by Bob Mauldin
After repeated explosions from outside the craft, he noticed that the heavy weapons’ fire was diminishing. The Mambas are probably taking out the gun emplacements, he thought. He also knew that it would be a matter of moments before the Mambas turned their attention to the shuttle to keep it from being hijacked. As the thickening smoke drifted across the helipad and compound, he picked up the soldier’s rifle, shoved the pistol in his belt, and stepped out of the hatchway.
Three quick strides took him to the ramp, and he raced down it, stopping beside Simon’s body. Kneeling, he checked the neck for a pulse as he scanned the compound, looking for any indication that he’d been discovered. The drifting clouds of smoke reassured him that he was still relatively safe from both parties. Finding a pulse, he shouldered the rifle, lifted the limp body in a fireman’s carry, and staggered off into a pall of smoke. Glancing up, he saw the shapes of the Mambas, slicing through the smoke like vengeful sharks through a murky sea.
As he tottered away, he glanced back and saw a Mamba come to a stop just feet off the ground. Kitty’s voice come from inside the shuttle, and he realized it must be some sort of relay.
“Attention Earth forces inside the shuttle. This is Wing Commander Hawke of the TAS Galileo. You have two choices: surrender or die. That shuttle only leaves the ground with TAS personnel at the helm.”
Hearing her threats to destroy the shuttle made Roland redouble his efforts. Having spent the better part of a year aboard the Galileo while being exposed to all the talk about antimatter and exactly what it could do added impetus to his headlong flight. He stopped behind a gardener’s shack only long enough to secure his hold on Simon.
When he almost ran headlong into a fence on the backside of the compound, he figured he’d only traveled some two hundred yards. With his free hand he pulled the laser from his belt, used it to burn a hole through the fence, and continued on at a shambling run. He began cursing every one of his sixty-one years with each step, and finally, when his legs and back were on fire and he could move no farther, he wormed his way into a tangled thicket among some trees and dropped his load.
Simon was in miraculously good condition... for a man who’d been hit by four bullets. One had entered the upper left thigh and Roland could find no exit wound. Another had gone in and out the left shoulder and seemed to have missed the artery there. One had creased the scalp for about four inches above the left ear and was probably the cause of his unconsciousness. And the last one seemed to have hit the wristband on his left wrist. “Seemed” was the only word for it. Simon’s wrist was discolored, swollen, and flopping loosely, and his wristband was hanging by a thread.
Roland held the wrist down and pulled the remains of the wristband off, placing it in a pocket. Slipping the dead soldier’s shirt off, he began to rip it into strips. He wrapped Simon’s wrist, then did what he could to stop the blood flow from the other two major wounds.
Taking stock of assets and liabilities was part of Roland’s training. First, he considered the clothes on his back. He pulled the patches and rank insignia off both himself and Simon and put them in the same pocket with the wristband. Next was his wallet, which contained sixty-five dollars he hadn’t expected to need, a Visa card that was surely invalid since he hadn’t made a payment in almost a year, his identification, and a driver’s license. Then there was a taser of “alien” manufacture, a laser of equally unlikely origin, a military rifle with eighteen rounds, and an unconscious man in shock and oozing blood. Best of all, he’d managed to bring along seven medium-sized diamonds “scavenged” from a collection tray in the factory section of the Galileo during one of his interviews. No one had seen him scoop them from the collection tray, and he’d figured they’d go a long way towards proving to his bosses just how lucrative a venture space could be. Added to all that was his being in a strange state, knowing almost nobody, and the fact that the unconscious man was the leader of the “opposition.”
When you get into deep shit, Daniels, you do it in a big way! he told himself.
During his brief rest, the sounds of traffic finally penetrated his mind, and Roland loaded a still-unconscious Simon up, moving toward those sounds. What he found was a paved two-lane road bordered on both sides by trees and scrub. Sitting along the road, he waited for just the right vehicle. Roland Daniels, FBI, had just become a terrorist on the run.
