Harbor

by Tom Abrahams

  Sally’s head snapped toward Marcus, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “If we get caught,” said Marcus, “you get caught. So you don’t know.”

  Sally clenched her jaw. She swallowed hard enough that her throat moved. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “No, they didn’t tell me.”

  CHAPTER 25

  APRIL 21, 2054, 9:40 PM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  “Well, this is clever,” said Greg Rickshaw. “Very clever.”

  “You think this is how they communicate, sir?” asked Krespan. “How they make the railroad work?”

  They were standing in front of a table loaded with electronics. It wasn’t a cheap setup. Rickshaw imagined they’d purchased most of it on the black market. The government wasn’t much for letting people use radio bands. It was too difficult to monitor.

  “That’s a good guess,” said Rickshaw.

  “Don’t these people understand that we have laws for the betterment of everyone?” asked Krespan. “We have population restrictions for a reason. We fight so hard against conspiracy for a reason. It’s for the good of the whole.”

  Rickshaw glanced over his shoulder and studied the good soldier. He nodded at Krespan while marveling at his belief in the system. He’d bought into it hook, line, and sinker.

  The government needed people like Krespan. It had to have naïve purists like him to function. If everyone knew the real reasons for their heavy hand, it would collapse. That was why stopping the railroad was so important.

  It wasn’t about the children or even the flouting of the laws. It was the seeds of discontent it sowed. It was the whisper in the alley, the note passed under the table, the wink and nod on the street corner. The railroad was a freight train. The louder it got, the closer it was to barreling through everything in its way, leaving it in tatters.

  “Have you thoroughly searched all of the rooms?” he asked his subordinate.

  Krespan shook his head. “Not yet, sir.”

  “Why don’t you do that while I figure this out? I might get lucky and glean something from it.”

  Krespan saluted. “Yes, sir.” He spun on his boot heel to search the rest of the brownstone.

  They’d come back here, entering through the garage, after the truck and Gladys escaped them. Rickshaw wasn’t about to go back to headquarters empty handed. He’d lost four men and been outsmarted by an elderly woman.

  Rickshaw pulled out the chair and sat down. He flipped aside his duster and studied the equipment in front of him.

  “Computer,” he said out of habit and hoping it would work, “are you there?”

  He waited. There was no response. He cursed under his breath.

  Rickshaw knew it was unlikely this place had a central computer, but given the railroad’s success and Gladys’s obvious craftiness, it was worth a shot. Absent the computer, he’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.

  He rubbed his hands together and then flexed them in and out. Knuckles cracked and the stiffness loosened. He sighed and scanned the equipment. He pulled the chain on the banker’s lamp, and the dim yellow light warmed to a soft glow. Next to the lamp was a piece of paper with a list of random letter and number combinations.

  As good as he was with the state-of-the-art offerings in the headquarters, these much lower-tech devices were a mystery. He rolled in the wheeled chair and picked up a set of headphones, adjusted them for his head, and slid them over his ears.

  He spun a volume dial to the right. Then he pushed a button, which appeared to be a power toggle. A low hiss of ambient noise filled his ears. He put his hand on a desktop microphone, which he assumed was the way to communicate.

  There were knobs and dials, which looked as though they controlled the transmission frequency. He didn’t want to mess with them. Changing the preset conditions might only serve to eliminate the one shot he had at learning something.

  He pushed the button at the base of the mic and spoke into the wire mesh at the mouth of it.

  “Hello?” He let go of the key, waited, and pressed again. “Hello. Is anyone there? This is railroad business.”

  There was a hiss and a crackle. Then a static-laden response leaked from the headphones and Rickshaw smiled.

  “This frequency is clear,” said the voice. “Hello.”

  The next part of the message wiped the smile from Rickshaw’s face.

  “This is HR29BR.” It was a man’s voice. “Who is this?”

