The Belt Loop (Book Three) - End of an Empire

by Robert B. Jones

  He finished his investigation of Berger’s house and found nothing. If there was cash hidden somewhere, he wasn’t able to find it. Maybe it was out it one of the small out buildings. He noticed a rudimentary barn toward the back of the tract and a small shed standing alone beside a growth of wild grass. Tire ruts led to the shed and he interpreted that to mean it housed a tractor or ground-car. He put his top coat on and decided to check out the buildings one at a time. He had no idea how long Berger was going to sleep and he really didn’t care. If she woke up and found him on the prowl outside, what could she do about it? His search of the house had revealed no weapons other than kitchen knives. As far as he knew, his little pistol was the only weapon between them and he had it safely tucked away in the pocket of his great coat.

  That meant part of her story was a lie. No weapons. He rated the possibility of the cash and other things as being just part of her scheme to stay alive. He had to find out for himself.

  He exited through the back door of the farmhouse and stepped from a relatively warm kitchen into the cool gray morning light. His breath condensed in front of him as he walked the twenty meters to the barn. He guessed sunrise to be not quite an hour away and the lights on the corner of the barn struggled to illuminate much beyond the area immediately below the conical shades. He approached the building and decided to do a walk-around first. His training telling him to scout all openings — doors and windows — before entering the unknown edifice. Once inside he might have to make a hasty exit and should the main doorway become blocked, he wanted to have a list of options at this disposal.

  His external examination of the barn revealed just three doors and one window. The ends of the building had double sliding doors and on the south end of the barn one small window was set into the rough planks about 80 centimeters off the ground. It was a double-hung affair with four panes of glass in both the top and bottom frames. He snapped a quick look inside but saw nothing but darkness. The single door was set in the west side of the barn near the corner and was protected by a hasp secured by a cheap padlock.

  Once he returned to the front of the barn he looked around in the saw grass and raked his foot through the trash pile off to his right. Something had been burned here months ago. A 200-liter oil barrel was rusting away in the misty dawn and items of trash were scattered around its base. Had Berger retreated to this hideaway on the way to her first aborted attempt to leave Bayliss? Was the residue in the oil drum remnants of her Admiral’s summer dress whites?

  His foot hit on something metallic in the pile of rubbish. Someone had discarded an old screwdriver. The handle was burned but still serviceable. The blade of the tool was crusted with grime and rust but Teeluur was not able to bend it. Good. It would do.

  He returned to the door at the corner of the barn and used the rusty screwdriver to pry away the hasp and the cheap padlock. The rusty screws gave way with only the slightest bit of pressure. He opened the door and quickly went inside. The barn was dusty and empty. Stalls along both walls had at one time held some kind of domesticated animals but now only contained the residual odors of their waste. Teeluur waited for a minute until his pupils opened enough to make use of the thin light coming from the one window in the back of the barn. Narrow strips of light leaked around the sliding barn doors and the flimsy door he had just come through.

  He walked into the depths of the building slowly. The floor was covered with dirt and dried straw and the crunching sound of his boots on the hard-pack was the only noise in the dark. Three-quarters of the way to the back door he saw something that did not belong on the smooth barren floor. Two rectangular shadows emerged on his right, barely visible in the slanting morning daylight filtering through the dirty double-hung window. He took two steps toward the anomaly and right away he recognized the rectangular shadows as two doors, doors opening to a hole in the floor of the barn. He was about to take his third step toward the trap doors when he heard a rustle behind him.

  The first blow struck him high on the back and knocked him to his knees. Only his outstretched arms prevented his head from crashing down to the dirt. The second blow was centered on his back and sent him down on his belly.

  “I knew it was just a matter of time before you started fucking around in my business,” a sneering Coni Berger said. “You goddamned men think you know everything.”

  Teeluur moaned and rolled onto his side. He caught a glimpse of the steps leading down into the tunnel just as Berger swung again. The blow from the shovel caught him on the side of his head and he went down for good.

