Rachel the Warrior Pt. 04

Rachel the Warrior

Part Four

by G. Lawrence

Unexpected challenges

Recap; After a failed meeting with Tom's parents and losing her pregnancy in an accident, Rachel has gone out on the road seeking new answers. Now she has returned to Juniper, Nevada, hoping to restore the hot springs, but other events will soon overshadow her efforts. Rachel doesn't know her life is about to change in ways she can't imagine.

* * * * * *

Chapter Seven

CAVE DWELLERS

The week that followed was busy. Rachel enjoyed several days at Jay Silverhawk's ranch, riding horses, feeding the chickens, and visiting with Joanna's two-year-old daughter, renamed Rachel Little Bear. Jay, a respected member of the nearby Te-Moak tribe, had once served as a U. S. Army Ranger. With the troubles caused by Mason in the past, his ranch was thriving. They raised glasses in a toast to Joanna's memory.

"You spend a lot of time on your computer," Jay mentioned, sitting on his porch with Rachel. It was a quiet night, the moon lingering on the horizon. The rocking chairs were crafted from old maple.

"It's a new matrix. Or would have been," Rachel said.

"More healthcare?"

"No. This one would curtail the planet's exposure to poisons. In time, it might have restored the air and the oceans."

"The entire planet?"

"Half the planet would be inefficient."

"That is a sacred responsibility. My people care much for the land."

"I don't know what kind of responsibility it is. The direction of my research is unclear."

"I sense this worries you."

"It worries me very much."

"Is it failure that concerns you?"

"Not in the way many think of failure."

"Rachel, you are one with the spirits. They will guide your path."

"I hope so. Is Rachel Little Bear asleep?"

"Yes. She had a busy day with her beloved godmother."

"Good," Rachel said. "Do you have more of that moonshine whiskey?"

* * * * * *

"Tom was right about the townspeople resisting a massive development," Rachel regretted over lunch at Flo's. The salad was good, spiced with peppered cheese and cherry tomatoes.

"Only a few expressed objections, and Mr. Beggs is offering good suggestions," Tom said.

"I should have anticipated their concerns," Rachel lamented.

"Rach, you're a scientist, not a social worker. You can't predict everyone's behavior," Rory consoled.

"It's not just Juniper. There's another project. A bigger one. If I was so wrong about this, I could be wrong about everything," Rachel explained.

"Damn it, honey, you're not wrong about Juniper. People want this. We just need to fit the new in with the old. We'll figure it out," Rory insisted.

"I'm thinking of asking Sheba to come up. Have some meetings," Rachel revealed.

"Sheba?" Rory asked.

"Did I forget to mention that? Sheba is my business partner. She handles all the financial stuff. She's better at negotiating than I am."

"Business isn't your strongest subject," Tom agreed.

"I've never been good with money," Rachel admitted. "If it wasn't for Mother, I'd still be poor."

"You're worth two billion dollars, Rach," Rory said.

"Yeah. Don't expect that to last very long," Rachel replied.

Grubby Barnes appeared in front of the coffee shop, riding Hank and leading five additional mules, one loaded with supplies. Bob McLane was with him, wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and hiking clothes for a trip into the wilderness.

"Let's git a goin', Pebble. Time's a wasting," Grubby shouted.

"You guys don't have to go, if you don't want to," Rachel said.

"No way are we missing this," Rory answered, paying the check.

Rachel had set aside her cowgirl clothes, choosing khakis and a fedora. She looked like a female Indiana Jones. Tom and Rory were dressed casually in jeans and sweaters.

They rode out of town, Rachel and Grubby in the lead, Rory and Tom with the pack mule, and McLane bringing up the rear, watching for trouble. He had a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Pebble and I used to go way out in the desert," Grubby said, pointing west. "Found every kind of rock there is. She gathered plants. No insects, though. Said no insects had harmed her, so she weren't going to harm them."

"I wouldn't mind harming a few of these damn flies," Rory complained, waving several away.

They traveled north through light woods. The highway was to their right, for a time, and then disappeared. Flatlands became low hills until they finally came to a series of colorful rock basins protected by steep cliffs. Rachel dismounted.

"When trappers arrived two hundred years ago looking for beaver pelts, there were hot springs all through this area," Rachel explained. "Then someone discovered silver, blew holes in the mountains, and brought in hydraulic mining. The hot springs went underground. Locals thought they dried up."

Rachel walked to the granite cliff, pointing at swirls of red, yellow, and green running through the face. There were flakes of fool's gold. Traces of a long-lost creek meandered down toward the forest.

"I've had geologists working here for months," Rachel said. "We're looking for ways to draw the water back up. After that, the springs should flow naturally again. Dr. Hagenmeyer said there's a cave we should inspect before deciding which channel to flood."

"I don't see a cave," Tom said, joining her at the wall.

"It should be right over here," Rachel guessed, exploring a shallow canyon. Her crew followed, McLane remaining behind for a better view of the trail. Grubby led his pack mule.

"Everything here is just gorgeous, Rach," Rory said. "People are going to love it."

"It would make a great national park," Tom speculated.

"They didn't want none of it," Grubby said. "They was asked for years but couldn't be bothered. It's private property now."

"All of this?" Rory asked.

"Three miles along the highway, and twelve miles in," Grubby confirmed.

"Owned by who?" Tom asked.

Grubby looked at Rachel. She looked down shyly.

"Mr. Silverhawk owns a strip at the northern end," Rachel said. "Mariposa Spring is on his ranch. Mr. Beggs and Maisie share parcels at the southern end. That's where we're building the new motel and casino. I own the rest."

"This whole forest?" Rory questioned.

"There was an auction for most of it. Sheba did the bidding for me," Rachel explained. "She leveraged the rest, whatever that means. Once the park is open, the admittance fees will be kept low. Just enough for maintenance. We'll make money on the hotel and restaurants."

"Listen to you. Such a businesswoman," Rory said.

"I don't know much about that," Rachel protested. "Old technology ruined the land, and modern technology will restore it. Now give me a hand."

They found a heavy plywood board on the ground painted with a red X, and a metal tripod set over it. Rachel tried to drag the board away but couldn't budge it. It took both Tom and Grubby to lift the sheet up.

"There's a hole," Rory realized.

"It's not a hole, it's a cave," Rachel corrected. "Grubby, I need the rope and sling."

"Rope?" Rory said.

"I'm going down to take a look. Dr. Hagenmeyer says it's beautiful."

"You're not going down into that hole on a rope," Rory said, blocking her.

"It's what I came here for, Ro. I need to see how we're going to restore the water channel. We may need pumps, or natural pressure from below. Look, the engineers have already completed the groundwork. You can see the steam."

They saw wisps of delicate white smoke rising from the opening.

"It doesn't look safe," Tom worried.

"I'll be okay. Come on, Grubby, give me a hand."

Grubby rigged a pulley to the tripod above the chasm and helped Rachel into the sling. Tom didn't like where Grubby was putting his hands, even if he was an old man. Rachel didn't seem to mind.

"This won't take long," Rachel said, taking a device out of her pack.

"I haven't seen one of those before. What is it?" Rory asked.

"The techs at WHD whipped this up for me. It has a laser, radar, soil analyzer, temperature gauge, humidity recorder, a density calculator, and GPS. And it's a flashlight."

"What does it do?" Rory said.

"Ro, it does whatever I want it to do. That's the whole idea."

"You invented it?" Rory asked.

"Not exactly. I sketched the schematics for the techs at WHD and they assembled it for me."

"It's a tricorder," Tom said, looking it over.

"A who?" Rachel asked.

"A tricorder. Like on Star Trek," Tom clarified.

"Someone else already invented it?" Rachel questioned.

"No, Rach. Star Trek is a TV show," Tom replied.

"Why would a TV show need a tricorder?" she inquired.