Here I am rescuing people whose way of life is detrimental to all I’ve believed in all my life, and now I’m planning to shoot out a tire so some poor schmuck will have to change it so I can sneak into the nation’s capital and hide the very person I rescued. And to top it off, I can’t go to any government source!
After shooting out a tire with the laser, Roland got Simon up into the backend of a disreputable stake-bed truck loaded with questionable-looking barrels of something-or-other. Roland had noticed the transport logo on the truck’s door and figured it would be headed into the city’s commercial district since it was headed in the direction of DC. Already, a plan was forming in his mind, one that dealt with a lot of ifs. But with luck, he could pull it off.
He’d looked at things as more of a game than anything else when he climbed into that storage locker on the Galileo, and luck had been riding with him from the first. Now, though, he was going to have to depend on luck, and that could be very disconcerting.
Simon had been drifting in and out of consciousness over the past several hours as they made their way into the commercial district. Roland had been able to stop the bleeding using parts of the dead soldier’s shirt as a compress, but the stains on his shoulder and thigh were a dead giveaway. The only thing that helped at the moment was the black material of the uniform Simon wore.
The driver pulled his rig into a nondescript cartage company’s holding yard and went to report to the freight master. Roland chivied Simon to the edge of the truck’s bed, jumped out, and helped him down. Using one arm to hold Simon up without appearing to do anything except keep him on a straight path, and with the other hand holding a paper bag filled with rubbish from the truck’s bed to simulate a bottle, Roland and Simon staggered out of the yard without being spotted and down the street to an alley Roland had noticed on the way in.
Taking the calculated risk of leaving Simon in the alley, Roland walked back to the cartage company and asked to borrow a phone book. Checking first for a local Goodwill store, he then called a taxi and squandered some of his precious cash. He had the cabby drop him off two blocks past the store, paid him off and watched him turn the next corner.
Buying two sets of clothes that would make them look more rural than anything else, he used the store’s phone to call another cab. Using the same deception, he let this driver drop him several blocks from his destination and walked to a convenience store. There, he bought bottled water for the resealable containers and several sandwiches, and headed back for the alley.
He was relieved to find Simon’s condition unchanged and managed with some success to get him to drink some of the water. With the remainder of the soldier’s shirt, he tried to get most of the blood wiped off Simon’s face and neck. He then proceeded to strip the blood-soaked shirt off and replace it with one of the shirts from the Goodwill store. The water seemed to restore some of Simon’s energy, and he seemed to rest easier, although he didn’t regain full consciousness.
Roland waited impatiently for dark and then walked back to the cartage company. Finding it dark, as he’d hoped, he used the laser to cut a link in the chain locking the gate and slipped inside. Through the darkened glass of the door, he could barely make out the alarm sensor and, setting the laser at a lower intensity, he managed to fuse it so it wouldn’t go off. He’d seen the key box when he made his earlier visit, so he had no trouble finding the key he wanted—the one to the truck that had brought them there. Praying that it wasn’t sitting on empty, he climbed in and checked the gauge. He found it to be half full, and sighing with relief, he started the engine.
Opening the gate,
moving the truck through, and closing it again took all of three minutes, including welding the link back in place. Moving out of the area without arousing suspicion was of prime importance, so he kept everything as legal as possible.
Except for breaking and entering, grand theft auto, harboring a fugitive, breaking my oath to the United States, and who knows how many other charges that could be filed against me, he thought.
With some difficulty, he got Simon into the cab of the truck. He then went back to pick up the water bottles and food and changed clothes. That hurdle passed, Roland headed for his next one—getting clandestine medical help for a wounded man. He drove the truck back to the area of the Goodwill store. In this district, a person could find liquor stores, crack houses, whorehouses, and rescue missions, all within easy reach of the capitol building, Roland realized with a shake of his head.
