The Apache attack helicopter moved steadily eastward, speeding through the tree-lined canyons of the Beartooth Mountains. Captain Stuart Harper scanned the rugged terrain as it rolled by underneath, looking for the objective of this morning’s deep reconnaissance mission. He and his co-pilot, First Lieutenant Chet Green were the crew of what might be the last flight-worthy Apache on earth. They had gotten their orders straight from NORAD during the middle of the night, relayed by a series of ground units and detailed to them by their commander after they were called out of their bunks at 02:30 AM. They had lifted off before dawn from Boise Air Terminal—or what was left of it—with extra fuel tanks on the copter’s stub wings. Without global positioning satellites to rely upon or report to, they had flown non-stop into Montana, through the Absaroka Mountains and into the Beartooth range using dead-reckoning and highway road maps. They were tasked to obtain visual contact with alien gliders reported to have gone down in the area, then transmit their location to ground units supposedly deployed somewhere nearby.
   As he probed the foothills of the Beartooths, Stu Harper maneuvered the helicopter on the ragged edge of disaster, flying at breakneck speed right above the ground. He wanted to avoid detection and give himself the element of surprise when he came upon the enemy. The copter vaulted a low ridge and flew out over a high prairie between two mountains, and Stu’s jaw dropped when he realized he was right on top of his targets. Below and to one side lay a giant silver glider that had plowed into the prairie, tearing a streak across it and coming to rest against the base of a low hill. Nearby were a second and third huge landing craft, stationary at the end of their own long skid-marks. Stu began a tight roll to the right that would bring them in a circle above the bogeys. On the prairie, there was nothing moving except some cattle—no immediate sign of enemy activity. That was a relief.
   Chet’s voice came over the headphones in Stu’s flight helmet. “Hey, there’s something on the mountain at ten o’clock.”
   Stu glanced over at the triangular tan mountain rising on the far side of the prairie. At the mountain’s base were two piles of freshly dumped rock-rubble, and immediately above each pile was an opening about the size of a train tunnel, going straight into the mountain. It looked like an underground fortification of some kind was under construction.
   “Better relay our coordinates, pronto,” Chet reminded him, but Stu was already into the drill. He punched the control buttons of the data transfer module and its red LED display blinked to signify that it was broadcasting their geographic location via high-speed radio modem. Whether anybody was out there to hear it was an unknown, but Stu had his assignment to complete. His orders were to remain in the area as long as possible and re-transmit until acknowledged, whatever that meant.
   Stu got a bad feeling in the pit of his gut. Until now, it had been a matter of “movement to contact,” the search-and-identify phase of the mission. Now, as he slowed the chopper to survey the area, he felt increasingly vulnerable. If the former occupants of the bogeys were in the vicinity, they might be targeting him right now with whatever sort of ordnance they used. He could feel the hackles at the back of his neck rising. Anything could happen from here on out. For the moment however, the radar screens and optical displays in his cockpit were clear of trouble signs.
   With the data transfer module repeating its message, Stu thought it best to make himself a moving target, so he steered the Apache up across the face of the mountain and flew directly over its top. At the summit he could see more fresh construction. The mountain’s rocky surface had been penetrated by a group of three vents, sort of like low-profile smokestacks. From two of them clear air rose up shimmering with heat, while the larger central one billowed out a hot gas. It had a distinct greenish tint to it, and Stu steered well clear of the unhealthy-looking emission before starting a second sweep around the prairie. Taking another look at the bogeys, he typed some details of their appearance into his keyboard, fleshing out the digital report with a visual description. Meanwhile the radio unit kept repeating its broadcast. So far there was no response, verbal or digital, from any receiving team.
   “Maybe we’re too low,” he said over the intercom. “We might need some altitude to get the transmission through.”
   “Roger,” Chet replied. Stu could see his co-pilot’s helmeted head nodding in the gunner’s cockpit in front of him.
   “I’ll take her up a couple thousand feet,” he acknowledged and then pulled back on the stick. Just as he did so, a white flash streaked past him on the left, and Chet was suddenly shouting into the intercom.
   “Contacts at the tunnel opening! Two of ’em.”