"It's science fiction," Tom answered. "Haven't you ever seen Star Trek?"

"Like with robots and aliens?" Rachel asked.

"It's more than robots and aliens," Tom indignantly protested.

"Tell me about it when we're dancing tonight," Rachel replied, positioning to enter the cave. "Okay, Grubby, hand me the dynamite."

"Whoa, wait! Dynamite?" Rory said.

"Don't worry, it won't explode until I attach the blasting cap," Rachel said. "Unless I bang it too hard. The instructions say that would be bad."

Before Rory could stop her, Rachel pushed back and disappeared down the hole. Grubby was guiding her descent with a motorized crank. He noticed Rory and Tom's distressed expressions.

"You're her boyfriend? And you're her sister?" Grubby asked.

"You already know that," Rory answered.

"Then what are you worried about? Don't you know her? That little girl can do whatever she sets her mind to," Grubby lectured.

Tom helped with the pulley. Rory tried to relax. It wasn't easy.

After descending twenty-five feet through a narrow stone tube, Rachel found herself hanging in a large crystalized cavern. She used her flashlight to inspect the surroundings, the walls sparkling in unique glittering patterns. She began using the tricorder, testing the results her geologists had sent her.

Puffs of warm air blew beneath her, not enough to make breathing difficult. Though she had a mask if she needed it. Freeing the hot springs would not result in a geyser. Not like those seen in Yellowstone. But in time, the cavern would fill and overflow into the basins running along the base of the cliffs. There was a sulfuric smell, neither strong nor unpleasant.

Rachel's mind began to drift, mesmerized by the ancient beauty surrounding her. A haze crept up, pushing aside one reality and replacing it with another. There were numbers, but not just numbers. Rachel heard voices. At first they were speaking English. Rory and Tom. Then another language. Te-Moak? She didn't know it well enough, but the words were familiar. There were other voices. Older. Harsher. Guttural. She felt herself moving back in time. Different people. Different animals. Different beliefs. But a commonality. Family. Tribe. A struggle for existence. They were gone now. What had happened to them? Something bad?

The stick of dynamite was clutched in her hand. A mechanized solution to old problems. She attached the blasting cap, secured the timer, and gazed down to the clogged vent below her. The hot springs had flowed for a thousand generations. A simpler people in a simpler era. The hot springs would flow again, for a new generation, with new problems.

Level 14. She tried to push those thoughts away. Troubling, confusing thoughts. Thoughts filled with fear. Like the hot springs, the world could be restored. Level 14 would do that. But not without a price. A price many would not want to pay. They would need to be forced. Forced by a matrix. An algorithm. Numbers she would have to impose on them. Could she do that? Was it right? What if she didn't? What would the future look like then? Basins of dry stone filled with colors from the past? A desert?

Rachel began crying, holding the stick of TNT against her chest. Her fingers tightened on the primer. Why did it need to be her decision? Her responsibility? She didn't want it. She didn't want anything. Nothing but a simple life.

"Rachel? Rachel?" she heard Rory calling, the sound echoing throughout the chamber.

Rachel realized she was suspended in mid-air, hanging in a dark abyss. The digital timer on the TNT stick was counting down. Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven. She stared at the receding numbers in wonderment, and then tugged on the rope. The rope tugged back. She was being pulled up. She couldn't go up with the dynamite. That was a different solution to a different problem. She let it go, watching it spiral down into the shadowy depths. Then there was a muffled explosion.

"Hurry! Hurry!" Rory shouted as Tom and Grubby tugged on the line. McLane had arrived with the First Aid kit.

Smoke flowed from the opening. The rope swayed back and forth. Rory heard crashing and crumbling coming from down below. She reached down blindly to grab the rope, or anything. And then Rachel appeared, still secure in her sling.

"Got her! Keep pulling," Rory urged.

Rachel emerged from the dark hole, swinging beneath the tripod support. Rory pulled her over, dragged her a dozen feet away, and undid the straps. She found Rachel in a deep haze, oblivious to her surroundings. Rory made her sit up, took hold of her arms, and looked into her eyes.

"Rachel. Rachel. It's me, Rory. Your sister. Rachel," Rory calmly said.

It took a few minutes, but Rachel's eyes gradually focused. She appeared mildly confused.

"Hi, Ro. What's going on?" Rachel asked.

"You fell into a haze."

"I'm okay now. The cave was really pretty," Rachel gushed. "Psalm 96:6.'"

"Which is?" Rory questioned with a smile.

"Splendor and majesty are before Him; strength and beauty fill His sanctuary."

"Sounds like something to see," Tom said.

"It might never look the same," Rachel supposed. "By next spring, the cave will be underwater."

"It's almost underwater now," Grubby said, pulling his rope and equipment back.

They all heard it. Water bubbling up. The steam was hotter. More pronounced. They moved back from the entrance to watch.

"Have a snort?" Grubby asked, producing a flask of Wild Turkey.

"Thank you, Mr. Barnes," Rachel said, taking a hearty sip.

The lightly wooded forest was quiet. The mules grazed in a meadow. Rory found sandwiches in a picnic basket and blankets to sit on. After a few hours, the first trickle of steaming water flooded over the top and down into the nearest basin. They felt the warmth. The smell of sulfur. Colors in the rock changed, growing brighter. Coming alive.

"This is amazing," Rory said.

"You did it, Rach. You restored the hot springs," Tom praised.

Rachel wasn't sure if she agreed. She didn't remember doing anything.

* * * * * *

"You scared us today," Tom cautioned.

"I'm sorry I've been crazy lately," Rachel apologized.

They were curled up in bed at the Blue Bell, a three-quarter moon visible through the window. Tom wrapped an arm around her, feeling the tension.

"Your mind is struggling with a problem. We all see that. Something big, like only you can do. It gets you confused, and it makes you mad. But you're going to figure it out. And I'll be here for you, whatever you need."

"You shouldn't have to work so hard," she complained. "I'm sorry to be so much trouble."

Tom pulled her closer. She was sniffling. Possibly crying. Quietly.

"Your mother explained this to me. In foster care, your caregivers didn't understand your condition. You were shuffled from one home to another. Ignored. Abandoned. They thought you were too much trouble, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"Rach, you're in a different world now. With people who love you. And know you. And who will never walk away. Not your mother, or Rory. Or me. You have faith in so many things. Please have faith in us."

"I try. I try so hard."

Tom stroked her long soft hair, feeling her slowly calming down. It was as Rory said. Rachel would find her balance if given time.

"We're almost wrapped up here. Where to next?" Tom asked.

"Home," Rachel said. "I need a little time at home."

"A little?"

"There's a project that requires resolution. I'm not sure if I can resolve it while staying at Canby Place. Too many distractions."

"Am I one of the distractions?" he prodded, snuggling closer.

"Yes, but not the only one."

"I still want to get married."

"I need to work some things out."

"My father?"

"Let's not talk about it tonight. It's been a long day."

Rachel slept late that morning, unaware of what was happening in town. She finally got up a little after ten, took a long shower, washed her hair, and dressed in her sexy cowgirl outfit. A leather strap held down the hammer on her holstered pistol.

Reporters appeared. Jay Silverhawk was waiting outside her door, also wearing a sidearm. She strolled out into the parking lot, finding a clear cool day.

"One of us should be with her at all times," Jay whispered to McLane. "My brother is ready if you need him."

"Thanks for the assist," McLane gratefully replied, knowing Rachel's frisky behavior could be challenging.

"No thanks are necessary," Jay insisted. "I love that woman. She put her life on the line for my family. The Te-Moak wish to make her an honorary member of the tribe."

Between Jay, Tom, and McLane, strangers would find it prudent to keep their distance. They didn't see any protesters.

"Big plans for today?" Rory asked over breakfast at Flo's. Rachel still thought the eggs were too dry.

