We are under orders to engage anyone and everyone in the vicinity who is not immediately identifiable as an element of the friendly force. For this operation, there is no such term as noncombatant, nor are any identified enemy personnel, however uniformed, attired or gendered to be left alive.”
Lowering his voice, Major Davis spoke to the handsome young Lieutenant Adam Castle, who was riding at his side. “Castle—detail two good men to flank Miss Naile and remain at her side throughout the engagement, no matter what happens.”
“Very good, sir!”
Major Davis raised his voice again. “Remember! What we do or don’t do today, here, now, may well alter the course of the United States forever. We’ll be bloody.” Lowering his voice, he called out, “Bugler, sound the charge.” Raising his voice again, Major Davis shouted, “Charge!”
The bugle call seemed to pervade the entirety of the dry lake bed, while not drowning out the thrumming of pounding hooves, the rattle of equipment, yells coming from some of the men, the snorting of animals.
Major Clark Davis’ big brown gelding lunged into a low-slung run, the skirmish line—Lizzie within it—fewer than two or three strides behind him. The force of the air around him bent the brim of his hat upward and back, and his teeth were bared in what could have been mistaken for a smile—if she hadn’t known better.
The enemy personnel in and around the pavilions— some few in uniform, most in civilian attire, all of them male—were moving, most running, some few walking purposefully.
Coming up over the horizon, spectral almost in appearance, heat shimmering around it from the sand and rocks, a storm of dust in its wake, was a helicopter.
Neither Major Davis nor any of his men had ever heard of such a machine, let alone seen one. The skirmish line began to break, even Clark Davis reining back slightly, his horse edging right and away from the machine.
“It’s called a helicopter, Major! It’s one of the flying machines from the future. It’s probably outfitted with rapid-firing guns, like Gatling guns I’ve seen in western movies, only an awful lot faster. They use electricity to fire the cartridges, I think. It can be shot down. It must be!”
As if punctuating her plea, the helicopter opened fire, bullets stitching into the sand mere feet from the edge of the skirmish line nearest it, the sound of the gunfire like she imagined the sound would be if someone tore apart a piece of the universe, not like gunfire at all.
“Lieutenant Castle! Detail six men to assist the lady; she knows all about machines like this and will direct fire against it.” Major Davis looked down at her and smiled. “I’m counting on you, Miss Naile.”
“I won’t let you down, sir.” Already, her mind was racing, trying to recall every movie she’d ever seen in which the good guy had shot down the bad guy’s helicopter. In her mind’s eye, she could see Sean Connery firing a little AR-7 .22 rifle that disassembled to a size that stowed away in a trick briefcase. Somehow, she didn’t think shooting down a helicopter was going to be quite that easy in real life.
Ellen’s Suburban followed its carefully preselected route into the rocky escarpment on the far edge of the natural dish that was the lake bed.
Wisps of gray smoke from the explosions that had been engineered in order to disable the armored personnel carriers still hung in the desert air. Far to the North—it was probably North, Ellen figured—she could barely make out the dust trail from Clarence’s tank, and a smaller trail behind it.
Hitting a rock she hadn’t quite gauged properly, Ellen’s vehicle bounced so hard that her head actually struck the headliner. Murmuring “Shit!” under her breath, Ellen corrected her steering wheel and rode her brakes a little more heavily.
Dangerously close, but not in any position to fire yet, as best she could tell, were the two tanks aligned with the Lakewood Industries forces. Looking ahead, Ellen reminded herself that in—thankfully—only a few more moments, she would be abandoning her vehicle and running for cover.
Ellen started braking, knowing that the preset spot where the Suburban was to be abandoned lay just ahead, around the next bend. She couldn’t help glancing up into the rocks. Did she catch a glimpse of some of the personnel from the Seventh at the highest point along the bulge of ridgeline? Would the men operating the Lakewood Industries tanks see the men of the Seventh, realize what was