  * * *

  Cadet Harold Hansen tried to focus on the lecture but his mind drifted away like a dead leaf on a meandering autumn breeze. Tonight or tomorrow he would see his mother again. It had been almost four months since she dropped him off at the Hayes Military Prep School. Although he didn’t know the exact numbers he guessed that had been three centimeters and two kilos ago. He was just starting his pre-pubescent growth spurt and the extra exercising and training he was getting from Ken Royal was turning his thin layer of baby fat into solid muscle and sinew. Would she even recognize him, he wondered.

  “Isn’t that correct, Mister Hansen,” a voice entered his ears, failing to register on his cerebral cortex.

  Cory Chase extended a foot and nudged Har’s chair. The daydreaming cadet shook his head. “What?” he said.

  Ken Royal looked down at the boy. Har was in his 1000 hours history class and was by all indications sleeping through his stirring lecture about Naval History. “I wanted to know if you agreed with the depiction of the Battle of 1812 between the United States Navy and the British Royal Navy.”

  Oh shit, Har panicked. He had just read this stuff last night after he talked to his mom. Should he try to fake it or just man up and admit he had been daydreaming? “I’m sorry, Mister Royal, I was not paying attention. Could you repeat the question?”

  Royal smiled to himself. The boy was learning to substitute truth for bravado. “I simply wanted to know if any of you agreed that the battles between the USS Constitution and the HMS Guerriere represented an important part of U.S. Naval history, to wit, the turning point in the war.”

  Har thought feverishly and said, “Agreed, Mister Royal. The Constitution, the USS United States and the USS Constellation helped the fledgling U.S. Navy turn the British away at Lake Erie. I think we have a ship named after that lake in the Colonial Navy.”

  “Very good, Mister Hansen. But what was the U.S. Navy unable to do with its three frigates? Anybody?”

  The class consisted of seventeen cadets: eleven male, six female. One of the female cadets held up her hand. She was a petite brunette with sparkling green eyes and a proclivity for wanting to hang out with the male cadets. Her name was Patti Mills and she was one of the top students in Mister Royal’s entry-level history class.

  “Yes, Cadet Mills,” Royal said, pointing in her direction. She was two seats away from Har and his shadow, Cory Chase. “With only three frigates, they couldn’t stop the British from blockading a lot of ports along the coast of the colonies and that allowed for British troops to be off-loaded onto American territory.”

  “Right you are. The value of numbers. The more ships you have, the better off you are in a naval conflict. I think that lesson is being thought about long and hard by the upper-echelon commanders over in the War College as we speak. Relate how the War of 1812 mirrors the current conflict with the Varson Empire. Mister Chase? What can you add?”

  “We need more ships, sir. Plain and simple. The Varson have managed to overrun our defensive blockade around their home planets, and now they have set in motion a campaign to invade, even destroy, some of our colonies. If we had more ships, maybe we could have prevented what they did to Canno. I would say the three original ships the U.S. Navy had are similar to the three Fleets the Colonial Navy has now. It’s just not enough.”

  Royal raised an eyebrow. He was amazed at how these future sailors were already deeply involved with tactics an
d strategies. Some off-shoot from their endless virtual reality sessions at the arcade? “That’s a good comparison, Mister Chase, but let’s see if it holds water. While the British managed to land troops on American soil and take the ground battles to the Continental Army, what lesson was learned by the Continental Navy?”

  Cary rolled his eyes and looked around. Patti Mills had her hand up. He was just about to admit his inability to answer the question when the bell rang.

  “We’ll take this up on Monday morning; do your assigned reading in Chapter Two and be prepared for a quiz on the War of 1812. There is no class tomorrow, by the way. Half of the school will be going to the War College for the promotion ceremonies. Mister Hansen, I need to see you and Mister Chase before you go.”