"I want to visit around town," Rachel replied. "Nothing special. Just chat. Will you help me?"

"Of course, honey. Always," Rory assured her.

"The hot springs are filling up," Jay reported, outfitted in a rawhide outfit with a black wide-brimmed Stetson. "There's a team of naturalists making a film, and a photographer from National Geographic. I have Rocky and Blue Eagle keeping an eye on things."

"No littering. I hate littering," Rachel insisted.

"Or graffiti," McLane added. "I'll have Darnell dispatch a crew to enforce the rules."

"The Te-Moak elders wish to send security, too," Jay said. "It may be your land, but our people have roots there."

"The Te-Moak are always welcome, Jay," Rachel responded with surprise. "I don't own the land. I'm the caretaker for future generations."

"A caretaker with armed guards," Tom noticed.

"Life was so much easier when I was an anonymous lab girl," Rachel recalled. "I'd work on my projects. Go home and read my novels. Cook a simple meal. What happened to those days?"

"You decided to help billions of people and change the world. That's what happened," Rory said, squeezing her hand.

"I guess," Rachel replied.

As they finished eating, Grubby appeared outside the restaurant with Sarah, his most gentle mule.

"Cowgirl needs a mount," Grubby announced, helping Rachel into the saddle. "Who are we visiting first, Pebble?"

"Let's visit the clinic," Rachel replied. "I'm going to need an aspirin. And a pad for my butt."

Her entourage grew into a parade, Rachel riding her mule surrounded by three tall, formidable men. Rory followed with Grubby, Maisie, Patty, and a dozen others. Someone found balloons. The school bus returned early from Wells, children pouring out in excitement. A brass band played marching songs.

"This is getting nuts," Rory said as the boisterous crowd grew to several hundred.

"The town feels bad about the way they left it at Casper's," Sam the bartender explained. "Katie's never wanted anything but the best for us. Whether they go along with this big development or not, that doesn't change how they feel about her."

"Hey, Montgomery!" a reporter dared to shout. "That a real gun? Or are you a phony?"

That quieted the mob. Rachel turned, having heard the remark, and jumped off the mule.

"What was that?" she said, bursting through her security ring to get in the reporter's face.

A hundred phones were raised to record the encounter. The reporter was a brash young New Yorker, spiky-haired and thin, with a camera crew behind him. He was surprised to suddenly find Rachel Montgomery, petite and feisty, gazing up at him in defiance. The open buttons at the top of her shirt, and lack of a bra were distracting.

"Lupe Manners says it's a fake gun. All show and no go," the reporter answered.

"I'm a scientist. Let's test her theory," Rachel decided. "Archie? Archie, are you here?"

"Over this way," the heavyset grocer answered.

"Please get me an apple," Rachel requested. "I'll shoot it off this gentleman's head. What do you think? Fifteen paces?"

"Good range," Archie replied.

"Off my head?" the reporter said, backing away.

"Yes, I'll shoot the apple off your head. I'm a good shot. My mother taught me."

"I don't want an apple shot off my head," the reporter protested.

"It's not a hard shot," Rachel assured him.

But the young man was declining. The film crew members behind him laughed.

"How about holding up a silver dollar for me?" Rachel suggested. "I'll shoot it out of your fingers. Ten paces? Does anybody have a silver dollar?"

"I got a dime," Grubby said, digging in his pocket.

"That will be harder, but I can do it," Rachel agreed. She saw the reporter didn't seem enthusiastic. "This was your idea. You came here and called me a fake. Put up or shut up."

The reporter looked into her frowning brown eyes and disappeared, making the crowd shout with derision.

"Any other journalists here?" Rachel shouted. "My magazine holds eight shots. We can find eight apples. Or eight dimes."

There were no takers.

Rachel saw a bandstand in the rundown town square and ran up the steps, a dozen children following.

"Let's sing songs," Rachel said. "Sam, aren't you from West Virginia?"

"I sure am, darlin'!" the bartender shouted.

"Okay, 'Take Me Home, Country Road'," Rachel announced, starting the song with many others joining in. The band wasn't bad. The gathering sang three more. Shopkeepers were bringing out soda pop, pretzels, and beer.

"This is so much fun," Rachel said, sharing a bottle of Jack Daniels with Grubby. "Does anyone know why Albert Einstein's Theory of General Relativity is flawed?"

"Oh, God," Rory whispered. "This could go on for hours."

It didn't go on for hours. To Rory's surprise, Rachel only spent a few minutes lecturing on physics, using simple language. Many in the crowd went away feeling better educated.

The parade turned into a party. Rachel was smiling. Kibbitzing. When some of the unmarried men flirted with her, she flirted back. One of them was Randy Oaks, the tall redhead who had inherited his father's nearby ranch.

"Hey, Randy, having fun?" Rachel asked, hanging over the banister. The strapping young man was having trouble not staring at her exposed cleavage through the partially open shirt.

"You sure know how to throw a jamboree," the eager youngster replied.

"Ready to sell those options on your parcels? You offered them to LeRoy last year."

"Those lots might be worth more now."

"Or less, if we build someplace down the road. My cousin Sheba is a shark."

"We're in the desert. Ain't afraid of no sharks."

"How about a contest?" Rachel asked, leaning over the railing even further. Her eyes were big and bold. A hundred people were watching the exchange.

"A contest?" Randy questioned.

"Tonight. At Sam's. A Bible contest. If I win, you sell your options. Same price you quoted Mr. Beggs. If you win, I'll give you a million dollars."

"This ain't my first rodeo. If Reverend Jaime couldn't out-Bible you, there's no way I can. What about pool?"

"What about pool?" Rachel cluelessly responded.

"Do you play?"

"Not really, but if you do, it can't be that hard," she teased.

Randy frowned, and then grinned.

"We'll find out tonight, won't we?" he said, fading into the crowd.

"Rach, what the hell?" Rory said, rushing forward. "A million dollars?"

"Sorry, Ro. No time to talk," Rachel said loud enough for all to hear. "I need to learn how to play pool. Everybody, this was great! Let's do it again!"

Rachel jumped down from the bandstand, unstrapped her holster, and handed the gun to McLane. Then she dashed across the highway to the Golden Shovel, waving for Beggs and Sam to join her. Silverhawk and Maverick followed.

"This is too weird," Rory said, retreating from the crowd.

"What are you thinking?" Tom asked.

"I think Rachel is having an episode. Going down into holes. Singing in public. Gulping whiskey. Wanting a shooting exhibition. And she knows how to play pool. We have a table at Canby Place."

"Come to think of it, she was practicing just before we left for Juniper," Tom remembered. "Did she forget how to play?"

"I don't know," Rory said. "I'm getting worried."

"I'll call Pam," Tom agreed. "Let's get hold of Dr. Belcher. Maybe get Keller from the Swiss Institute to upgrade her medication."

"We should get Rach home right away," Rory said, taking out her phone.

McLane stepped up, taking the phone away from her.

"You know I don't like to interfere," McLane firmly said. "I'm her bodyguard, not her shrink. But you have it wrong."

"How's that, Bob?" Rory asked.

"Let's sit," McLane invited, taking them to the veranda of the general store where he still had a good view of the Golden Shovel. Jay Silverhawk remained at Rachel's elbow, going inside while Maverick watched the door.

"Rachel may be getting too much liquid courage from Grubby, but she isn't crazy. At least, no more than usual," McLane said.

"Something's wrong. I've never seen her act like this before," Rory insisted. "It could be PTSD. She was kidnapped here. Almost killed. That thug in Ketchum almost shot her."

McLane sighed, wishing he had a cigar.

"Ro, since that morning at Canby Place when your mother hired me to be Rachel's protector, I've spent more time with her than anybody. I've seen her every mood. Every fear. Every joy. If she has PTSD, it's from Houston, not Ketchum or Juniper Springs."

