by Jack Yeovil
“I beg your pardon?”
“… that has such people in it!”
II
Brevet Major General Marshall K. Younger examined his reflection in the glass that covered the life-size portrait of Charlton Heston which had pride of place in his office. He tried to match his head and shoulders to the Ex-President’s, and fell only a little short. You could do a lot with your body if you exercised regularly and took the Zarathustra treatment, but, unless you wanted to become a complete cyborg, you were stuck with the bones you were born with. Younger wasn’t ready for that yet. He thumped the sides of his stomach with both hands, relishing the way his tight fists bounced off leather-supple gut muscles. Younger stuck a foot-long Cuban cigar in his face, bit off and spat away the wet end, flipped his zippo and touched flame to the tip. He sucked thick smoke into his GenTech remodelled lungs.
“Ain’t no way you’re gonna give me cancer, you long brown bastard,” he said to his cigar, puffing deeply, “so you can just give up trying to mug my alveoli.”
It had been a simple treatment, and was available at a massive discount to serving officers in the Road Cav. The corp wanted the interstates open, and didn’t mind throwing a few favours around to keep in with the law enforcement community. And as a brevet ranking, Younger was grateful for the perks of the trade.
Younger snapped off a perfect salute at Heston. Big Chuck had been the man who authorized the revival of the United States Cavalry. Before that, keeping the peace on the roads had been down to the Highway Patrol, and the interstates had been warzones. Now, Out West at least, you could guarantee your wrappers would get through. Big Chuck had done a hell of a lot for the country. His Moral Re-Armament Drive, and his Youth Pioneer Scheme had given the country some backbone again. And, of course, him and Senator Enderby had pushed through the Enderby Act and opened up the field of law enforcement to private individuals and organizations. The Cav wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Enderby and Big Chuck.
Too bad about Senator Enderby. Younger had never believed anything those three Filippino houseboys had said on teevee during the MRA hearings, and he knew for a fact that the alleged monies paid by the Hammond Maninski and T-H-R Agencies to the Senator had been in the nature of remuneration for his work as a consultant with regards to the niceties of the law he had designed. But Big Chuck had let Enderby go to the wall. Younger bet the President had cried about it, but you had to put personal relationships beneath duty, service, your country and what was right. That was the only way to be.
There was a framed photograph of President North around somewhere, but Younger couldn’t bear to put it where it showed. After Big Chuck, Solly Ollie was such a come-down. Heck, who needed a Prezz who couldn’t cut it in the Marines and had to fall back on politics to carve himself a career?
Younger had been using his few minutes’ peace and quiet to indulge himself. He had unlocked the cabinet in which he kept his leather-bound books. This was his private library, his one indulgence. On the spines, they all had titles like Statutes and Proceedings of the State of Arizona, 1989–1994 and Complete United States Cavalry Regulations, Vol. VI, but inside they were his kind of books. Every once in a while, he would haul one down and pick a page at random, then indulge in his most extravagant fantasies, assembling in his mind the makings of an orgiastic wallow in excess and voluptuousness.
Today, he had turned up one of his favourite peccadilloes. Potato dishes.
He ran through the variations. Creamed potatoes with soured cream and chives. Creamed potatoes with nutmeg. Stuffed jacket potatoes with garlic and herbs. Pommes de terre boulangere. Gratin dauphinois Saute potatoes Lyonnaise. Saute potatoes Nicoise. New Jersey potatoes with fresh herb butter. Buffalo fries with rocksalt and guacamole.
He ran his fingers over the glossy illustrations. He checked off the ingredients against his mental inventory. His kitchen was reasonably well stocked for this ass-end-of-nowhere posting, but there were so many things he had not been able to get shipped out, even with his pull in the service. His mouth was full of saliva and smoke. He swallowed them both, and slipped the cookbook back into its space, locking the case.
He saluted Big Chuck again. The Ex-President would understand Younger’s needs.
He checked his quartz digital pocket watch against the antique long-case clock from the original fort. It was time to make the rounds, time to prod the people who needed prodding and give a nod of approval to the personnel who didn’t.
Outside his office, he accepted the salutes of several passing junior officers. Colonel Rintoon, his second-in-command, was waiting for him, clipboard tucked under his arm.
“Good morning, sir,” he snapped.
“Morning, Vladek. Any surprises overnight?”
“Overdue patrol, sir.”
“Hmmn. How long?”
“The full twelve hours. No radio contact. No distress blip. Tyree, Stack, and a T-H-R Op, Kling.”
“Well, we can’t lose one of our associates like that. Get a fix on their current position, and try to re-establish lines of communication. Anything else?”
Vladek looked at his clipboard. “Weekly convoy just in. Badalamenti reports sixteen pick-ups on the road. Maniax mostly, but we’ve got a stray Virus Vigilante, and a Psychopomp.”
“The ’pomps are supposed to be history since that business at Spanish Fork.”
“There are one or two left. Always are.”
“It’s not Jessamyn Bonney, by any chance?”
“No sir, I would have said. It’s some low-rent ratskag. She barely shows up on the seedings.”
“You’ve checked warrants on the intake. Anything outstanding?”
“The usual. Multiple homicide, driving without due c and a, line-running, highway piracy.”
“Process ’em, and ship ’em out, then.”
“Already taken care of.”
“Good work.”