He pulled the truck into an alley behind a rescue mission where he laid Simon down on the seat, locked the doors, and went inside. Realizing his appearance was a cut above what passed for normal for this place, even though he’d “dressed down,” he walked up to a middle-aged man who was industriously pushing a broom across the floor.
Obviously down on his luck, and equally obviously bound and determined to pay his way with the only coin he had, he asked, “Who’s in charge around here, bud?”
“That’d be Father Timothy,” the man said. Pointing with his chin, he added, “You can find his office down that hall.”
The man turned away without another word and went back to his sweeping, leaving Roland standing there. He watched the man sweep for a few more seconds, then went in the indicated direction. At the third door on the right he saw a cardboard nameplate held up with masking tape that said simply, “Father Jeffers.”
Knocking on the door brought a muffled, “Come in,” and he opened the door.
Father Timothy was not what he’d expected. In his forties, black, balding, and heavy-set, he didn’t sit in his chair as much as inhabit it. Nor was he dressed as one would traditionally expect a priest to be. He had on a grey sweatshirt that showed a frayed cuff as he moved a piece of correspondence from one stack to another.
“Can I help you?” he asked, moving an appraising eye up and down Roland’s body.
Roland hesitantly asked, “Father Timothy?”
The man behind the desk said, “I have either that honor or cross to bear, depending on whether you bring me good news or trouble, my son. How may I be of service?”
Roland looked back out the door, stepped inside, and pushed it shut. “Father, I’m afraid it may be a cross for you to bear as what I have is nothing but trouble.”
“Sit down, my son, and tell me what the problem is. I’ll be the judge of whether it’s trouble or not.”
“Well, now I’m beginning to wonder if it was such a good idea for me to come here at all, Father,” Roland said. “I have an injured friend, and at this particular point in time I can’t take him to a hospital.”
Father Timothy said, “When you have trouble with the law, my hands are pretty well tied, my son.”
“Well, there’s different kinds of trouble. Sometimes it not so much with the law as it is with the people who make the laws.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
Roland reached into his hip pocket, pulled out his wallet, and let the priest see his badge and ID card. “Father, I’m under cover, and my partner has been shot. I can’t afford losing a year’s worth of investigation by going to a hospital. They’ll ask questions I’m not prepared to answer at this time. I need a doctor to patch up some holes so I can move him to a safehouse. Father, I really hate to put you on the spot, but it amounts to this: we go to a hospital, my partner dies. There are... others out there who would kill us both before we could walk back out the doors. And if we don’t get him some medical attention soon, he dies anyway. His, and my, only chance is to find, shall we say, alternative medical help. I was really hoping you might know someone I could deal with quietly.”
“How badly off is your partner? I can’t say what I can do until I know that much, at least,” the father said.
“He has a bullet in his thigh, a hole through his shoulder, a broken wrist, and most likely a concussion from a bullet graze.”
The Father thought for a moment or two, then sighed. “There’s a man I can call. He’s a doctor, but he won’t be able to show you a license. Helps me out with some of the addicts and usually I can get him to work for free, but for this he’s going to want to be paid.”
“Father, I’ll pay you, and you can pay him. That way, you’ll be able to keep the largest portion of this.” Roland reached into his pocket, felt among the stones there, and pulled out what felt like the largest, about the size of a pea. “This is an uncut diamond. There’s no blood associated with it, and if you want to get right down to it, I’m the one who found it.” He thought back to scooping them out of the retrieval tray along with the other six in his pocket. Never would he have guessed at the time what use he’d be putting them to.
“Now, you wouldn’t be lying to a priest, my son?” Father Timothy asked.
“Father, I wasn’t raised Catholic, but what religious upbringing I have won’t let me lie to a priest. I’m with the FBI, we’ll get killed if we go to a hospital, I found that diamond, and our situation is desperate and urgent.”
Father Timothy said, “Without indications to the contrary, I’ll have to take you at your word, and I can call the doctor right now. I need to know your partner’s condition one more time so he’ll know what to bring.”
