She said, “Ferd, can you answer yes or no questions about this conspiracy to commit subversion against this government of yours?”
He hesitated for a long moment before saying cautiously, “Yes.”
“They can’t monitor your thoughts as such, eh? Just the words you think and if you get emotionally upset by committing violence.”
He hesitated again.
She said, “There’s more to it then that, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t suppose I’d understand it even if you could explain. Brain surgery isn’t exactly my strong point. Did you belong to an organization in the States?”
Hesitation. Then, “Yes.”
“Whose purpose was to start a new kind of government?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a very large organization?”
“No.”
“Do you think someday it will win out?”
Ferd hesitated still once again before saying, “Yes.” It was an extremely difficult manner in which to learn much about what he believed in. She knew perfectly well that he would have preferred to answer in more detail, to have qualified some of his yes and no answers.
She would have liked to find out just what this organization of Ferd’s foresaw as a more desirable socio-economic system than Meritocracy. But it was too complicated a question under the circumstances.
Something came to her. “Could you write out answers to questions I asked you?”
“No.”
“Hmmm. That’s one hell of a complicated electronic bug they’ve planted in your bonnet, friend.”
“Yes.”
XV
Bat Hardin had been right. New Woodstock was slow to get underway the following morning. It was almost eleven o’clock before they began to roll.
Dean Armanruder was impatient with Bat but yielded to his demand that the mobile town remain in tight convoy again this day.
Bat led the way down the Pan American Highway, about a kilometer in advance of the town proper. Al Castro, driving today rather than his wife Pamela, was in Bat’s usual place immediately ahead of the column. Luke Robertson brought up the rear. They were utilizing the same system as they had the day before. On the town phone system, Bat had once again emphasized the need for no one dropping out.
All went without incident for the first 120 kilometers, then ahead of him Bat spotted an official-looking car, two uniformed men next to it. There was a crossroads, and a barrier blocked the highway they were proceeding along. The sign on the barrier read Desviasion and an arrow pointed to the right.
Bat pulled up and one of the uniformed Mexicans came over and touched the peak of his hat in an informal salute.
Bat Hardin said, “What’s up?” not knowing whether or not the other spoke English.
“Desviacion,” the other told him in passable English.
“What you call a detour, Senor. The road is being worked upon a couple of kilometers ahead.”
The Mexican brought forth a road map from his hip pocket and traced on it with a finger. “It is not much difference in distance. You go over here toward Dolores Hidalgo and then turn south to San Miguel de Allende. Then you come out at Queretaro, here.” He shrugged. “Actually, Senor, it is a much more beautiful drive than this one, although, admittedly, the road is not so good.”
Bat shrugged too. “Okay.” he said. “A detour’s a detour and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
The other turned and went back to his own car.
The mobile art colony was beginning to catch up with him. He raised Al Castro on his phone and said, “There’s a slight detour. We turn right.”
“Okay as she goes,” Al yawned. “Sure is hotter than hell today. I hate heat.” Al also hated cold, when it was cold and rain when it rained, as Bat Hardin recalled.
Bat flicked him off and proceeded.
He dialed the local road map and checked out the route of the detour. As the Mexican had said, it didn’t lengthen their trip by very much. The road, as the other had told him, wasn’t nearly as fine as the Pan American Highway, but it was adequate. There seemed to be no traffic whatsoever, which mildly surprised him. But then, of course, there weren’t nearly the number of vehicles in Mexico as there were in the States and this was a by-way.
Before reaching the historic Dolores Hidalgo which, Bat vaguely recalled, was the town where the Mexican revolution against Spain in the early 19th century had begun, the road turned south. Before him he could see lountains rising but in this vicinity, although there were some hills and rises, largely the terrain was flat and covered with cactus and mesquite. Attractive enough, in sort of a wasteland way, but not exactly an area where one would build a home.
Suddenly his screen flicked on and Luke Robertson’s face was there, his eyes were wide and wild. Bat!” he yelped. “I’m under fire and…”
The screen blanked and Luke’s face was replaced with an abstract of meaningless flashing colors.