"Houston?" Tom said. "When she lost the baby?"

"No. Not the baby," McLane replied.

"The missile? The one she had trouble stopping?" Rory asked.

"No," McLane said.

"You mean my father, don't you?" Tom realized.

"After the hell she went through with her birth parents, and in foster care, Rachel has always had this dream," McLane explained. "She'd go to meet her betrothed's parents, his family would love her, and they'd live happily ever after. But something went wrong. Your father listened to that garbage those cable scumbags were peddling. And apparently, your father said something about me and my daughter. It crossed a line. And when she lost the baby, it ended her dream."

"I had suspicions," Tom admitted.

"Her whole life, Rachel has been quiet. Demure, as Rory called it," McLane continued. "She's grasping now. She's not crazy. Not too crazy. She's challenging herself. Trying to find a way back to her dream."

Rory and Tom were quiet, guessing McLane understood the situation better than they did.

"Okay, reboot," Rory said. "How do we get in the game?"

"Let her have her moment, whatever it is. Without judgment," McLane advised.

"We can do that. Can't we, Tom? Can't we?" Rory pressed.

"I'll try," Tom replied.

* * * * * *

Rachel, Tom, and Rory arrived at Casper's Ghost after a beef stew dinner at the Golden Shovel. That Rachel cooked. The saloon was full, once again an exclusive gathering of local landowners and shopkeepers. No reporters. No outsiders. Rachel was wearing her tight blue jeans, loose white blouse, bright red vest, and a gray fedora, looking sexier than Tom was comfortable with. He and Rory were more casual. Leather boots and cowboy hats were common.

Sam showed Rachel to a corner booth he'd reserved. LeRoy Beggs soon joined them, along with Maisie and Flo.

"Is this the big night?" Maisie asked, looking anxious.

"I think so," Rachel quietly replied, putting an envelope on the table. "Do you think this is fair?"

"Randy thinks he's taking advantage of you," Sam replied. "This is on him."

"Maybe we should find another way?" Rachel suggested.

"Everyone's onboard, honey," Flo said, taking her hand. "And now that the springs are flowing, we've run out of time."

"This is for the town, and for Joanna," Beggs added. "Don't be afraid, little hurricane. Be bold."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"We're sure," Beggs replied, everyone else nodding.

"Okay," Rachel yielded.

As Sam and Beggs returned to the bar, Rory squeezed into the booth.

"It's noisy," Rory observed.

"I hope security is good," Tom said, finding the crowd rowdy.

Many came up to them, saying hello to Rachel. Some were still calling her Katie, which she liked. Free drinks were offered. The jukebox stayed busy.

A new guest appeared at the door, hushing the mob. There was grumbling. Former deputy sheriff Peter Cassell walked to the bar. Miles rushed over to support his childhood friend.

"What's he doing here?" someone asked.

"Throw him out," another said.

Rachel jumped from the booth, aggressively pushing her way through the mob. And to everyone's astonishment, she gave Peter a warm hug. Peter hesitated, caught by surprise, and then gave her a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sure you all know Pete," Rachel said in her firmest voice. "I've hired him to design the hot springs visitor center. If anyone has suggestions, we'll be happy to listen."

There was silence. Jay Silverhawk looked especially unhappy. Rachel grabbed Jay's arm to drag him outside.

"I don't understand," Jay said when they were alone in the parking lot.

"Are we friends?" Rachel asked.

"More than friends. You are Rachel Little Bear's godmother. Our bond is sacred."

Rachel found a secluded bench around the side of the building.

"Let me tell you what really happened that night in the desert," Rachel whispered. "Something my lawyers won't let me tell anyone else."

Twenty minutes later, Rachel and Jay reentered the saloon. Peter was sitting at the bar with Patty and Miles, being viewed with suspicion. Jay walked up to him.

"The north end of the park is on my land," Jay said. "We should discuss how this will work. Joanna needs a memorial. Te-Moak traditions need to be honored."

"Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way," Peter agreed, a little surprised. He glanced at Rachel, seeing her bent brow watching them with a special intensity. This wasn't an accident.

After a dramatic pause, Jay reached to shake Peter's hand, the meaning clear to all. The atmosphere relaxed.

"Speaking of campgrounds, and tourists, and projects, what are we going to do about this town?" Beggs asked.

"We have a heritage here. It goes back two hundred years," Barman said. "Before my gas station, it was a livery, and a blacksmith shop before that."

"My great-great grandpa built my store," Archie bragged.

"And it looks like it," Maisie grouched.

"Katie revived the hot springs like she promised," Sam declared. "We're going to have tourism. Scientists. Media. Students from the universities. Either we have a town for them, or they'll get what they need someplace else. What's it going to be?"

"I have an idea, but Randy and I have a challenge to resolve first," Rachel said. "Unless he's afraid."

"It ain't me who's afraid," Randy said. "Trying to chicken out?"

"I speak Latin, Greek, French, and Spanish," Rachel replied. "Jay is teaching me Shoshone. I don't speak chicken."

"I'm the best pool player in Juniper," Randy warned.

"Not better than me," a voice cried from the back.

"Or me," another said.

"Or me," Miles disagreed.

"Fine. Almost the best," Randy conceded.

Rachel looked toward the bar, seeing Sam, Maisie, Flo, and Mr. Beggs standing together. Sam gave her an encouraging nod.

"What's going on?" Archie asked as the room burst with activity, wondering how it would impact his quaint country store.

"Katie wants to buy Randy's lots east of town, but Randy is holding back," Beggs explained. "They're going to shoot pool. If Katie wins, she gets my options from last year. If Randy wins, she's giving him a check for a million dollars."

"A million dollars! All those parcels combined aren't worth fifty thousand," Archie said. "Does Katie even know how to shoot pool?"

"I've been studying all afternoon," Rachel announced. "It's not hard."

The room filled with groans.

"Then we have an agreement?" Rachel asked. "Straight pool. First to reach 100 points."

Randy nodded. Rachel fetched her envelope, laying the paperwork out on the bar. Next to it was a cashier's check for one million dollars. Sam picked it up, showing it to the room.

"Okay, Mr. Oaks, here are the documents for you to sign," Rachel said. "Flo is a notary."

"Sign?" Randy said.

"My cousin Sheba is a shark. Everything needs to be official," Rachel explained. "And if anyone tries to cheat her, she rips them a new one. Whatever that means."

Sam gave Randy a pen. Randy hesitated, looking at eighty expectant faces.

"Mr. Oaks, you should know, I don't like to lose," Rachel cautioned, scrunching her eyebrows. "Isn't that true, Ro?"

"That is true," Rory confirmed. Randy continued to hesitate.

"It's okay, Oakie. Katie didn't want to do this anyway," Sam said, reaching to put the check back in the envelope. Randy stopped him.

"I'll take my chances," Randy announced, boldly putting his signature on the contract. Sam picked the document up, showed it to Beggs and Maisie, and let Flo put her stamp on it.

"Okay, time to play pool," Rachel said.

"Shoot pool," Randy corrected.

"Oh, Mr. Oaks, I don't like shooting people," Rachel replied.

Jay helped her down from the chair, finding her light as a feather.

"Ro, Patty, can I have your help in the ladies' room?" Rachel requested.

They went down the rear hall. The area around the pool table was cleared, the lighting adjusted. The crowd jostled for the best views, many getting up on benches. Sam brought out his best pool cues and racked the balls.

"I've never seen anything like this. Not in Juniper," Miles said, still sitting at the bar with his boyhood pals Miles and Patty.

"Nothing Katie does will ever surprise me," Peter whispered. "Someday, I'll tell you why."

"Are you still in love with her?" Patty asked. Instantly knowing the answer.

"Katie isn't the kind of woman a man forgets easily," Peter sighed.