Roland repeated, “A bullet lodged in his upper left thigh, a broken left wrist, a through-and-through in the left shoulder and a bullet graze over his left ear. I don’t know his blood type.”
Having reached a decision, the priest came alive and took charge of the situation. “So where is your partner?” he asked in a brisk and business-like manner.
“In the alley behind this building,” was the instant response “And it would be best for all concerned if as few people as possible know we’re here.”
“Then I suggest we go get him ourselves,” the father said. “We can leave him in the care of Sister Celestine until the doctor arrives.” Picking up the phone, he called a number from memory and spoke persuasively for about two minutes. Then, to Roland, he said, “Let’s be about it. As the Bard would say, ‘Twere best were done quickly.’”
The two men stepped out into the alley and Roland unlocked the truck. Grabbing Simon’s feet, they slid him out, caught a shoulder apiece and hurried him into the mission.
As he was being laid down on an examining table in the mission’s infirmary, Simon’s eyes shot open. Seeing the priest, he exclaimed, “Who the hell are you?”
Roland spoke quietly. “You’re in good hands, Simon. You got shot, remember? You’re safe now. Just rest. The doctor is on his way. This is Father Jeffers,” he said, a placating tone in his voice.
Simon turned his head and focused on Roland with difficulty. “You’re... Daniels.”
“That’s right. I’m Daniels, your partner. Go to sleep now. The doctor will be here shortly.”
Simon slumped in the priest’s arms, and Roland helped get him onto the table. Father Jeffers called a nun into the room.
“I need you to sit with him, Sister. Do what you can for him until the doctor arrives.”
The sister, dressed as unconventionally as the priest, complied silently. She went first to the sink, got a wet towel, and began to wash Simon’s face.
“We’ll leave your partner in Sister Celestine’s capable hands for now. Let’s go back to my office for the time being.”
The priest sat down and dialed a number again. “I need you here an hour ago. The patient has a high fever and probably a massive infection, so antibiotics, an intravenous saline drip, and a plasma bag would be in order. We’ll discuss your compensation later.” He listened for a few seconds and then said, “Don’t f
orget you’re speaking to a man of the cloth. You’ll not be cheated, and you know it.”
Hanging up the phone, Father Timothy rummaged through a desk drawer and came up with a business card. He dialed the number and leaned back in the chair. As he waited for the connection, he told Roland, “We can expect the doctor within the half hour.” Turning his attention back to the phone, the father said, “Michael, I know it’s late, but I have a small item for you to look at. If you’d be kind enough to bring your experience and a jeweler’s loupe around to the mission, I’ll say a prayer for you at Sunday Mass.” At Roland’s raised eyebrows, Father Timothy hung up the phone and said, “Some of the people who come through here don’t live their lives on the streets, but they do occasionally find themselves in untenable circumstances. The church is there to give a hand up where it can, Michael needed to be put back on the straight and narrow, as it were.” He gave a small chuckle. “His marriage broke up and his wife took the kids. He thought the world had ended, but I showed him it hadn’t. And now, he helps me out from time to time.”
“I assume then that Michael is a jeweler,” Roland said in a conversational tone.
The father smiled. “In a manner of speaking. A lot of people who come through here have items of... questionable history. And Michael is adept at dealing with that type of material.”
“In other words, he’s a fence.”
“Michael,” the priest said, “is a pawnbroker with his own unique interpretation of the rules of ownership. He makes money on the deal, money comes into the mission, people stay fed and clothed. As you can tell, I, myself, have my own interpretation of right and wrong. And as long as nobody’s getting hurt, I’m willing to overlook some of the niceties. Now, I am bound to tell you that you won’t realize as much from this,” he pushed the small gem around on the desktop, “as you would if you went to a reputable jeweler.”
Roland hastily said, “I’m not looking to realize anything out of this. That’s yours.”