  The rest of the class filed out of the classroom in an orderly fashion and Har and Cory lingered in the front of the room. “Your permission slips were telefaxed over to Commander Holt this morning. We should be ready to leave the campus no later than 1100 hours tomorrow. The uniform of the day will be service dress and I would also recommend you take a set of NWUs — Navy Work Uniforms — with you for the festivities afterwards. Sometimes the wettings get pretty indiscriminate.”

  “Wettings? What the heck is that?” Cory asked.

  “You don’t have to worry about getting wet, Core. That’s only for those guys getting promoted. It’s an old Navy tradition,” Har told him. Royal was impressed that young Hansen was up to snuff on his reading.

  “Traditionally, the new officers get tossed into the drink; the idea was meant to ‘wet’ down their new hash marks with sea water to give them the look of age. Nowadays, the parties are more refined but the sea water is often dumped on any and all that participate. I think I heard the promotion party was to convene at some bar down in Narid tomorrow night. With the war going on, I don’t know how much fun and frivolity Admiral Geoff is going to allow,” Royal said. “Just to be on the safe side, let’s take a change of clothes.”

  “Sounds like a plan, sir. Where do you want us to meet you?” Har asked.

  “How about in front of the bus depot at 1045 hours”

  The time and place was set. Har and Cory left the room in a hurry so they would be on time for their next class. Ken Royal only had one more afternoon session today and then he would be free until Monday. If he could, he was going to try to hook up with Maxine Hansen sometime this evening. The thought of seeing her again put a broad smile on his serious face.

  Chapter 24

  “I don’t care what your evaluation shows, doctor. There is no force in the universe that will keep me away from that ceremony tomorrow. Since both you and Gertz are invited — ordered — to attend, I don’t see why you can’t just escort me to the War College; bring all of the equipment you might need to keep my ass alive if you think it will be necessary.” Commander Davi Yorn was walking back and forth, waving his arms around, flexing his muscles. Doctor Isaacs had just told him that he was holding up his certification to return to duty for another couple of days. Yorn had passed all of his physical tests the previous day but Isaacs wanted to hold him for observation before releasing him to the rigors of command.

  “Give him a break, doc. It just won’t be the same tomorrow without Commander Yorn. Think about it,” Gertz pleaded. Of course, she had a vested interest in making sure Yorn was available for travel tomorrow. She liked his company and would be available, right at his side, should he need a friendly shoulder to lean on.

  “You two just stop. Is this some kind of pre-planned attack on my judgement? As long as I’m the senior flight-surgeon available to the Admiralty right now, what I said goes. I’m not sure I want to go out on a limb for David and have him suffer a setback.” He turned his gaze from Gertz to the tall, ranting officer and pointed an accusatory finger. “I’ve never seen any one man so hell-bent on getting back to war. You must be harboring some kind of death wish that maybe I should have the psych boys take a look at.”

  “I don’t care who looks at me. I’m just telling you, I’m ready. If you don’t think I can survive a flitter ride up to the War College and a couple of hours of sitting around in the auditorium, then all of your ministrations have been for naught, doctor. Look at me,” he said, twirling his left arm high over his head. “My arm is fine, my wounds have healed. If you don’t certify me, I’ll walk out of here on my own, and you can take it up with Admiral Haad.”

  The mention of Uri Haad’s new title, even though the ceremony was yet to come, was the tipping point in the argument. Isaacs knew in his gut that Haad would insist Yorn be made available for the promotion ceremonies even if he had to fly him up to Narid in a hospital ship. Against his better judgement, the doctor finally acquiesced. “Well, as long as you promise not to over-exert yourself, I guess. . .”

  “I salute with the other arm, you old barge rat,” Yorn said with glee.

  “Come on, Anson, lighten up. I’ll make sure the new captain here is well taken care of,” Milli Gertz said. She beamed a bright smile at Yorn and absent-mindedly reached for his hand. Her gloved hand found his digits and she intertwined their fingers. At first Yorn was surprised by her public display of affection but he squeezed her hand anyway. If it had not been for Milli Gertz he probably would have been facing another month of rehab.