Fifteen minutes later, the ladies emerged from the back, the crowd parting. Rachel wasn't wearing the cowgirl outfit anymore. She'd changed into a yellow turtleneck sweater, loose gray slacks, and red tennis shoes. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. The flirty expression was gone, replaced by a grim determination.

"Oh, shit," Randy cursed under his breath.

"Friends and neighbors, tonight we have a special treat for you," Sam announced, having a good time. "Katie Smith vs Randy Oaks, with the fate of Juniper hanging in the balance. Reverend Jaime?

The Reverend Jaime stepped forward, already tall, and taller in his black top hat and long gray coat. Prematurely gray and looking appropriately somber.

"Dear Lord, bless our sister in this time of trial," Jaime summoned. "Protect her from harm, and give her victory. Amen."

"Amen!" the mob shouted.

"Are we ready to begin?" Sam asked for all the room to hear.

"Ready! Ready!" the rowdy crowd cheered.

"Okay, lag for opening break," Sam announced.

Rachel and Randy stood side-by-side at the end of the table, shooting at the same time. Randy's ball only bounced back from the head rail by an inch. Rachel's ball barely bounced back at all.

"Katie wins the break," Sam confirmed.

"Good shot," Randy reluctantly complimented.

"Shut up," Rachel absently replied, leaning over the table with her stick raised back for the first shot.

The crowd watched in fascination as she studied the angle, adjusted her footing, and stared so hard that her eyes almost seemed to turn gray. And then she struck.

It wasn't a pool match, it was a massacre. Rachel made a sharp break using Sam's best ivory stick and sunk the first ball. Then she got up on a stool, studying the table like an eagle hunting mice in a field.

"If you were going to pick a game, you shouldn't have picked one that uses geometry," Beggs whispered to Randy, nudging him with an elbow.

Rachel climbed down from the stool, set herself, and called her next shot, sinking it with a solid thrust. Then the next, and the next. Her play wasn't fancy. No trick shots or spectacular caroms. She wasn't in a hurry. It was calculated. Methodical. Ruthless. Her gaze remained firm, her breathing steady. The occasional whispering in the hall or clinking of glasses never disturbed her.

Rory stayed nearby, amazed, realizing that nothing Rachel was doing was an accident. It had all been planned. A theater. A show like few ever get to see. And the audience was enthralled. She remembered back to the introverted urchin Rachel had been when they first met. It was hard to comprehend how far she'd come.

More balls were racked, and more racks after that. When Rachel reached sixty points, Randy put his cue stick back on the wall and sat down at the bar.

"She said she didn't shoot pool," Randy complained.

"Katie may have fudged on that," Beggs confessed. "Sam and I spent the afternoon practicing with her. She made a few mistakes at the beginning, but once she settled down, we couldn't beat her."

"I was going to win a million dollars," Randy sighed, watching the balls disappear.

"Win it? Or steal it?" Sam asked.

"She can afford it," Randy replied.

"Sorry, Randy, we needed the land," Beggs said.

"We?" Randy asked. Beggs pointed to Maisie, Flo, Sam, and Jay, huddled together like a conspiracy.

"Katie has an idea. We'll build the hotel a half mile back from the highway, lay tracks for an old-fashioned train, and refurbish the old buildings to look like a frontier town. It's going to look great, but we needed your parcels. Katie didn't want to fight over your land, so we suggested a way to reach an agreement without causing a ruckus."

"I'm still getting fair market value," Randy reluctantly conceded.

"Want in?" Sam asked.

"In?" Randy wondered.

"Katie said to invite you in on the deal, so there would be no hard feelings. But it's not a slam dunk. Not if our plan doesn't work."

Randy watched as the last rack was set, Rachel studying her final shots as carefully as her first.

"If Katie is in on this, I'm not afraid of losing," Randy agreed.

* * * * * *

There was a call in the middle of the night. Rachel rolled over, finding the cell phone she considered a nuisance, and sleepily said hello.

"Rachel, it's Sheba."

"Hello, Sheba. What's wrong?"

"We need you home right away."

Rachel sat up and turned on the light. It woke Tom.

"What happened? Is it Danny?" Rachel asked.

"No, it's the database," Sheba replied. "WHD is under attack."

* * * * * *

Chapter Eight

THE GATHERING STORM

An hour after arriving in Wells, Rachel's jet was landing at a private airfield in Santa Monica.

"What did Sheba say?" Rory asked.

"Hackers are trying to break into WHD," Rachel replied.

"Hackers can't break Level 12. It's impenetrable," Tom said.

"That's what I've always thought," Rachel responded. "These hacker guys must have access to new technology."

"Do you know what it is?" Tom asked.

"I have a suspicion," Rachel said.

A car was ready for them on the tarmac. Half an hour before dawn, traffic was light as McLane drove them to WHD headquarters near Palisades Park. Only five years old, the facility stood on ground once used by a 1930s movie studio. Sheila was waiting for them at the entrance.

"Sorry about this," she apologized. "Our techs are holding them off, but not for much longer."

"I understand. Let's get to the mainframe," Rachel said.

A tram carried them through the marble lobby, past the souvenir shop and visitor center, going deep into the complex. A cavernous control room of advanced computers and monitor stations was surrounded by huge video screens. Forty men and women in white coats were busy correlating data.

"We noticed the intrusion right away," Sheila said. "But our usual mitigating measures stalled. Whatever these hackers are using, it's strong."

Rachel sat at the main station, did a quick review, and entered a series of specialized codes. Then she frowned.

"It's another matrix," she concluded. "It's trying to overwrite our coding."

"Can you stop it?" Sheila asked.

"I don't know. Who's in the core?" Rachel answered.

"Dr. Ramesh."

"Let's go."

"Rach, no," Rory protested. "You're through with that. You don't do it anymore."

"Vijay needs help, Ro. We can't let these hackers destroy my work," Rachel insisted.

They ran to the far end of the complex, finding a heavily shielded pod behind a thick steel hatch. Small leaded windows looked into the tiny room. Rachel waited for the pod to open.

"Hello, Dr. Ramesh," Rachel said, taking one of the three chairs.

"Dr. Marbury. Thank God," Vijay said, a skinny young man in his late twenties with long curly black hair and a thin beard.

"My doctorate's not official until May," Rachel said. "Status report."

"They're trying to penetrate the search protocols," he answered.

"Signatures?"

"I don't recognize them, but it's another matrix. Is it the Level 13 the government was developing?"

"Let's find out. Seal the hatch," Rachel ordered.

"No!" Rory yelled. "Rach, you can't. Not after ... not after what that machine did to you the last time."

Rory saw she wasn't going to stop her sister. She chased the third programmer out of his chair and took his seat. The hatch closed.

"Don't look at the screen too long," Rachel warned her. "You either, Vijay."

"I've run the layering," Vijay protested.

"Not the way I do," Rachel replied.

She settled into the chair, donned goggles and headphones, placed sensors against her temples, and began modulating the system. Observers crowded at the windows to watch.

"Okay, I'm going in," Rachel announced. "Follow if you can, but don't get in my way."

The screens before them suddenly filled with numbers running from left to right. Formulas. Algorithms. Fragments. The speed increased. More numbers appeared in different colors, now on staggered levels, a few running in the opposite direction. Rachel leaned forward, intent, looking for patterns. Hundreds of equations turned into thousands, and then they became incomprehensible.

"Support bars," Vijay confirmed. Rachel was surprised, and pleased. Few understood her process.

"Fractals," Rachel requested, entering a new series of instructions.

The numbers mutated into shimmering shapes. Twisted characters. Some looked like snowflakes. They swirled, merged, broke apart, reformed. Rory tried to watch, but it was making her sick. She hoped she didn't need to throw up in her purse.

"See it?" Rachel asked.

"Subtle," Vijay acknowledged. "What can we do about it?"

