Unmanned

CHAPTER TWO

Fourteen months later

A CONTRAIL OF DUST marked the car’s progress, undulating like a brown caterpillar across the wide expanse of the desert floor. The car was a mile away, maybe two, but there was no mistaking its destination. The only person up here was Darwin Cole, seated on a lawn chair at the door of a sagging trailer in the shade of a sandstone bluff.

Now he could hear the laboring engine, the ping of gravel in the wheel wells. Silver Chevy, practically brand-new. Meaning it was either a rental or government issue. The latter prospect made Cole reach inside the trailer for the loaded 12-gauge he always kept handy. He sat back down and laid the shotgun across his lap like a hunter in a blind, waiting. Then he squinted into the morning sky to check the position of the December sun. Almost nine. Early for company. Early for bourbon, too, but he took another warm swallow from his tumbler of Jeremiah Weed.

The Chevy disappeared into a dip, then reemerged before stopping a hundred yards out, engine idling. The chrome grille smiled up at him like a salesman. Somebody wanted something, but Cole wasn’t in a giving mood. Nothing to give, anyway, except flies, scorpions, a few cans of stew. Plus all those memories, circling like buzzards.

The engine stopped. Everything was silent as the last of the contrail silted to the ground. A door clicked open and a woman got out from the driver’s side. That surprised him. Roughly his age, but not his wife. White blouse, pressed black slacks, brown hair, windblown. She walked around to the passenger side, facing him. Sunglasses hid her eyes, although just as he was thinking that, she took them off.

Her face was vaguely familiar, stirring a warmth that was only skin deep and faded within seconds. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Let her go first. Besides, he was unsure of his voice. He’d stopped talking months ago, even to himself, which at the time he’d regarded as a sign of progress.

“You’re not going to shoot me, I hope.” She smiled uncertainly. Cole cleared his throat and reached back for something extra, not wanting to croak.

“Depends on who you are, what you’re here for.” The old baritone seemed fine. Nice to know some things were still in working order.

“That would be easier to explain face-to-face. Then, if you still don’t like me, I’ll go, easy as I came, and nobody will be the wiser. The Air Force doesn’t seem to know you’re up here, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Oh, they know where to find me.”

Cole nodded at the sky, as if that explained everything. Instead of answering, she watched, hesitant, while the silence grew between them.

“I’ve got news of your family,” she said. Her voice was a little timid. Cole got the impression she’d been hoping to hold that item in reserve but now had nothing left. “They don’t know where you are, either. I wasn’t planning on telling them unless you want me to.”

Was there a threat in that statement? Or maybe in the one about the Air Force?

“State your business. I’ll decide if it’s worth your while to come any closer.”

“Fort1 is my business. Mine and two other people’s. It’s kind of a club—people who want to know all about Fort1 and everything he’s done. We heard about what happened to you, so we figured you were a prime candidate for membership.”

Cole took a deep breath and stood slowly, still holding the shotgun. Then he remembered her face. A journalist. He’d met her during a deployment, years ago. Aviano Air Base, in Italy, a reporter from Boston back during the air war over Kosovo. She’d interviewed him in the canteen while a PAO hovered nearby, making sure Cole didn’t misbehave. She’d charmed him for an hour, then written a puff piece that made all the generals happy.

“You’re the reporter, aren’t you? Keira something?”

“Keira Lyttle, yeah. Thought you’d remember.” She sounded relieved, her shoulders relaxing. “So what do you say?”

In the car, something moved behind the smoked glass, which reminded him why he didn’t trust reporters. They hid things—motives, opinions, the stuff they already knew. And, like the brass, they were always eager to either piggyback on your success or hang you for your mistakes.

“Who’s in the car?”

“A colleague. His name’s Steve.”

“I don’t want him taking my picture. Does he have a camera?”

She shook her head.

“I want to see him.”

Lyttle knocked on the passenger window. “Steve, roll it down.”

The window hummed open. He was about the same age as Lyttle, hair clipped short. He nodded but didn’t speak. No sign of a lens, but that didn’t mean anything.

“Steve Merritt,” the man offered. “Pleased to meet you.”

“He’s part of the club,” Lyttle said. “He didn’t feel comfortable letting me come up here alone.”

Cole looked down at the gun in his hands. Feeling a little foolish, he propped it against the trailer. The standoff was making him weary. His inclination was to send them away, tell them to forget it. But the mention of Fort1 had hooked him somewhere deep and painful, so he stepped forward, feeling older than his years and wondering if he was ready for this. Shifting his weight from his right foot to his left, he announced his decision.

“Just you. He stays in the car. No cameras, no tape recorders, and no laptops.”

“How ’bout this?”

She held up a small notebook.

“Fine. Long as you got your own pencil.”

She held that up, too, then started climbing the rise toward the trailer. A shadow crossed between them and they flinched, but when Cole looked up he saw it was only a hawk hunting its breakfast. His memories began descending from their holding pattern, and in the vanguard as always was the girl in the red shawl, white pants, and blue scarf, with two boys edging forward from the shadows behind her. Just above them was the black vector of the crosshairs, emblazoned on the mud rooftop like the mark of Cain: Strike here and incur the wrath of God.

“Ready?” Lyttle asked.

She’d materialized in front of him, notebook in hand.

“Not out here.” He nodded at the sky. “They’ll see us. Inside.”

Lyttle turned and waved toward the car, as if to signal the all-clear, although to Cole her smile looked forced.

“You first,” he said, nodding toward the door.

Her lips tightened, but she did as he asked.

They disappeared into the trailer.