those days at Duke seemed as if they’d happened in another life. To a different man.

They had, he thought grimly as he yanked at the Navigator’s door. An entirely different man. Or so Alicia had claimed the night she’d stormed out of their house three years ago. Her last, furious tirade haunted Cody to this day. Not even a velvet night and a brilliant tapestry of stars could ease his soul-searing guilt.

He wasn’t about to admit he’d stopped out here in the middle of nowhere in the vain hope of finding solace, though. Particularly to a tough, no-nonsense military cop.

Wrapping his hands around the steering wheel, he stared into the darkness and waited for the major’s vehicle to appear.