"This," Rachel responded, pushing the system into overdrive.

The monitor screens exploded into whirling rainbows so bright they became blinding. She rapidly entered new codes, the algorithms manifesting so fast the relays struggled to keep pace. Vijay sat back, barely able to follow the procedure, let alone assist.

It wasn't quick. An hour stretched into two, and then four. Observers became nervous, seeing the bioreadings of the pod's occupants spiking. Especially Rachel's. Sheila wanted to stop the process, but the chamber was sealed. As was necessary to prevent interference.

"Get a med team up here," Sheila ordered. "Call Dr. Belcher, too."

Just before noon, the wild displays suddenly coalesced into a new series of formulas. The fractals reformed into numbers. The screens grew dim. Vijay signaled the hatch open, allowing paramedics to enter the pod.

Rory was sitting on the floor in a pool of vomit. Vijay was dizzy but still at the controls, bringing the systems back down to standard operation mode. Rachel was bent over the panel, fists clenched, barely breathing. Sheila helped her sit up.

"I'm okay," Rachel whispered. "But I'm sure not a kid anymore."

"That was incredible. What did you do?" Sheila asked. Rachel wasn't responding. She seemed dazed.

"She blocked the hackers' access, and corrupted their search protocols," Vijay proudly explained. "It will take them weeks to get back online. They won't be coming our direction again."

A doctor knelt at Rachel's side, giving her oxygen. It seemed to help.

"Feeling better?" Sheila asked.

"Yes," Rachel replied. "Is it time for lunch?"

Rory threw up again.

* * * * * *

"Are you feeling better, honey?" Pamela asked, bringing onion soup into the master bedroom at Canby Place.

"A little," Rachel said.

She was lying under a thick quilt wearing a pink silk nightgown. Late afternoon light poured through the west windows. Little Danny sat on the foot of the bed playing with his toy dinosaurs.

"Dr. Belcher will be here later," Pamela informed, helping Rachel sit up and fluffing her pillows.

"I'm dizzy, not psychotic," Rachel protested.

"You're not supposed to be going into those matrix systems anymore. Not Level 12, or that goddamn fucking Level 13."

"Mother! Danny can hear you," Rachel protested.

"I'm sorry, dear. I'll watch my language," Pamela promised. "It's just that after all these years, you're finally close to healthy. You have a family. Have you and Tom set a date?"

"No, not yet."

"What's the problem? I know you love him."

"We'll work it out."

"Sweetheart, Walsh Harper may be a son of a bitch, but you aren't marrying him. Tom is a good man."

"And very handsome," Rachel wistfully agreed.

Pamela sighed, finding her daughter stubborn.

"Grandma, look. It's a pterodactyl," Danny said, waving the flying creature around.

"It certainly is, dear," Pamela agreed.

"It's extinct," Danny said.

"Do you know what that means?" Pamela asked.

"Their environment got bad, and they died," Danny answered.

"You're very smart," Pamela complimented.

Danny went back to his toys. Pamela picked up the bowl of soup.

"He is smart," Pamela whispered.

"Not too smart," Rachel sighed with satisfaction.

"No?"

"He's a normal 32-month-old boy, for which I thank the Lord every day."

Pamela didn't need to question that. She knew Rachel often considered her special gifts to be a curse.

"You need to eat," Pamela persisted.

She made Rachel finish the entire bowl, then set it aside to read the Wall Street Journal.

"Looks like Juniper Hot Springs is doing well," Pamela said. "Your new park is getting all kinds of attention. Construction is on schedule. You should be very proud."

"Sheba has good people on it."

"People who wouldn't be there if not for you."

"I guess."

"WHD just signed another big contract," Pamela remarked, turning to the finance section. "You're going to be stuck with a lot more money."

"That's getting annoying," Rachel complained.

"Honey, in our world, money is important," Pamela patiently explained. "It allows us to protect those we love, and helps us advance causes we think are important."

"The math makes sense," Rachel acknowledged.

"More bad news from those Nomad terrorists. They've hijacked an airliner this time."

"An airliner?"

"A Warsaw to Paris flight. The European Union is grounding all of their flights until they find a way to protect their planes."

"Hospitals. Universities. Trains. And now airplanes. Why is this happening?" Rachel asked. "What do they want?"

"At first they wanted money. Billions in cryptocurrency. Now they want power. Power to change banking systems. Rewrite borders. Hire and fire governments. The United Nations is calling the Security Council."

"To do what?" Rachel questioned.

"I don't know. I don't know if anyone does. What would you do?"

"Me? My field is fractal engineering, not cybercrime. And you won't even let me back in my lab."

"You're not working on that goddamn Level 14 again until you're stronger. Are we communicating?"

"Yes, Mother," Rachel obeyed.

* * * * * *

"Hello, General Taylor, this is a surprise," Rachel greeted in the atrium. She was wearing a yellow sundress and blue tennis shoes. The sixty-two-year-old officer wore a khaki army uniform filled with decorations for valor. His well-trimmed beard was gray. A large Army limo was parked in the driveway where McLane led Taylor's aides into the caretaker's cottage.

Rachel brought Taylor into the big rambling ranch house. It was less formal than he expected, with long sofas, comfortable easy chairs, shelves of kitschy decorations, and filled with children. A giant stone fireplace in the corner kept the sunken living room warm.

"I don't believe you've met my son," Rachel introduced, pointing to a redheaded toddler. "General Taylor, this is Danny. The other youngsters are his little brother, Gabriel, and his sister, Lisa."

"The babies you helped the FBI rescue," Taylor remembered.

"You helped, too. Alicia and John are very grateful."

"Just doing my duty," Taylor dismissed. "Hello, Danny. I'm a big fan of your mother."

"I want a puppy," Danny declared.

"I'll encourage her to get one for you," Taylor answered. The boy smiled.

"Sir, you know Bob McLane. This is his mother, Mrs. McLane. She's been Danny's nanny since our days in Ketchum. I would be lost without her."

"It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. McLane," Taylor said with a bow.

"You can call me Jackie. Everyone does, except Rachel," Jackie replied.

"Why is that?" Taylor asked.

"She's old school," Jackie replied with a grin.

"What brings you to Canby Place?" Rachel asked.

"Important business, little hurricane," Taylor said. Rachel knew the code.

"We'll be in my office," Rachel announced.

The spacious office that once belonged to billionaire Daniel Benson was now Rachel's private sanctuary. She had kept some of Daniel's prized sports memorabilia on the shelves. A Ram's championship football. A baseball signed by Mickey Mantle.

Rachel sat behind her glass desk leaning forward, expectant but not pressing.

"It's bad, Missy. As bad as it gets," Taylor said, helping himself to her liquor cabinet. He made two gin and tonics, giving her one.

"You have helped me so many times," Rachel said. "I know I get carried away tapping into high-security areas. I don't mean any harm by it. I just get curious."

"I've raised your security clearance. That's not what this is about."

"I'll do whatever I can."

"These Nomad terrorists have something new. We can't stop it. They've knocked out power systems. Communications. Taken control of satellites. And now they've accessed a secret project. If they gain control, the results may be catastrophic."

"What does that mean, sir?"

Taylor went to the window, looking out on the large blue swimming pool. Children's toys lay scattered on the lawn. Beyond were rising terraces of gardens and orchards. At the crest, he saw a house under construction, with a shingle roof and a tall brick chimney. It was like being in a storybook.

"We have an orbital platform. It's a secret counterstrike facility capable of taking out multiple targets without possibility of interception."

"I understand the theory," Rachel replied, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Nomad is trying to access the nuclear missiles. They've targeted Washington, London, Berlin, and Tokyo. Other capitals are being threatened. Our team on the orbital interrupted the launch sequences, but only by cutting the station's main power. Two weeks from now, they'll either have to reactivate their computers, and reactivate the countdown, or they'll die. And after they die, Nomad will access the missiles anyway."