  Rickshaw didn’t know who he was supposed to be. His eyes darted across the equipment. He spun in the chair, looking for any sign or clue as to how he should respond. Of one thing he was sure; he couldn’t say he was Gladys. That would end the conversation and maybe send an alarm.

  “This is HR29BR,” the voice on the other end of the radio transmission repeated. “Who is this?”

  Rickshaw cursed under his breath. He cupped the headphones with his hands and dropped his elbows onto the table. An invisible timer was counting down in his head. He knew he didn’t have but a few seconds to respond with something credible.

  He eyed the radio, the mic, the banker’s lamp, the—

  Next to the lamp was the piece of paper he’d glossed over before. On it was written a collection of number and letter combinations. He noticed one of them, near the bottom, was HR29BR.

  Rickshaw ran his finger up and down the list of numbers and letters. They were call signs. How had he not recognized this?

  He had to pick one. Which one? Which one? Clenching his jaw, he traced the identification at the top of the list. It was as good as any of the others. Rickshaw thought he might as well spin the cylinder of his revolver and pull the trigger.

  Rickshaw pressed the mic key. “Hello, HR29BR,” he said. “This is G-F-A-G-A-5.”

  He released the key and listened. With his eyes closed, he awaited the response. His pulse thumped in his neck. Rickshaw didn’t like this feeling. His stomach lurched. There was something about not being in control that made his skin itch.

  “Hello, GFAGA5. We weren’t expecting a transmission. Everything good on your end?”

  Rickshaw considered his response. His accelerated heartbeat made him uncomfortable. A lot was riding on this conversation. He had to skillfully extract information without revealing his real identity. Intelligence gathering was a much different task without the benefit of chains and a game of Russian roulette. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying.

  He pressed the key. The static in his ears went silent.

  “On schedule here. Assets are in position. How about on your end?”

  It struck Rickshaw that whoever was on the other end of the transmission seemed unconcerned about talking to an unfamiliar voice, yet they didn’t pick up on it. At least not yet. He assumed there must be multiple people using the system. How many radios did the railroad have? Was this how they were so successful at communicating their movements, how they stayed one step ahead of the Pop Guard?

  “On schedule here,” he said, lifting the octave of his voice. “How’s the weather?”

  It was a silly question on its face. The weather was always dry. Rain came once every few weeks in some regions, not at all in others. Rickshaw hoped that the description of the weather might give him some clue as to where the transmission originated. Maybe he could glean some clue as to which part of the railroad this was and where it operated.

  There was a long pause this time. Static and high-pitched waves of sound danced in his ears. He pushed one of the headphones back. The side of his head was damp with sweat.

  “Weather is the same. Windy offshore, though.”

  Offshore? Had Rickshaw heard that correctly? His eyes scanned the desk, his fingers hovering over the mic key. He pressed it. “Repeat, please? I didn’t copy you, HR29BR.”

  The response was almost immediate. “Weather is the same, but it’s windy offshore.”

  He did say it. That was a clue. It was a clue in the eye of a needle amon
gst a thousand needles in a haystack, but it was a clue.

  His eyes absently skittered across the desk again. Rickshaw searched his mind for the next question. What could he ask that might narrow the coastline? He had Pop Guards patrols up and down the Eastern Seaboard. He could direct all of them east to the shorelines, the beaches, the ports, the harbors.

  The harbors.

  His eyes widened as he stared at the piece of paper on the desk underneath the banker’s lamp. The letters glowed in the soft light, calling him, offering him answers to questions he didn’t realize he had.

  There it was. HR29BR. HRBR. Harbor. He was talking to the Harbor.

  Rickshaw rolled back in the chair and darted his eyes around the room, then pushed his hands on to the chair’s arms to stand. When he did, the headphone cord stretched and pulled. The headset flipped from his head, dragging across one ear, and whipped at the end of the cord. It dangled, twisting, from the edge of the desk.