   Throwing the Apache into a tight spin and forcing the joystick forward, Stu initiated an evasive turning dive and shouted, “Arm your Hellfires!”
   Chet immediately responded with a terse, “Arming missiles!”
   Meanwhile, Stu swung the Apache around into an attack orientation, figuring the best defense was a good offense. He flipped the heads-up targeting monocle of his helmet into position over his right eye, and then pushed the Chain Gun Ready-button. When the nose of the copter came around to line up on the mountain portals, he got a look at the enemy. Where a moment before he had seen nothing but broken rock and tunnels, now he saw two of the strangest fighting machines he had ever laid eyes upon. They were two-legged metal contraptions with two arms and sleek aircraft-like fuselages for bodies.
   One of them raised its right arm and fired another shot of white hot laser light that ripped past the copter on the right. That left Stu no more time for conscious thought. He sighted through his monocle to align the chain gun crosshairs on the machine that had just fired, then squeezed the trigger on his joystick. In response, the chain gun mounted under the copter’s fuselage swiveled to his aim-point and released a furious hail of 30mm superspeed rounds. The heavy armor-piercing slugs arched to the target in less than a second and started impacting on its metal skin before it could fire another burst of laser light. The machine reeled back, its dark glass canopy shattering and its legs crumpling.
   As it tumbled sideways to the ground in a ball of flame, Stu shouted jubilantly, “Scratch one!”
   Simultaneously Chet called out, “Hellfire locked on target two . . . fire!”
   A missile leapt off the left stub-wing pylon and streaked toward its target, guided by the optical tracking camera in its nose.
   Stu kept up a steady hail of 30mm rounds, kicking up dust and sparks all around the second target. The enemy machine responded with remarkable agility and dodged most of Stu’s incoming heat, but the Hellfire’s targeting computer was not to be denied. The missile zigzagged its smoke trail twice to compensate for the target’s motion, then laid its payload dead on target. The warhead exploded with a flash that announced the complete demolition of the enemy. Pieces of what had appeared to be a formidable adversary went scattering for a hundred yards around.
   “Yee-haw!” Chet’s shout rattled Stu’s ears.
   He hollered back, “This is a turkey shoot!” but then noticed two more of the walking machines at the second tunnel opening. One of these lifted its right arm and fired without hesitation, before Stu could bring his chain gun to bear on it. The shaft of blinding white light tore through the undercarriage of the helicopter and came up between Stu’s legs, passing through his instrument panel and on out through the glass of his side window. Bits of white hot metal and shards of glass were suddenly everywhere, ricocheting off Stu’s visor and tearing into his cheeks.
   Screaming in agony, he pulled frantically on the joystick but the Apache didn’t respond. Instead, it began a paralyzed roll over to the right, out of his control.
   Another white-hot beam ripped into the copter, tearing up through the forward cabin. Chet wailed, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” sounding suddenly like a two-year-old baby instead of the professional soldier who had coolly fired his missile seconds before. A huge vibration arose in the copter and Stu guessed a rotor had been shorn off by the shot. There was no more time to think as the Apache turned completely over in the air and headed for the dirt. A third laser shot impacted the missile carrier out Stu’s right window and a massive explosion enveloped him in a flash of bright . . . nothingness . . .

The sound of a far-away, muffled explosion came into the study on the first floor of the ranch house. Chase was trying the channels of the desk-top CB radio in Will Daniels’ office when the concussion rattled the windows. He stopped momentarily and looked at Dr. Ogilvey, whose face mirrored his own concern. But there were so many odd and mostly bad things going on that a distant noise hardly seemed worth mentioning. He shrugged and turned his attention back to the CB, punching up the next in a sequence of channels and lifting the microphone.
   “Breaker, breaker, anybody out there?”
   The reply was immediate and terse.
   “This is Sheriff Cochrane in Red Lodge. Whoever you are, keep off the air! Repeat, keep off the air! We’ve got some weird-looking machines running around town, shooting up the place. Stay where you are and keep quiet! These things can home in on a radio signal like you wouldn’t believe. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut! We’ll get back to you when we can. Red Lodge out.”