Rachel stood at the window next to him, staring up the hill at the new home Tom was building.

"This must be very difficult for you," she sighed.

"In what respect?" Taylor wondered.

"Asking this of me."

"I know you wanted out of this business. I'm open to other options."

Rachel took a bottle of Rebel Yell off the shelf and drew General Taylor out the back door. They went up the hill to the second terrace, stopping under a grand oak. It was a cool spring day with a gentle wind drifting in from the ocean. They sat on a marble bench. Rachel took a swig of the whiskey before handing him the bottle.

"General Taylor--"

"You need to call me Frank. We're beyond titles."

"I don't know if you understand what's involved here," she warned.

"No one does. Except you. Maybe."

"If you remember, I advised the military to shut down Level 13. To delete the entire matrix. If these terrorists have cloned it, they've duplicated both its strengths and weaknesses. You're not going to defeat a ground-based mainframe using the computers on a space platform. You don't have the raw power."

"That's what our techs keep saying," Taylor confirmed.

"Have you found anyone who can overwrite Nomad's coding?"

"We're looking."

"You don't have much time."

"We offered Nomad a ransom. Offered to abandon and destroy the facility. They mocked us. They want blood."

"Half a dozen cities being destroyed by nuclear weapons would be bad for my family," Rachel concluded.

"Are you in?" Taylor asked.

"On my own terms."

* * * * * *

"Rory! What are you doing here?" Rachel shouted, rushing out to the parking circle.

"Heard you're all alone this weekend. Thought we'd hang out," Rory replied, taking Rachel's arm as they walked back into the atrium. The nude Greek statues Daniel Benson had flaunted were long gone, replaced by an herb garden.

"Have you had dinner?" Rachel asked.

"Sounds good," Rory agreed.

Rachel seated her at the dining table on the upper level, serving lasagna with a bottle of red wine. The house was quiet.

"So? Where is everybody?" Rory asked.

"Allie and John took the children to Aspen," Rachel replied. "They're going to stay with Aunt Hattie for awhile. Mrs. McLane is with them. You and Ashley should go, too."

"That's kind of sudden."

"It would be a good idea."

"Where's Tom?"

"His reserve unit is at a briefing in San Diego."

"Just us girls tonight?"

"You can help me pack," Rachel offered.

"Where are you going? Juniper?"

"No. It's kind of secret."

"Tell me."

"It would sound crazy."

"You're being very mysterious."

"It can't be helped."

"Going to quote the Bible for me?" Rory asked.

"Which verse?"

"I'm hoping it will be a clue."

"Psalms 50:5."

"Which is?"

"Gather my sainted together unto me; those that have made a covenant."

"I knew you were going to do that," Rory said with a hesitant smile.

"We're all going to need prayers," Rachel sighed.

Rory felt her breath grow short.

"It's the government again, isn't it? Another of their screwed-up machines?"

"A bit more complicated than that, but essentially the same thing," Rachel confirmed. "It's not all their fault. Exactly. When I postulated a Level 10 matrix at Harvard, I suspected it could open a Pandora's Box. My ambition caused me to take shortcuts. I got lucky with Level 12, and the Level 12 extension. Then the military developed their flawed Level 13. I was ready to walk away after that, but it's not going to be that easy. The next evolution is going to have unforeseen consequences."

"It sounds like the government is getting you in trouble again," Rory questioned.

"Ro, please remember that I love you," Rachel urged, taking her hands. "I love you like a sister. And a best friend. And a soulmate. Please don't ever forget that."

"You'll be careful, won't you?"

"As careful as I can be," Rachel promised.

* * * * * *

NORAD headquarters was located deep below the Cheyenne Mountain complex. McLane was required to remain in the waiting area as Rachel entered a dimly lit conference room with an oval table and seven chairs. She found a bench in the corner, staying quiet as several military officials took their seats. At the head of the table sat Rebecca Pearce, the Vice President of the United States.

"Miss Montgomery, you should sit here with us," Admiral Graff Spee said, a sixtyish heavyset man with a thick mane of yellow hair. General Taylor gave her an encouraging smile.

"What's the latest on these terrorists?" the Vice President asked. "Why have you invited a civilian?"

Rachel thought her in her early forties, a lanky political type with carefully styled auburn hair and tired blue eyes. She likely felt out of depth in such company. Rachel felt out of depth, too.

"We need intel on this terrorist cell," Taylor explained. "Miss Montgomery is a technical advisor."

"Her security clearance?" Pearce contemptuously asked.

"Higher than yours, ma'am," Graff Spee answered.

That inspired chuckles around the table. Other than Taylor, Rachel only knew the chiefs by reputation. Frank Taylor represented the Army, Jarrad Graff Spee the Navy. General Darla St. Claire spoke for Space Command, and General Antonio Longoria for the Air Force. Director Erin Sharpe headed the National Security Agency.

"What's happening with our platform? Why haven't you fixed it yet?" Pearce demanded, unamused by the crusty veterans.

"All of the primary systems are still shut down," St. Claire reported. "If they boot-up, the countdown on the missiles will resume. There's only seven minutes left on the sequences."

"Why don't you evacuate the station and blow it up?" Pearce said.

"Their shuttle requires power from the station to undock," St. Claire answered. "It takes ten minutes, and they don't have ten minutes before the missiles launch."

"We're trying to see if they can activate the platform's self-destruct before the launch sequences finalize," General Longoria said. "It looks like we're eight minutes short."

"The self-destruct? With the crew still onboard?" Pearce asked, rising out of her chair.

"Ma'am, HEO-6 is armed with six Cheetah A5000 ballistic missiles," Longoria responded. "Each missile has three independent warheads with a two-megaton yield. That's eighteen cities on their target list against the lives of four astronauts."

"We can't sacrifice our own people. Think how it would look to the voters," Pearce protested.

"They know the risks. They're soldiers," St. Claire said.

"It's an academic argument," Graff Spee interjected. "If they activate the self-destruct, the warbirds will be gone before it blows."

"Who are these goddamn terrorists?" Pearce asked, a clenched fist reaching out on the table. "Have you even figured that out?"

"Intel is sparse," NSA Director Sharpe said. "We know they're an alliance of world-class hackers calling themselves Nomad. Where and how they communicate is obscured by layers of coding."

The group paused, having reached an impasse. Taylor turned to Rachel.

"Jump in any time," Taylor invited.

"Sir, this is a foreign environment for me. I don't want to overstep. Or say something I shouldn't," Rachel apologized.

"Rachel, this is the inner sanctum," Taylor urged. "What we decide here will affect billions of lives. We need solid information if we're going to make the best use of our options."

"Frank, you have no good options. I'm sorry, you don't," Rachel answered.

Rachel noticed surprise, and some resentment. But not from Taylor.

"Please tell us what you know," Taylor requested.

Rachel stood up, smoothing down the hem of her gray knee-length skirt. She wore a modest charcoal gray jacket with a dark red scarf. Her jet-black shoes had low heels. There was an electronic map on the wall showing Earth, the orbital paths, and the current status of their weapons platform. She took a deep breath.

"Nomad originated as a team of twelve programming specialists from France, Germany, and Russia," Rachel reported with a furrowed brow. "I have a list of names if you need them. They've been forced to flee their homelands, hence the name Nomad, and settled in the breakaway Republic of Balakaria. Though I don't know why they call it a republic. It's never held an election."

Rachel went to the map, pointing at the mysterious country on the north coast of the Black Sea.

"Their complexes are so secret even I can't find them," she continued. "They're using a cloned version of the U. S. government's Level 13 matrix, capable of overpowering any system you currently have access to. And certainly capable of overpowering the computers on your space station."

Those sitting at the table were astonished.