  He laced his fingers behind his head, walking in a small circle, pacing in the room. Rickshaw wasn’t sure what to do next. If he could extract a little more information from the Harbor, he could tell his superiors where to shove their ultimatums.

  Should he tell them what he’d learned already? Give them a status update?

  No. None of that. He would solve the problem first. He would end the railroad. He would expose the Harbor. Only then would he tell them.

  His eyes focused on the volume meter on the transceiver. The needles were bouncing. Someone was talking. His brow furrowed, his hands went to his ears. He realized he’d lost the headset. Rickshaw scrambled back into the chair, rolled himself forward, and put on the headset.

  “…there? Do you copy?”

  Fingers trembling with excitement, he pressed the key. He exhaled slowly to even his breathing and responded, “I’m here. Apologies, HR29BR. Got sidetracked here. Any other details for us? Asset allocation?”

  He let go of the key, releasing the soft strain into his ears before the Harbor communicator responded. It was short. It was exactly what Rickshaw needed.

  “Low-country assets all good. Standing by.”

  Rickshaw’s finger hovered over the key. His mouth hung open as he considered how to respond. He moved his hand away from the mic and took off the headphones. He didn’t need to say anything else. He knew exactly where to go.

  The captain stood, adjusted his duster, and flexed his fingers. He stepped from the radio room and into the hallway. “Krespan!”

  The soldier appeared within seconds, standing at attention. “Yes, sir?”

  “Connect with all of our patrols within a one-hundred-mile radius of Charleston, South Carolina,” he said. “I want them all converging on Charleston.”

  Krespan saluted. “Yes, sir. Right away. Should I let headquarters know?”

  Rickshaw put a hand on Krespan’s shoulder. He shook his head and offered a wry smile. “No. We’re going to take care of this and offer a wonderful surprise to HQ when it’s all over.”

  Krespan smiled. “You found the Harbor? It’s in Charleston?”

  Rickshaw nodded. He knew that the “low country” was what South Carolinians called the southern coastal region of their state. He couldn’t be sure that Charleston was the exact location of the Harbor, but he knew it was close. And if he could get enough of his assets into position, they could torture their way to the precise location.

  Once they had the Harbor under their control, they’d have a gold mine of information. Every single person there had traveled the underground railroad to get there. Even if individuals could only offer snippets of intelligence, he could piece enough of those snippets together to get the bigger picture. He’d get names, locations, methods of transportation.

  “Yes,” he said to his aide. “We’ve found it. More or less. Now get the troops headed in that direction. We’re joining them. We’ve got to get going. I want this thing over yesterday.”

  CHAPTER 26

  APRIL 21, 2054, 10:00 PM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  Gladys pushed on the trapdoor and eased it up slowly. The well-oiled hinges slid open and she peeked out from the subfloor bunker.

  In truth, it was more of a cubbyhole than a bunker, but it provided enough space for six people should the Pop Guard come calling. It was in the hallway between the kitchen and the door to the radio room of her house.

  She’d run to it as soon as she’d escaped the hapless, unsuspecting guards watching her two doors down the street. Gladys’s first instinct was to run as far away as possible. But where would she go? It was better to go home and wait it out, especially since her gut told her Rickshaw would come back.

  Gladys had been surprised to see the dead men in front of her house. One of them bled into the street from the edge of her short driveway. The other was motionless in her garage. Had Marcus and his group killed both of them during their escape? Gladys remembered how efficiently violent he could be. Despite his age, he’d obviously retained his lethality.

  She climbed from the hiding place and brushed the creases from her dress. The front door was open. She walked the short distance to the foyer, stepping past the dead soldier half in the hallway, and pushed the door shut. She locked it.

  “All right,” she said with a huff, “where to begin?”

  First she checked the dead body in the parlor and was disappointed to find her Huse hand-forged folding knife was missing. It had come in handy more than once. She cursed under her breath and marched to the kitchen. Angrily, she rummaged through the drawers and cabinets, looking for a backup knife, but couldn’t find one. It would have to wait.

