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Emerson shook his head. “Fence.”
“Who’s Fence?”
Emerson pointed at the green pasture ahead. There was a barbed wire fence strung across their path, stretching on for miles in either direction.
There was nowhere to go but through. “Ramming speed,” Riley shouted, slamming into the barbed wire at seventy-five miles per hour. The fence strained for a moment and snapped as the ATV plowed through.
“More good news,” Emerson said. “We must be off the Pohakuloa Training Grounds and onto private property.”
Riley squinted into the distance. “What’s that sea of black ahead of us?”
“You don’t want to know,” Emerson said.
“I really, really do.”
“We’re on one of the biggest privately owned ranches in the state,” Emerson said.
“Crap on a cracker. They’re cows. There must be a thousand of them.”
“Black Angus,” Emerson said. “They’re the Cadillac of cows.”
“Good to know. Are they dangerous?”
“I wouldn’t run into one at seventy miles per hour. They weigh up to two thousand pounds. It would be like smashing into a brick wall. We should be fine as long as you don’t excite them.”
“Hello. I’m driving an ATV at seventy miles per hour right through their herd. I think they’re going to get excited.”
Emerson gripped the side door of the ATV. “Yes. That might complicate things,” he said as Riley weaved around the first of the cows.
Startled cows snapped to attention as the other three ATVs invaded the herd as well. In a moment, the docile mass of cows was transformed into an angry sea of black, thundering down the mountain, together with the unwelcome ATVs.
“Ten years from now this will be an amusing anecdote,” Emerson said. “You don’t get to be a part of a stampede every day.”
Riley looked around her. All she could see was a swirling vortex of two-thousand-pound cows.
“This is even worse than the artillery dump,” she said. “At least the shells didn’t move.”
Emerson looked around. “Did you know the average cow produces 200,000 glasses of milk in her lifetime? The highest lifetime yield of milk for a single cow, named Smurf, was 478,163 pounds.”
“That’s really fascinating, but I’m sort of trying to concentrate on not getting us killed right now.”
Emerson was silent. He squirmed in his seat a little.
“You’re dying to tell me more about cows, aren’t you,” Riley said.
“A dairy cow makes 125 pounds of saliva every day,” Emerson blurted out in one breath. “I have more fun facts about cows, but I suppose we can discuss them later.”
One of the pursuing ATVs swerved hard right to avoid a cow, and the driver lost control, the ATV rolling several times and launching himself and the two other passengers through the air.
“One more ATV down. Only two left,” Emerson said. He watched the three soldiers scramble to their feet. “Looks like they
’re okay.”
A mass of stampeding cows collided with the three men, knocking them down and trampling them before continuing to run down the mountain.
“Whoops,” Emerson said. “They might not be so okay anymore.”
Riley worked her way to the front of the herd and sped down the hill. The ATV containing Tin Man and one other were still behind them.