A barrage of screaming bullets ricocheted off the armor of Bat Hardin’s converted police car. Across the fields, he could see large scurrying groups of men, rifles in hands, running and firing, converging on New Woodstock.
“Holy smokes,” he blurted.
He banged the activating switch of his car TV phone and snapped into the screen, “Mexican Highway Police. Mexican Highway Police. Emergency. Emergency!”
The screen still ran impossible colors.
He slewed the car to the left, presenting the far side to the fire from the attackers. He grabbed his portable phone from his pocket, activated it and yelled, “Mexican Highway Police! Emergency. Emergency!”
But that screen too was a meaningless melange of streaks of moving color. Bat banged out the side of his car and crouching, darted back to Al Castro’s vehicle, now immediately behind him. Al was driving, Pamela seated next to him, her pudding face a lard gray and her eyes in shock. Al was firing over her through her window with his Gyro-jet pistol, his face wild with excitement.
Bat shouted, “Al! Your car phone! Does it work?”
The magazine of his deputy’s gun was evidently now empty. Al slammed the phone on. The color was there again, otherwise nothing at all.
Bat groaned, “They’ve got some sort of a scrambler on us. Al, out over the fields! Lead the town into a complete circle. Bumper to bumper. Take off.”
“Got it,” Al Castro yelped, starting up his electro-steamer again.
Bat hustled back to his own vehicle and fetched his carbine.
Al Castro took out over the cactus-strewn fields, bumping and bouncing, his mobile home careening every which way behind him.
Jake Benton, his eyes bugging, was immediately behind Al. Bat Hardin yelled to him from the shelter of the rear of his police car.
“Follow Castro! Form a circle! Form a circle! Then get out and return the fire!”
Benton’s mobile home, careening as wildly as Al Castro’s before him, took out over the desolate field.
Sam Prager’s vehicles were next. Bat yelled, “Auxiliaries to the middle! Form a second circle. Hospital and school in the center!”
Sam nodded, gripped his wheel fiercely and was out after the others. Bat glared right and left. The attackers were largely on the minor hills and knolls and too far off for really accurate fire, although they were closing in fast. However, occasional slugs were still bouncing off the other side of his car. He winced to realize that none of the other vehicles in the town had any pretensions of being bulletproof.
The foe seemed to be in all directions and from Luke’s warning, before the phones had gone out, were in the rear of the convoy as well. Perhaps Bat had made a mistake; perhaps he should have tried to bust on through. But no. Sure as green apples, they had some sort of roadblock up ahead.
He brought his carbine to his shoulder and snapped off a shot at one of the foremost of the attackers and had the satisfaction of seeing the man drop his gun and go flat forward on his face. It was the first man Bat had fired at since the war years
.
“That’ll make ’em a little less ardent,” he muttered.
He continued to yell directions as the homes went by. Out in the field, Al Castro, avoiding mesquite trees but plowing right over all but the largest cactus plants, was making his circle.
Bat fished inside the car and located a fresh clip for his Gyro-jet carbine. He fired and fired again, in between directions for the arriving electro-steamers and mobile homes.
When the hospital, one section of which was being driven by Doc Barnes himself, came up, Bat yelled, “The hospital and school to the very center. Women and kids into them! They’ve got the thickest walls, for soundproofing. Older women and kids into school and hospital!”
Doc Barnes nodded grim acceptance of that and took off after the others, his section of the hospital bobbing desperately behind.
Al Castro’s car and drawn home were beginning to come up from the rear on the tail end of the last of the New Woodstock column, but even after the circle had been drawn, with Luke Robertson’s vehicles at the very end, Al continued to circle, slowing down, getting as near bumper-to-bumper as possible. He was obviously trying to tighten to the point where it would be difficult for the attackers to get through the spaces between vehicles.
