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Authors: Steven L. Kent
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taking me out of the loop?” asked Watson.
“You’ll be safer in Washington,” Freeman said. “You wouldn’t like the direction I’m headed out here.” And that, as far as Freeman was concerned, was all that remained to be said. He steered Watson back to the police station in silence, and their driver took them out to the spaceport.
Gordon Hughes Spaceport was technically an “airport,” not a spaceport. It was designed to handle atmosphere-only flights though its runway was long enough to handle fighters. The spaceport could easily accommodate military transports, which were vertical-landing crafts, but it lacked the upgraded equipment needed for fueling extra-atmospheric freighters and commuter crafts. Any space birds landing in Mazatlán would need to pack sufficient fuel to fly home.
Freeman considered the logistics of extra-atmospheric flights from Mazatlán as the caravan rolled onto the spaceport grounds. He saw cargo planes and atmospheric commuters, but no extra-atmospheric freight haulers.
Hughes Spaceport did have enough space for a fleet of transports, and those were extra-atmospheric birds that carried large amounts of fuel. Even if a ship’s tanks were nearly empty, there were spaceports in California, Texas, and Utah where an extra-atmospheric ship could refuel.
Freeman mulled this over in silence.
Humiliated that he was being sent home, Watson remained quiet as the car approached the spaceport. He told himself he was angry, but he knew the truth. He was embarrassed.
The car caravan drove into the hangar in which the government shuttle was parked. While Watson thanked the New Olympian driver and policemen, Freeman entered the shuttle. The escort stayed to watch as the pilot powered up the shuttle’s engines and taxied out of the hangar.
No one noticed that Freeman had already exited the plane. He had entered the main cabin, walked to the galley, and exited through the service hatch at the rear of the plane.
CHAPTER
TEN
Returning to town meant a ten-mile hike, but Freeman didn’t mind. Hiking back to town would give him time to piece together the information he had learned.
The airport was south and east of town, far from the beaches. It was late at night now, with a sky so purely black in which the stars looked ripe and ready to fall. Freeman drew in breaths of dry desert air. He didn’t run and saw no reason to rush. Crossing parking lots, alleys, and fields, he shadowed the road. The few times that cars passed, he calmly ducked out of sight. Mostly, though, he had the country to himself, just him and the sounds of the wind and the insects.
He would need a gun, but that didn’t worry him. He had money, both cash and credit, and a man could always find guns if he knew where and how to look, even in a newly formed territory. Black markets grew spontaneously. They were indigenous in all societies.
Freeman entered an open field, saw a dilapidated farmhouse three hundred yards away, and knew that the land had been out of use for centuries. Scabs of grass grew, but most of the ground remained bare, the soil modified to withhold nutrients from seeds that did not contain the proper genetic sourcing. Once the New Olympians established their territory, they would restore the farmhouse and plant the land.
The field had space for an armada of transports, and there were other fields nearby that were just as large. He asked himself if those clones could have come in transports, but gave the idea no credence.
The gunship that attacked Sheridan Federal Correctional Facility seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. EME radar had not picked up the bird until she had nearly reached the coast. There had been three transports as well. According to radar tracking, they materialized about one hundred miles off the Oregon coast. A mystery.
The same tracking system showed no unidentified aircraft entering New Olympian airspace—not near the sea, not leaving the atmosphere. The Enlisted Man’s Navy had
“You’ll be safer in Washington,” Freeman said. “You wouldn’t like the direction I’m headed out here.” And that, as far as Freeman was concerned, was all that remained to be said. He steered Watson back to the police station in silence, and their driver took them out to the spaceport.
Gordon Hughes Spaceport was technically an “airport,” not a spaceport. It was designed to handle atmosphere-only flights though its runway was long enough to handle fighters. The spaceport could easily accommodate military transports, which were vertical-landing crafts, but it lacked the upgraded equipment needed for fueling extra-atmospheric freighters and commuter crafts. Any space birds landing in Mazatlán would need to pack sufficient fuel to fly home.
Freeman considered the logistics of extra-atmospheric flights from Mazatlán as the caravan rolled onto the spaceport grounds. He saw cargo planes and atmospheric commuters, but no extra-atmospheric freight haulers.
Hughes Spaceport did have enough space for a fleet of transports, and those were extra-atmospheric birds that carried large amounts of fuel. Even if a ship’s tanks were nearly empty, there were spaceports in California, Texas, and Utah where an extra-atmospheric ship could refuel.
Freeman mulled this over in silence.
Humiliated that he was being sent home, Watson remained quiet as the car approached the spaceport. He told himself he was angry, but he knew the truth. He was embarrassed.
The car caravan drove into the hangar in which the government shuttle was parked. While Watson thanked the New Olympian driver and policemen, Freeman entered the shuttle. The escort stayed to watch as the pilot powered up the shuttle’s engines and taxied out of the hangar.
No one noticed that Freeman had already exited the plane. He had entered the main cabin, walked to the galley, and exited through the service hatch at the rear of the plane.
CHAPTER
TEN
Returning to town meant a ten-mile hike, but Freeman didn’t mind. Hiking back to town would give him time to piece together the information he had learned.
The airport was south and east of town, far from the beaches. It was late at night now, with a sky so purely black in which the stars looked ripe and ready to fall. Freeman drew in breaths of dry desert air. He didn’t run and saw no reason to rush. Crossing parking lots, alleys, and fields, he shadowed the road. The few times that cars passed, he calmly ducked out of sight. Mostly, though, he had the country to himself, just him and the sounds of the wind and the insects.
He would need a gun, but that didn’t worry him. He had money, both cash and credit, and a man could always find guns if he knew where and how to look, even in a newly formed territory. Black markets grew spontaneously. They were indigenous in all societies.
Freeman entered an open field, saw a dilapidated farmhouse three hundred yards away, and knew that the land had been out of use for centuries. Scabs of grass grew, but most of the ground remained bare, the soil modified to withhold nutrients from seeds that did not contain the proper genetic sourcing. Once the New Olympians established their territory, they would restore the farmhouse and plant the land.
The field had space for an armada of transports, and there were other fields nearby that were just as large. He asked himself if those clones could have come in transports, but gave the idea no credence.
The gunship that attacked Sheridan Federal Correctional Facility seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. EME radar had not picked up the bird until she had nearly reached the coast. There had been three transports as well. According to radar tracking, they materialized about one hundred miles off the Oregon coast. A mystery.
The same tracking system showed no unidentified aircraft entering New Olympian airspace—not near the sea, not leaving the atmosphere. The Enlisted Man’s Navy had
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