“How can that be?”

“When we took over the range in 1942, all domestic grazing stopped. The land’s returned to its original state. So essentially, you’re looking back in time—at New Mexico before the cattle arrived. If you go to the WSMR fence line, you’ll see the contrast. On one side is grass as tall as your waist. On the far side, it’s mostly cactus, tumbleweeds, and creosote. Two centuries of

grazing have been rough on the land.”

Corrie shook her head. “It looks like Africa.”

“It is like Africa,” said the general. “You won’t find better-preserved grassland in all of the West. If you keep an eye out, you might even see some oryx.”

“Oryx?”

“A big antelope with long, straight horns. They escaped from a game ranch in the thirties and thrive here, because they don’t need to drink water.”

Corrie felt her intimidation evaporating before the general’s open, chatty demeanor—and the fact that he was driving himself. “Excuse my ignorance—but what, exactly, goes on out here?”

“That’s a deceptively simple-sounding question. Where do I start? This is where we developed many of our short-and medium-range missiles, starting with V-2 missiles appropriated from the Germans right after World War Two, the Viking rockets, the Nike and Patriot air defense systems. These days, of course, there’s a lot of drone testing in partnership with Holloman AFB, which is adjacent. We’re also home to the White Sands Space Harbor, with two giant runways once used for the Space Shuttle, as well as an emergency orbiter landing site. Among other things, we train astronauts.” He paused. “And then, of course, there are the missile dogs.”

“Missile dogs?” Watts asked.

The general smiled. “Missiles don’t always behave like they should, especially during testing. Sometimes they explode in midair or fall apart, and the pieces that come down will be lost to radar. It can be hell to find them—not to mention that impact speed sometimes buries the parts in the sand. So we spray the critical parts with shark-liver oil. In the case of a loss, we helicopter the dogs and their handlers to the debris area—and they’ll have it swept clean before you know it.”

“That’s amazing,” Corrie said. Shark-liver oil. Who’d have guessed? The general was a veritable font of information, and it was clear he loved talking about the range under his command. She also knew that there had been friction, at times, between the FBI and the military. She sensed the general was trying to put her at ease, keep the tone light.

The mountains now loomed above them, purple in the fall light, and the road took a turn into a long canyon.

“We’re passing through the San Andres now,” said the general. “On the other side is the Jornada del Muerto desert, where they tested the bomb. The foothills of the mountains are beautiful, but that’s one hellacious desert beyond.”

The road climbed a bit, and they came to a pass with forever views before descending into a broad series of grassy foothills. They turned north.

“Here, to the right, is the Hembrillo Basin,” the general went on, waving his hand at a range of nearby hills. “That was the site of the largest cavalry battle in the Apache wars, fought against the great chief Victorio in 1880. On our side of the fight were the famed Buffalo Soldiers—Black troopers of the Ninth Cavalry. This whole area used to be the heart of Apache country, but that battle forced Victorio out of his stronghold and down into Mexico, where he was killed.”

“You certainly know the local history,” Nora said.

“Some commanding officer I’d be if I didn’t. But it’s true—history, Western history at least, is a hobby of mine. And, let’s face it, this is a research site and proving ground, not a forward emplacement. In between the occasional crises I do find some leisure time for reading now and then.” As he spoke, his eyes kept drifting toward the battle site he’d just described. Then he shook his head. “History has taught me some hard truths. Those Apaches were just fighting to keep their homeland—no different from what our forefathers did in the Revolution. We were in the wrong with regard to the Apaches, and it’s a great shame to our—ah, take a look over there—a herd of oryx!”

Corrie glanced eastward over the grasslands. A herd of antelope stood at attention, watching them, their horns piercing the sky.

“It really is like Africa,” she murmured.

“Just as I said. And here’s our turn.”

He swung left onto an uncertain dirt track and slowed considerably. The unimproved road wound among some low hills before emerging into a small grassy basin. A ranch house stood in its center, surrounded by an eroded adobe wall, with a roofless stone barn and some venerable-looking corrals situated nearby.

“The Gower Ranch,” the general said.

They pulled up near the house, and Corrie stepped out. It was cooler here, the altitude higher, with a half crescent of hills on one side and the great upthrust of the San Andres Mountains on the other, together forming protection from wind and weather. A small creek burbled out of the side of the hill above the ranch, then flowed on through the basin and headed out between the hills toward the distant Rio Grande.

Watts joined them, with Morwood, Nora, and Woodbridge.

“I’ll be damned,” said Watts, taking off his hat and looking around. “What a pretty spot this is!”