Bat Hardin snapped off two or three more rounds, then jumped back into his car and took off after them. Luke Robertson slewed to one side, to let him through. Bat drove to the center and popped out. All the auxiliaries had been drawn, as directed, in a smaller circle; within were hospital and school which a dozen men were setting up as rapidly as possible in the mounting confusion.
Bat yelled at the top of his voice, the voice he had used in combat for those too many years in the Asian war, “All with guns take positions behind your homes. All without, get shovels. Dig foxholes; throw up dirt. All with more than one gun, turn them over to your neighbors without. All women with children, into hospital or school. Lie down on the floors. All women under forty, without children, get guns or shovels. If you have no shovels, frying pans. Dig in! This is the most important thing now, dig in!”
Children were screaming, women calling and crying. Half of the town was running about in a hash of confusion. There were a score of cases of hysteria. Doc Barnes, already in efficient action, was running around giving hypos to these.
Jeff Smith came up with what was evidently a high velocity varmint rifle with a telescopic sight under his arm. He was at least calmly collected.
He looked around at the preparations Bat had ordered and which were now fully underway and said, “I understand you were in the Asian war. What was your rank?”
Bat took him in. He said, wearily, “First lieutenant, when it ended. I was in for several years.”
Jeff Smith cocked his head a little. “You don’t look like the type that’s been through OTS.”
Bat said impatiently, “I was battle-commissioned during the Delta debacle.”
Smith nodded. “I was at the Delta. 8th Airborne. Staff Sergeant. What are your orders… sir?”
Bat took a deep breath. “Move around the circle, locating any other veterans we have. Spot them strategically. Be sure they all have the best weapons we have, even if you have to confiscate them from the others… Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” Jeff Smith turned and crouched, the crouch of the combat soldier in action, and hurried in the direction of the perimeter.
Luke Robertson and Al Castro came up at a trot.
“Wow!” Al shouted, over the blast of the shotguns, the snip of twenty-twos and other small-caliber gunfire, the snap of sporting and converted surplus military rifles.
Bat rapped, “Al, get around the circle. Cut down on this goddamned fire. We’ll be out of ammo in half an hour. Cut the fire down to men with longer-range rifles and our best shots. Cut those goddamned shotguns out. They can’t reach a fraction of the range these guys are at. The same with those damned twenty-twos. They can’t dent a man unless you can get him in the head. Hold ’em down till they’re close enough to hit ’em in the head.”
“Right, Bat.” Al scooted away. He too crouched the way Jeff Smith had crouched when he ran, almost double. Bat grunted inwardly. He hadn’t known it. Evidently, Al Castro had seen a bit of combat himself in his time.
There was a whoosh of sound and beyond them a mesquite tree erupted in flame and explosion.
Bat closed his eyes in pain. “Holy smokes,” he protested. “A bazooka.”
Luke said, pointing excitedly, “It came from over there on that knoll, Bat.”
Bat Hardin began gnawing his lip in agitation. “That’s an old model, probably far back as the Second War. God only knows where they got it. But it’s out of range. Listen, Luke, go around and locate our best riflemen. They’ll know who they are. Get our best long-range rifles into their hands, those with telescopic sights. The hunting buffs have some of them. Pin that bazooka down. If they get within range, we’re mincemeat.”
Luke was off, scurrying low as he left the semi-security of the inner circle of auxiliary vehicles.
Bat Hardin cast his eyes around the complete circle of the horizon. They’d been jumped in an isolated spot indeed. Now he realized that the detour had been a plant. Don Caesar’s men had directed them out here. He also realized why they hadn’t been seeing other vehicles along this by-way. Somehow, the enemy had blocked it off. In all directions now they were surrounded. Single men and small groups were edging closer, darting in, scurrying around for cover. Closing in, closing in. But the fire had fallen off. Evidently, the anti-American vigilantes hadn’t expected this efficient a defense.
Bat had been busy, hadn’t been able to follow the combat incident by incident. He suspected that the Mexicans had taken a few casualties at the hands of the better shots, the war veterans and the amateur hunters among the art colony residents.
