TOS - The Eugenics Wars 2 (b) by Star Trek

Author:Star Trek [Star Trek]
Language: deu
Format: epub
Tags: \Star Trek
Published: 2011-01-02T07:59:06.755000+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

FORT COCHISE

SOUTHEAST ARIZONA

UNITED STATES

AUGUST 16, 1994

THE TIGHT SECURITY REMINDED ROBERTA of Area 51, or East Berlin back during the bad old days of the Cold War.

Barbed wire and timber watchtowers barricaded the outer perimeter of the militia headquarters. Goons in paramilitary uniforms patrolled the grounds with fierce-looking guard dogs that resembled a cross between a Doberman and a pit bull. (A doberpit? she wondered.) From the outside, the compound resembled a prison or concentration camp more than the voluntary residence of dozens of self-styled patriots.

Roberta gazed at the camp through the tinted windows of the black Humvee carrying her toward the fort. Sitting in the backseat, behind the driver, she did her best to conceal her apprehension as the [228] vehicle pulled up to the front gate, where an Uzi-toting guard manned a lowered steel barrier. Remember, she reminded herself, you’re thrilled and excited to be here.

“So this is it, huh?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” the driver, who called himself “Butch,” confirmed laconically. Not exactly the talkative sort, he had resisted all of Roberta’s sporadic attempts to make small talk since picking her up at the Tucson airport a few hours back. She wondered if he was this uncommunicative all the time, or only with nosy new arrivals?

The Humvee braked in front of the horizontal crossbar and Butch rolled down the window to talk to the khaki-clad guard standing watch over the gate. “Freeman Butch Connors, returning from a pick-up in Tucson,” he informed the sentry in clipped, military tones. Unlike the surrounding guards, Butch was clad in civilian garb, the better to blend in outside the camp.

“Password?”

“Ruby Ridge,” Butch responded.

Only partly satisfied, the guard peered in through the window at Roberta, scowling at the sight of the unfamiliar woman. “Passenger?”

“A potential new recruit,” Butch explained. “Here to meet with the General.”

The guard nodded, but continued to eye Roberta with suspicion. “Please step out of the car, ma’am,” he said sternly, a Colt Commando assault rifle slung over his shoulder. His breath frosted the air outside the window.

Not wanting to make waves, Roberta did as the guard asked. Her legs were stiff from the long ride [229] from the airport, but it felt good to get out of the car. Looking back the way she’d come, she saw a lonely desert road stretching through an arid landscape distinguished by sun-bleached cattle skulls and PRIVATE PROPERTY signs. Tumbleweeds rolled along dried-up riverbeds, past reddish-orange rock formations jutting up from the earth. Scattered cacti and yucca plants hinted at a trace of moisture somewhere beneath the arid soil. Not much of a vacation spot, she decided.

“Name?” the gatekeeper demanded, brandishing a pen and a clipboard.

“Roberta Landers,” she lied. The guard dutifully jotted down the name on his sign-in sheet.

It was a cold, clear morning in Arizona, and Roberta hugged herself in hopes of hanging onto some of the warmth trapped inside her fringed leather jacket. A flannel shirt, Levi’s, and cowboy boots completed her outfit, which seemed appropriate to her present assignment. Slightly

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