  Issacs waved a dismissive hand and raised both eyebrows. “I’ll make sure I close the door on my way out.”

  Yorn looked down at her face and smiled.

  “Hang a DO NOT DISTURB sign on that handle, too,” she said.

  Isaacs left the room and pulled the door closed behind him hard, fighting the hydraulic pressure of the closing arm.

  Yorn bent slightly at the waist and planted a big kiss squarely on her mouth.

  He was back in action.

  * * *

  The taste of iron in his mouth told Teeluur that his situation was dire. He had no idea how long he had been out and wondered how Coni Berger had managed to get him back into the house. He was trussed up on the floor with nylon ropes around his chest, hands and feet. The inside of his mouth was bleeding.

  He opened his eyes wider, not knowing fully what to expect. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard Berger in conversation with a person or persons unknown. A male human voice. He was just too beat up to try to make a connection right now, the muffled words serving as just background noise. He thought, getting free of this human madwoman was a priority; and now, she had help. Evidently the whole thing was a sham. No stash of cash, no documents to help them get off Bayliss, no big plans to go over to the War College and take a few hostages. That last plan of hers sounded like a good idea at the time, but now he knew she was just buying time, trying anything to keep him from killing her.

  He smelled food. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. Was it at the diner yesterday? When was the last time he had something to drink?

  Teeluur tried his bonds. Tight and secure. His great coat had been taken as well. She must have found the weapon he kept in the pocket. Now it was only a question of how long she intended to keep him alive, and for what purpose? If she wasn’t an outlaw herself, she probably would have turned him over to the military police at her earliest convenience. She could have just as easily shot him between the eyes and left him on the side of the road. Remove him from her escape plans altogether. He was wondering about her motives for keeping him alive when he heard footsteps on the hardwood floor. Heavy footsteps. Not the dainty stride of a fifty-year-old disgraced Navy officer, but the steps of a disciplined military man. Footfalls he had heard all of his life.

  He hung his chin back onto his chest and pretended to be unconscious. With careful use of his highly developed facial muscles, he closed his eyes until just a tiny sliver of vision remained. Using his abducens nerve he carefully slid his gaze hard to the right as far as was physically possible without moving his head. Even after all of the surgeries he’d had to make him human, the Malguur surgeons had left most of his facial nerves intact and now he used them
to his advantage.

  He could just make out a set of highly-polished boots crossing the floor from his right to his left in a practiced one-meter stride. Further confirmation: a military man. The boots stopped slightly to the left of him and pivoted. The leather crackled as the unknown observer shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. Seconds later the light-weight sounds of a second person marching into the room assaulted his ears. This second person had to be Berger.

  “He’s still out,” the male voice said. “He’s drooled blood all over his shirt. You might have hit him too hard that last time.”

  “I should have just killed him then. I can tell by his respiration he’s still alive. I still don’t see what purpose having him alive will serve to help us. I say we should just bury him out in the back fields and be done with him.” That voice definitely belonged to Berger.

  “Until we can figure out a way to leave Bayliss, I don’t think throwing away any of our resources is a good idea. Who knows, maybe we can trade this Varson spy for a way out of this mess.”

  She cackled. “Who the hell would want this piece of shit. Don’t forget, he’s already killed you once.”

  The man walked a few paces closer. Teeluur closed his eyes all the way, a move that could not be detected from above him. “Yeah. I remember. Sending that foolish warrant officer in my place was a stroke of genius on my part. This Varson scum would have actually executed me on the spot.”

  “Genius on your part? What have you been drinking, Fraze? You didn’t have a clue.”

  He paced a few more meters, his leather heels producing sharp cracks like small-arms fire in the enclosed space of the farmhouse. “Whatever. The point is, I’m still alive and now I have to get on with my life. My association with you and your Varson spies has been very lucrative for me. But, really? I still have to find a way off this miserable planet. They’ve got all of the ports secured and unless you know of a pilot willing to run the Colonial Navy gauntlet, I’m stuck here, on the run, just the same as you.”