His lips thinned back. “Come in and get us, you bastards,” he muttered.
Two men went by with an improvised stretcher. Doc Barnes came hurrying out of the hospital and bent over the victim.
Bat called, “Is he hit bad?”
Barnes looked up. “It’s Thompson. He’s dead.”
Bat winced. Fred Thompson had the biggest family in New Woodstock. Five children.
Bat said to the stretcher bearers, “Bury him immediately. We don’t want any of our dead lying around where they can be seen. Bad for the morale.”
Little Chuck Benton came up excitedly. “Mr. Hardin, what should I do?”
Bat looked at him. The boy was eleven or twelve. He began to order him to the shelter of the school, then pulled up. He said, “Get a bucket of water and a dipper or cup, son. Go around to the men. Combat is dry work.”
“Yes, sir.” The youngster scurried off.
Bat looked after him. “Gunga Din,” he muttered meaninglessly.
Crouching low, as Smith, Castro and Robertson before him, he left the shelter of the auxiliaries and scurried for the perimeter of mobile homes, his carbine in hand. He began touring it, barking orders for more rapid digging of foxholes.
Art Clarke came hurrying up to him, a more than usually large gun in hand. Bat Hardin recognized it. He snapped, “Isn’t that a Chinese Am-8? Where in the hell did you get it?”
Even in this excitement, Clarke seemed slightly embarrassed. He said, “War souvenir.”
“Fully automatic? How many clips do you have for it?”
“Yeah. It’s the Canton model. Two clips.”
“How much spare ammo?”
“I’ve got possibly two hundred rounds.”
Bat looked quickly around, spotted the man he could use and yelled, “Milt Waterman! Over here.”
The tall, gangling young fellow who usually drove the administration building when New Woodstock was rolling, came hustling up.
Bat rapped, “You two, get into that hole over there. Get that automatic rifle set up. Milt, you keep the spare clip loaded. Art, you let loose a burst of fire from time to time. A longer burst than you’d expect from a gun that light. I
want to make it look as though we’ve got a machine gun. Wait a minute. After you’ve let loose a couple of bursts from this side, go to the direct opposite and do the same. Make it look as though we’ve got two machine guns. Keep moving back and forth. But go easy. Stretch out that ammo as much as you can. Don’t fire unless you’ve got a fairly good chance of winging your man.”
“Got it,” Art Clarke said and took off to follow orders.
Bat went on.
Diana Sward was sitting on the ground at the rear of her mobile studio. She had a sporting rifle in her hands and her elbows were on her knees as she periodically and with great coolness squeezed off a shot.
“Watch the ammunition,” Bat told her, beginning to go by.
She grinned up at him, her eyes shining. “I think I nicked at least one. You know what this reminds me of? A wagon train, surrounded by Sitting Bull’s braves.”
“It is,” he said grimly and hurried on. He heard a bee buzz past his head. That had been a close one.
He came to Dean Armanruder’s mobile mansion. Armanruder, his back tight against the side of one of the sections, his face pasty, screamed at him.
“Do something!”
Bat looked at him quizzically. “What? We’re doing all we can. They’ve got a scrambler out there somewhere. We can’t call for help.”
“Surrender! Tell them we’ll do anything! We’ve got money. Anything they want!” The older man was panting, the stink of fear on him. “Tell them we’ll do anything they say.”
Bat Hardin shook his head as though in an attempt to clear it. Two more of the men without guns went by, carrying one of the hospital stretchers, an inert form on it.
Jeff Smith was approaching from the opposite direction to the one in which Bat had been circling the perimeter.
Bat said, “Sergeant, you and Al Castro. Improvise a white flag.” He added sardonically, “My compliments to Don Caesar and ask him for his terms.”
“Yes, sir.” Crouching, Jeff Smith headed for the inner circle of auxiliaries.
Bat moved on. He passed Ferd Zogbaum who was digging coolly and efficiently a small trench. He had an army surplus entrenching tool. There were quite a few of the efficient compact tools in town, Bat knew.
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