living thing in its wake if it could not be destroyed.
In a grave tone Marcelle repeated the old man's blessing.
"Yes, O God, deliver us ... from this Evil."
***
Two uniformed guards approached Soloman as he advanced through the star-shrouded heat of White Sands to reach the Armory. Three hundred feet in the distance a Humvee with engine roaring and lights glaring approached and Soloman measured its arrival with an enlivened mechanical skill of the Marine colonel he'd once been: thirty seconds.
"Halt!" one of the MPs shouted at port arms. "Who goes there!"
Soloman replied boldly to indicate his position in the dark.
"Colonel James L. Soloman!"
Both soldiers stepped forward. "Advance to be recognized!"
Preliminaries completed according to regulation, Soloman approached quickly but cautiously, knowing the drill. "I'm Colonel Soloman, Private!" he shouted. "I'm under General Hawken's command! I need access!"
Nervous glances were exchanged between the guards and Soloman suddenly remembered that he hadn't been issued his credentials yet. This, he realized, might become a problem because he didn't have any time to waste. Then, engine straining to the last moment, the Humvee arrived at the door and Soloman turned.
A square-jawed figure clambered from it and came forward without any announcement, as though he'd kick serious ass if he were challenged. Built wide and low and solid—like a human bison—the man walked with a slight limp as he saluted sharply and spoke in a southern accent faded from too many years in foreign fields. "I'm here to assist you, Colonel. I'm Sergeant Chatwell."
"Can you open this door, Sergeant?"
Chatwell was already moving for the steel panel. "Yes, sir, you bet I can. General Hawken briefed me." He shouldered the guards aside. "Move aside, boys. He said you needed a sidearm with ammo and a carry, Colonel. What do you prefer? We've got some .45s, we've got a wheelbarrow load of Berettas and they just sent us a shipment of them brand-new Sig Sauers."
"I'll take a .45 if you've got one in good shape, Sergeant."
Laughing, Chatwell opened the door and hit the light as he moved forward, clearly amused. "Yes sir, we've got a .45 you might have some fun with."
Already they had reached the internal security gate and in another second Chatwell was inside the vault, laying the massive lock aside. Soloman glanced back to see the other two MPs stationed at port arms on either side of the doorway, staring out.
"Try this one, sir."
Chatwell handed a black-matte semiautomatic to Soloman, who reflexively ejected the empty magazine and pulled back the slide to lock. It was incredible, he thought, how in the space of three seconds he handled the gun as well as he ever had, though it had been seven years. He heard himself speak as he worked, enjoying Chatwell's old Army attitude.
"You coming with us, Chatwell?"
"Airborne, sir."
"You bringing shake-and-bakes?"
"Negative, sir. Delta's been scrambled. They're on the deck right now wearing Air Force gloves."
Soloman smiled at that. "Air Force gloves" meant the soldiers were standing around with their hands in their pockets, waiting for something to happen. But Soloman knew it was also a euphemism because Delta commandos never stood around waiting for anything. They prepared.
"Good enough," he replied.
The port was unloaded and Soloman dropped the slide to feel a solid hit. Then he checked the spring and, peripherally, felt the slightly wider grip. Instantly he knew it wasn't a Colt and looked at the imprint on the slide: Para-Ordinance P-13, a single-action .45 with a double-stacked magazine that gave it thirteen rounds instead of the usual seven.
A formidable weapon; it looked brand-new.
"Has this thing been broken in?" Soloman asked as he disassembled it, ejecting the loading lock and removing the slide and barrel. He knew that any pistol had to have at least five hundred rounds through it before it could be relied upon not to jam.
"We put seven
In a grave tone Marcelle repeated the old man's blessing.
"Yes, O God, deliver us ... from this Evil."
***
Two uniformed guards approached Soloman as he advanced through the star-shrouded heat of White Sands to reach the Armory. Three hundred feet in the distance a Humvee with engine roaring and lights glaring approached and Soloman measured its arrival with an enlivened mechanical skill of the Marine colonel he'd once been: thirty seconds.
"Halt!" one of the MPs shouted at port arms. "Who goes there!"
Soloman replied boldly to indicate his position in the dark.
"Colonel James L. Soloman!"
Both soldiers stepped forward. "Advance to be recognized!"
Preliminaries completed according to regulation, Soloman approached quickly but cautiously, knowing the drill. "I'm Colonel Soloman, Private!" he shouted. "I'm under General Hawken's command! I need access!"
Nervous glances were exchanged between the guards and Soloman suddenly remembered that he hadn't been issued his credentials yet. This, he realized, might become a problem because he didn't have any time to waste. Then, engine straining to the last moment, the Humvee arrived at the door and Soloman turned.
A square-jawed figure clambered from it and came forward without any announcement, as though he'd kick serious ass if he were challenged. Built wide and low and solid—like a human bison—the man walked with a slight limp as he saluted sharply and spoke in a southern accent faded from too many years in foreign fields. "I'm here to assist you, Colonel. I'm Sergeant Chatwell."
"Can you open this door, Sergeant?"
Chatwell was already moving for the steel panel. "Yes, sir, you bet I can. General Hawken briefed me." He shouldered the guards aside. "Move aside, boys. He said you needed a sidearm with ammo and a carry, Colonel. What do you prefer? We've got some .45s, we've got a wheelbarrow load of Berettas and they just sent us a shipment of them brand-new Sig Sauers."
"I'll take a .45 if you've got one in good shape, Sergeant."
Laughing, Chatwell opened the door and hit the light as he moved forward, clearly amused. "Yes sir, we've got a .45 you might have some fun with."
Already they had reached the internal security gate and in another second Chatwell was inside the vault, laying the massive lock aside. Soloman glanced back to see the other two MPs stationed at port arms on either side of the doorway, staring out.
"Try this one, sir."
Chatwell handed a black-matte semiautomatic to Soloman, who reflexively ejected the empty magazine and pulled back the slide to lock. It was incredible, he thought, how in the space of three seconds he handled the gun as well as he ever had, though it had been seven years. He heard himself speak as he worked, enjoying Chatwell's old Army attitude.
"You coming with us, Chatwell?"
"Airborne, sir."
"You bringing shake-and-bakes?"
"Negative, sir. Delta's been scrambled. They're on the deck right now wearing Air Force gloves."
Soloman smiled at that. "Air Force gloves" meant the soldiers were standing around with their hands in their pockets, waiting for something to happen. But Soloman knew it was also a euphemism because Delta commandos never stood around waiting for anything. They prepared.
"Good enough," he replied.
The port was unloaded and Soloman dropped the slide to feel a solid hit. Then he checked the spring and, peripherally, felt the slightly wider grip. Instantly he knew it wasn't a Colt and looked at the imprint on the slide: Para-Ordinance P-13, a single-action .45 with a double-stacked magazine that gave it thirteen rounds instead of the usual seven.
A formidable weapon; it looked brand-new.
"Has this thing been broken in?" Soloman asked as he disassembled it, ejecting the loading lock and removing the slide and barrel. He knew that any pistol had to have at least five hundred rounds through it before it could be relied upon not to jam.
"We put seven
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