Sheila waited until the Cessna was well out of sight before reemerging into the glade, still feeling the ground vibrate—which she had first noticed upon crouching so near to it in the bushes—still sensing that something was coming, and still only half aware of where she was or how she’d gotten there.
It was, in a sense, as if she still dreamed (certainly the air was still choked with smoke as it had been in her vision of Bozeman), and yet, beyond that, the clearing had about it a slumberous quality all its own, one she could only liken to a cathedral or other place of worship, at least until the M1-A1 Abrams tank appeared at its opposite end and began rattling toward her.
Holy Mother of God, she thought, as it was joined by another ... and another ... and yet another still; nor did they