  Back in the radio room, she rolled herself to the desk and lifted the headset. She adjusted the volume on the transceiver and pressed the mic key. Whatever they’d communicated to Rickshaw had given him the impression he knew exactly where to go to find the Harbor. Now she had to know what they’d revealed, and she had to warn them. If Rickshaw had time to gather enough of his armed patrols and they hit the coast before her people were ready, they’d be slaughtered.

  The Harbor answered immediately when she called. The man on the receiving end of her transmission was floored. Through the static, she could hear the guilt, the fear, the worry in his voice.

  “It’s not your fault,” said Gladys. “You couldn’t know he’d have access to the equipment or our handles. I should have installed a fail-safe code.”

  Gladys couldn’t believe she hadn’t done that. All of her operatives had codes in the field, safe words that would tip off others to danger. How had she not done the same for radio communications between the Harbor and her?

  After years of doing this, of living on the edge and in the shadows, she’d learned from her mistakes. Then she’d course-corrected and improved the function of her clandestine operation. Would she get the chance to learn from this? Or would the Pop Guard and their mother government finally get the best of her?

  Her mind raced as she discussed plans with the Harbor. How had Rickshaw found her in the first place? Had he followed Marcus, Lou, Dallas, and the others here? Had it been a happy accident or coincidence?

  No, she thought. There’s no such thing as coincidence.

  Someone had tipped off Rickshaw and his goons. Someone had told them where to look, where to find her.

  Rickshaw had clearly known, even if he hadn’t said it, she was in control. Did he know her name?

  Gladys suddenly felt ill. Her stomach roiled. Her head ached with the thick pulse of a building migraine. Planting her elbows on her desk, she put her head in her hands. The adrenaline surge from the last hour was waning. Exhaustion rippled through her body and she wanted to sleep, close her eyes and dream good dreams. Yet there was too much work to do. There was too much riding on the next twenty-four hours. She couldn’t stay here; she had to be there. She had to find a way to the coast, to the low country, to the Harbor.

  “We can get you here,” said the voice on the other
end of the transmission. “There’s a supply transport leaving soon. I have an address. You could beat him here.”

  Gladys gathered herself and leaned back in her chair. “Don’t give me the address,” she said. “I know where the transports pick up their goods. Just let them know I’m coming. Don’t let the truck leave without me.”

  “Roger that,” said HR29BR.

  Gladys swallowed hard. She pressed her hand to her stomach and suppressed the urge to vomit. Her temples were throbbing. She took a deep breath, held it, and blew it out like a long kiss through puckered lips. Her fingers again found the mic key.

  “I’m on my way,” she said. “Don’t start the fight without me.”

  CHAPTER 27

  APRIL 22, 2054, 4:00 AM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  TUSCALOOSA, ALABAMA

  “I was always more of an Auburn fan,” said Rudy. “Don’t ask me why. Maybe I liked that they were the underdog.”

  “Underdog?” Norma leaned back to stretch her torso. It was stiff from sitting for too long.

  “I mean, compared to Alabama and their juggernaut, everybody was the underdog before the Scourge.”

  “Not Clemson,” she said.

  “True. But Auburn definitely was.”

  They stood outside the train station. Above them was a simple green sign that announced their location. To their left were the tracks; ahead of them was an empty parking lot.

  “How long before he’s here?” asked Rudy. He leaned on a cane, his shoulders stooped with exhaustion. “I’m getting tired. Sort of need a rest.”

  Their bags were at their feet. Norma eyed her husband. He did need to rest. She’d asked so much of him to travel this far, to travel at all, really. But he was healing. That was good. Instead of telling him that, she smirked.

  “Who said it’s a he?” she asked. “Why can’t our conductor be a woman?”

  Rudy didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, it could be,” he said. “I just figured a man would be the only one stupid enough to meet us here in the middle of the night.”