A Question of Intent. Merline Lovelace
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