"How do you know all this?" Director Sharpe asked.

"I used fractal interspacing to track their digital signatures," she explained.

"Why do you think we can't outmaneuver their matrix with our own matrix?" Graff Spee questioned.

"Sir, they have engineered modifications to their Level 13 to make the operating systems more efficient," Rachel replied.

"And there's nothing we can do?" St. Claire pressed.

"I didn't say that, ma'am," Rachel responded.

"There is something we can do?" Pearce asked. "What is it?"

"Madam Vice President, the calculations are very complex. There is no guarantee of a successful result," Rachel warned.

"Rachel, if there's even a chance, you need to tell us," Taylor urged. Rachel sighed.

"Sir, if you send a technician with sufficient coding experience to this space platform, they might be able to turn the power systems on in short bursts, counterprogram the intrusion, and give your astronauts enough time to evacuate. Then you would need to arm the platform's self-destruct before Nomad completes their launch sequences. The window of opportunity is very small."

"But it can be done?" Graff Spee asked.

"Let's say it's not impossible," Rachel confirmed.

"What's the downside?" Taylor pressed, seeing her hesitate.

"After your crew evacuates, Nomad will attempt to shut down the self-destruct. It may be necessary for your technician to remain onboard to overwrite their instructions until the last possible moment," Rachel concluded.

The room grew quiet. Taylor glanced down, followed by General St. Claire and Admiral Gaff Spee. Director Sharpe caught on quickly enough.

"You're saying the technician will be killed?" Pearce finally questioned, breaking the uncomfortable silence

"We shouldn't make rash assumptions, ma'am," Rachel replied. "Other options may appear, depending on the circumstances."

"What are the odds?" Sharpe asked.

"Their Level 13 is a very powerful matrix," Rachel conceded.

"Do you know anyone capable of challenging it?" St. Claire inquired.

"Only one person that I'm aware of," Rachel said.

"You're volunteering for the mission, aren't you?" Taylor realized.

"Yes, sir, I am," Rachel confirmed.

* * * * * *

Rachel stayed at the Cheyenne Mountain complex that night in a VIP suite. It was on the side of a cliff with a good view of a wooded valley. McLane had the room next to her. He knew something was wrong, sitting at her private bar while drinking the complimentary Jim Beam and soda.

"Can you talk about it?" he asked, making a drink for her.

"I will, but it's top secret. You can't tell anyone until it's over. Maybe not even then. I warned General Taylor you'd need some kind of explanation."

"How bad is it?"

"There's no way to know for sure, but I'm guessing it's bad."

"Those Nomad terrorists again?"

"They're threatening to destroy several cities with nuclear missiles."

McLane quietly reflected. The military hadn't recruited this brilliant woman just to get advice.

"What are you going to do?"

"NASA has a secret launch facility in Houston. They need it because Cape Canaveral has been compromised. General Taylor is arranging for me to visit a space station and try to undo the damage."

"In space? You're going into outer space?"

"Weird, huh? I don't even have a driver's license."

"Don't do it. Let them solve their foul-up some other way," McLane urged.

"I have a family, Mr. McLane. You have a family. If these Nomad people get their way, they'll turn the whole world into something dark and terrible. I can't let that happen."

"The whole world isn't your responsibility."

"The world is everyone's responsibility," Rachel replied, her brow bent.

"I know you can't be stopped when you set your mind to something. What can I do to help?"

"Watch over me while I'm training. Don't let me get discouraged. If I fall into a haze, bring me out of it. When it's time to tell Mom and Rory, and Tom, don't let them worry too much."

"Missy, you could die."

"I wanted to die the night I ran away from home forever. When Daniel died, I let the pneumonia get worse. In Nevada, when Gus put his gun to my head, I thought it was over. This is nothing new for me. If I can, I'll figure something out. If I can't ... If I can't, John 15:13."

"Even I know that one. Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for his friends."

"I'm no hero. I just want to do what's right."

"Is there a way I can come with you?" McLane asked.

"Oh no, please don't say that," Rachel said in panic. "Mr. McLane, I love you. I love your mother. I love your family. Knowing you're safe will make me strong."

"Will you promise to call me Bob someday?"

"I'll think about it."

* * * * * *

They flew to Houston on a modified jet that could not be electronically hijacked. The way Nomad had hijacked a jet in Europe. Alerted to the power of a Level 13 matrix, communications were kept at a minimum.

"We're continuing our investigation," General Taylor said, sitting in the seat next to her. "And we'll try to make a deal with the terrorists. You're not going into this situation alone."

"Thank you for letting me confide in Mr. McLane," Rachel said.

"You need someone close to you. Someone you trust. I know I would. As for--"

"Let's not get into anything complicated. Are you going to teach me how to fly a spaceship?"

"You won't be doing the flying. We have a veteran for that. You're the passenger."

"That sounds boring."

"You have a lot of training to do before we stuff you into a space capsule," Taylor warned.

Houston's astronaut training facility had entertained generations of flight candidates, though for security reasons, much of it was sealed off. Taylor showed Rachel and McLane to their rooms protected by military police.

"Not fancy, but comfortable," Taylor said. "Officially, you're training for a routine maintenance mission to the International Space Station. We're not using your real name. We don't want to tipoff our enemies."

"Can I be Katie Smith?" Rachel requested.

"After Ruth Sparrow's bestseller, Katie Smith is almost as famous as Rachel Montgomery," Taylor replied. "We gave you a number. #127."

"I don't like numbers. Let me be Joanna Silverhawk."

"That should work," Taylor agreed. "Only a handful of staff know what this mission is really about. Most don't even know you're going to HEO-6. Be careful what you say."

"I can keep a secret, sir," Rachel replied.

Over the next few days, Rachel spent long hours in a classroom learning terminology, then practiced sitting in a tiny two-seater mock-up no bigger than the Gemini capsules used by NASA sixty years before. Then one morning, she had a surprise.

"Mrs. Silverhawk?" a familiar voice said.

Rachel looked up from her training manual to see Tom's father.

"Mr. Harper?"

"I'm here to adjust your space suit. You're smaller than the average astronaut."

There was a momentary hesitation. Rachel felt her breath grow short. Walsh's expression was hard to read. Conflicted? Twenty people were watching.

"This way," Walsh insisted, waving his hand.

"Yes, sir," Rachel said, standing up.

She followed him to a lab and stood before an imaging machine that measured her every dimension. A woman technician helped with the waste disposal equipment. Rachel didn't like the suit. It was clumsy and uncomfortable.

Under Walsh's guidance, the team spent the entire afternoon assembling and modifying the silver outfit highlighted with blue trim. Walsh spent extra time showing her how to safely open and close the helmet's faceplate. Special inputs controlled her environmental pack, sustaining air, heat, and internal pressure.

"Can we talk?" Walsh privately asked toward the end of the day.

"About what, sir?"

"I'm sorry about what happened. I want you to know that."

"Sir, I don't have time for personalities right now," Rachel complained.

"But--"

"I said no. Are we done for today?"

"We're done. For the day," Walsh answered.

The final pre-flight meeting was held the next morning. Rachel was introduced to her pilot, a fifty-year-old Missouri colonel named Jeremiah McKay. He recognized Rachel instantly, but like everyone else, avoided using her name.

"Wednesday morning," Taylor announced. "We have a decoy flight prepping at the Cape. No com on anything. The crew on the platform doesn't even know you're coming. It's billed as a trip to the ISS."

"Word will get out," General St. Claire warned.

"We only need to keep the lid on for a few days. After that, it won't matter," Taylor said.

"How are you doing, Mrs. Silverhawk?" McKay asked.

"I'm okay. I do have a request. An important one," Rachel said.

"Anything you want, Rachel. Anything," Taylor promised.

* * * * * *

Is Rachel off into outer space? She doesn't even have a driver's license.