Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

Marty’s eyes glanced at the rifle leaning against the house. “I see,” he said. His opinion of Amanda was changing dramatically and he decided to accept the situation at face value. “Nice shooting the other day… Snuff.”

Amanda scooped the stew into the three bowls, handed one to Connor, and carried the other two to the table, placing one in front of Marty. “Thanks, Marty. I hope you like my cooking. It’s way better than Mac’s.”

“I agree,” Connor said, sitting down opposite Marty. Connor began eating immediately, shoveling food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Marty followed suit, but stopped after a few bites.

“Amanda, this is a great stew.”

“Thanks,” said Amanda.

“Would you prefer if I called you Snuff?”

Amanda growled in Connor’s direction. “No, Marty,” she answered testily, “I don’t want you to call me Snuff and if you do it again, I might shoot you where you sit.”

Marty glanced at Connor who was suppressing a grin. The nickname was obviously his doing and the twinkle in his eye invited Marty to play along if he wanted. “Sorry, Snuff—ahh… I mean, Amanda.”

Marty returned his attention to his food, withering beneath Amanda’s glare. The three enjoyed the stew for several moments, until Marty cleared his throat. He knew there would be ground rules explained later, but now was the time to get to know one another and he was curious about Amanda’s ability to shoot.

“I imagine that there’s an interesting story behind how good you shoot that rifle, Amanda.”

“Yeah, there is. Probably not as cool as your story, Marty.”

“Go on, Snuff,” chimed in Connor, “tell him about how your grandpa taught you.”

“Based on the projected timelines, Connor MacMillen may be thirty or forty miles east of Fort Wayne by now. Is that correct, major?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How do you propose to track him, now that the search grid’s refined?”

“I’m not sure, colonel.”

“Not sure?” she asked.

Nicole strolled into the small airplane hanger wearing fresh oversized fatigue bottoms and a pale green tee shirt. Her hair was combed back from her oval face and Major O’Malley noticed immediately that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She carried the sleeping CJ in her arms and the major had a sudden attack of jealousy for the way CJ was nestling quite comfortably against Nicole’s breasts.

“Not sure of what?” asked Nicole.

Colonel Starkes smiled at the sudden expansion of Major O’Malley’s chest.

“Hi, Nicole,” said the major, shyly. “Can we help you with something? Do you need anything?”

“Hi, Mike. Hi, Hannah. No, I don’t need anything—I just couldn’t sleep. I’m glad you’re safe, Mike. I heard you were back,” she said, smiling at Major O’Malley.

“Yeah,” he managed as an answer. He reddened with embarrassment as he realized that he had ignored his commanding officer’s question for the last several moments. “Colonel, I think—“

“I’m glad you’re safe, Mike,” said Nicole. Her silky voice suggested more than a passing concern for his welfare.

Colonel Starkes recognized that Major O’Malley was stuck in the uncomfortable position of having to respond to two women, one of which was his commanding officer. To ease his embarrassment, she decided to help him. “Please join us, Nicole. We were discussing how best to handle the new intelligence we’ve learned about Connor MacMillen.”

“You found him?”

“No, not quite, but we know where he was about two weeks ago.”

“Close to here?”

“Yes, somewhere southwest of Fort Wayne.”

“So, what are you not sure of?”

“We’re trying to figure out how to refine the search grid,” said Major O’Malley.

“Can’t you use your fancy equipment to find him?”

“No, not right now. It’s too broad of an area to cover.”

Colonel Starkes was thinking of the time and manpower necessary to continue the search for Connor MacMillen. Inwardly, she groaned, dreading the fact that this small hanger outbuilding on the edge of an abandoned private airstrip was going to be her new home for the next several days. She needed a status report on the other Superhawk undergoing a retrofit and inspection near Camp David. Jimmy had told her before they left that he was sure he could deliver the second bird in the next few weeks. She had confidence in Jimmy. He was certain to come through on his promise, but it would be nice to have a that second bird here and now—she could use the extra twenty-two men.

There was no use thinking about the other Superhawk—either Jimmy would fix it or not, but, either way, it wasn’t here now, so it did her no good. She turned her attention back to the conversation between Nicole and Major O’Malley.

“Major,” said Nicole, “you won’t find Connor Mac unless he wants to be found.”

“Please call me Mike, Nicole.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing slightly, “I like the name Mike. It was one of the names I picked out for CJ before he was born. Maybe I’ll name my next baby Mike.” She boldly held his gaze. He began to blush, but was unable to take his eyes from her.

Once again, Colonel Starkes came to his rescue. “Major, have you figured out a solution yet?” She allowed an element of irritation to creep into her voice, effectively obtaining his undivided attention.

Major O’Malley cleared his throat. “I’m thinking that we can target the search corridor, colonel and… umm—”

“I’m thinking you won’t find him, Hannah. Not in a million years.”

“Why’s that, Nicole?”

“I know him. Connor Mac will walk around your men and pick their pockets whenever he wants.”

“I know he’s well-trained, Nicole. That’s not the question here.” The colonel’s frustration was evident in her voice. She walked a few steps to Nicole and gently touched the sleeping CJ’s pink cheek. “Do you know anything else that might help us now?”

“No, not really, Hannah.”

“Okay, Nicole. Why don’t you try to rest while me and the major figure out our next move,” said Colonel Starkes dismissively.

“Okay, Hannah. Good night, Mike.”

“Good night, Nicole.”

At the door, Nicole turned and faced them. “I guess I do have one suggestion.”

“What’s that?” asked the colonel, making an effort to keep her tone pleasant.

“I don’t think you’ll find him, like I said. So, why don’t you let him find you?”

“Go on, tell him, Snuff. Tell him how you learned to shoot from your granddaddy.”

“Okay,” said Amanda. “Are you sure you want to hear this, Marty?”

“Sure, why not?” Marty leaned on his elbows and waited patiently for Amanda to begin her tale. He hadn’t spent enough time with the last group to care about any of them and, before that, he was on his own. The isolation had helped foster his killing mood for a quite some time. A story was a welcome distraction. Besides, it gave him the excuse to stare at Amanda.

“It’s like this,” began Amanda. “My granddaddy was a military sniper, back when iron sights were the norm.”

“Okay.”

”When I was ten, I was a bit of a tomboy. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“And one day, when I was at Grandpa Frank’s house, he let me shoot his .22 rifle. I took to it right away and he told me that I ‘had the eye’, you know?”

“Sure. He recognized that you were a natural.”

“Right, a natural. It was easy. After about 250 rounds, I could shoot the heads off those small, green plastic soldiers at fifty yards.”