The Veiled Threat by Alan Dean Foster Page B

windshield. These did no damage either to his local form or to his ego.
    Knockout was impatient. Such eagerness could be channeled, such energy needed to be utilized. But as he followed his comrade back to NEST headquarters at a more leisurely pace, Longarm could not help but reflect on his earlier words.
    If there was to be a fight soon with Starscream, he would have wanted to be in on it, too.
    “I don’t get it.”
    Riding in the cab of the big diesel that was Optimus Prime’s chosen terrestrial form, Lennox directed his bemusement not to Sergeant Epps, who though seated behind the wheel never laid a hand on it, nor to Kaminari or Petr who occupied the wide seat behind them. Instead he addressed himself to empty air—or more precisely, to the perfectly smooth dash in front of him. The response, when it came, issued from speakers that filled the truck cab with sound. When he spoke thus to those he was transporting, Optimus was careful to lower his voice to a comparativewhisper so as not to damage fragile organic auditory apparatus. To Kaminari it sounded as if the cab were inhabited by a resolute ghost speaking in a perfectly normal tone of voice.
    “It is evident that other Decepticons have arrived on Earth,” the leader of the Autobots remarked. “Just as the signal I have been sending out has drawn others of my kind such as Salvage and Beachbreak, Longarm and Knockout to your world, so Starscream must have been propagating a call for assistance.”
    “Unless it is Megatron’s doing.” Sitting behind Epps, Petr was intent on an inch-long iridescent green beetle that had flown in through an open window and was now tentatively exploring the back of the Russian’s left hand.
    “Megatron can’t send a damn postcard.” Though he was sitting behind the wheel, Epps made no attempt to manipulate the “controls” laid out in front of him. Like his companions, he was only a passenger. The cord dangling from his right ear connected to the powerful portable computer resting on his lap. “He’s done, dead, and drowned.”
    “I concur.” Optimus’s reassuring voice drifted softly through the cab. “Therefore these new Decepticons must have been drawn here in response to a call from Starscream. Which in turn confirms the suspicions raised by the initial reports of an aircraft matching his chosen terrestrial mode overflying this region. He is here, somewhere, and we will find him.”
    “What about these new Decepticons?” Kaminari shifted in her seat. “Do we know anything about them?”
    Leaning to her right, she glanced in the side-viewmirror. An ambulance and two pickup trucks kicked up dust behind the diesel as the small convoy rumbled down the dirt road. While an unusual group of vehicles for the area, it was not so outrageous as to attract more than casual attention from the driver of the occasional other oncoming vehicle or the occupants of the small villages through which they were passing. Any casual onlooker would have seen just a trio of trucks, heading south toward the river.
    “I wish we had images.” Lennox spoke without turning, his attention fixed on the road ahead. “But while the cell phone coverage in this part of the world is adequate, it can be intermittent. And soldiers and mercenaries locked in the middle of a firefight usually don’t have time to whip out their phones and take snapshots.” He looked back at her. “So all we have to go on are the confused reports of a few frightened survivors.”
    “Three of them, to be exact.” Epps put his feet up on the dash. Optimus did not object. “What I don’t understand is that according to the reports, they didn’t get bombed. That’s Starscream’s modus operandi: strafing and bombing. But according to what we were told, all the action was confined to the ground. Guns and missiles goin’ off all over the place, but nothing raining down from above.” A slight electrical charge tickled his feet and he hastily took them off the dash.