Younger and Rintoon strolled through the fort, crossing the courtyard from the admin block to the Ops Centre. The space was enclosed, but three storeys tall. Cruisers and cykes were being stripped and serviced in the motor pool. Sergeant Quincannon was squarebashing some new recruits on the parade ground. Everybody who had a job was doing it, which was the way it should be.
In the centre of the courtyard was an imposing statue, symbolizing the heritage of the service. General Custer, Teddy Roosevelt and Trickydick Nixon, shoulder to shoulder, six-guns waving, with Dwight D. Eisenhower holding up the star-spangled banner behind the grouping. Some drunken Trooper had shot Nixon in the face. The culprit was still in the guardhouse, but Younger couldn’t say he was entirely upset about the vandalism. The Ex-President looked a sight better without his skislope nose, and Younger had never been convinced that he would have known what to do with the Buntline specials the sculptor had given him.
“What about our guest, sir?”
“The Italian woman?”
“Swiss, sir. She works out of Rome, but she’s a Swiss national.”
“Whatever. She’s getting the tour?”
“Lauderdale’s looking after her.”
“Good man.”
Sergeant Quincannon saluted as Younger and Rintoon walked by, and his troop raggedly followed suit. Younger bothered to return the Quince’s gesture. The red-faced Irishman was just the kind of soldier he wanted in his command. He was three times the man drunk that most of the rest were sober. Which was a useful trait to have, since he was a frequent imbiber of Shochaiku Double-Blend.
“What do we do with her later? When she’s seen everything?”
“Full co-operation, all down the line. That’s come through channels, so don’t get in her way. I understand it’s international, so don’t embarrass the government.”
“You mean we should…”
“Snap to and shape up, Vladek, snap to and shape up. She’s a fully-trained Op, probably has more kills than Redd Harvest to her credit. Go along with her as far as you can. Just don’t get us into trouble, okay?”
> “Okay and affirmative.”
“Good man.”
The doors of the Ops Centre slid open, and the officers stepped in. The Trooper on the desk gave them retinal and palmprint checks, established that they were the people whose faces they were wearing and logged them in.
“By the way, extend my invitation to Ms Juillerat for dinner this evening. Also you and Hendry Faulcon, Captains Lauderdale and Finney, Doc King and Lieutenant Colosanto. That’s boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl. I’ll cook. Ossobuco. That’s shin of veal in white wine with tomatoes, garlic, lemon, parsley and fresh-milled black pepper.”
“I’ll take care of that sir.”
“Make her feel at home. Italian food. Of course, if she’s Swiss, maybe I should switch to fondue bourgignon.”
“That’s your decision, Colonel.”
They entered the despatch room. Personnel were at their consoles, tracking and logging. A map of the territory took up one wall. Dozens of lights moved on the map.
“Now,” said Younger, “about that overdue patrol?”
III
They were back inside Fort Apache, and Lauderdale was explaining the day-to-day duties of the Road Cavalry to her. “We patrol the interstates regularly, keep in touch with the outlying settlements. There are still some sandside communities out there. And there are motorwagon trains to escort, and convoys to keep track of. And, of course, there are the gangcults. Mainly, we just try and find out where they are these days. The wars are over. We don’t seek to engage the enemy unless we have to. The recent joint action against the Maniax is fairly atypical. Some of the private agencies like to strut their stuff from time to time. It makes their customers think they’re getting service.”
They were in the motor pool, where the vehicles from the convoy were being worked over by oily mechanics. Lauderdale called over Trooper Grundy, an auto ostler, to show off some of the special features of the US Cav cruiser. Chantal listened politely, but didn’t find out anything she hadn’t learned from her researchwork.
“That’s a nice machine you came in with, ms,” said the ostler. “A Ferrari?”
“Yes. It’s standard issue.”
“Your Agency must be well set-up.”
“You could say that.”
Lauderdale coughed. “If you’ll come this way, Ms Juillerat, I’ll show you our Ops Centre. It’s the command module for the whole fort.”
The captain led her into the central tower of the fort, and got her through the checkpoint. The girl at the desk asked for her details, but she flashed her authorization and the receptionist raised an eyebrow.
“Pass ‘Go’, collect two hundred dollars and Get Out of Jail Free, huh? We don’t get many through like you. Did you have to sleep with someone important to get clearance like this?”
Chantal smiled. “I had to get married.”
“Tough.”
“It’s very demanding.”
The girl was filling out her badge. “You’re telling me. I’ve been down the aisle three times. With me, it just didn’t take.”
She pinned the badge on Chantal’s lapel.
“Right, take care of that. It’ll open all the doors you’re cleared to go through for you, but don’t spill coffee on it or the thing shorts out and you’ll be apprehended on sight as a security risk.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Lauderdale guided her through the labyrinth. Smartly-dressed men and women hurried purposefully down the corridors. The air was full of communications. There were plaques, recording the names of cavalry personnel who had fallen in the line of duty. Trophies were mounted in glass cases. Geronimo’s head-dress, Phil Sheridan’s uniform, a canteen from Little Big Horn, a variety of arrows, a blood-clogged chainsaw from the Phoenix NoGo Campaign of Pacification, some dented hubcaps from Route 666, scraps of car bodywork with gangcult decals. Everybody was armed. As a child, watching television in Lucerne, Chantal had assumed that everybody in America carried a gun. Back then, it might not have been true.
“This is the Ops Centre,” Lauderdale said, ushering her into a large, semicircular space dominated by an illuminated map. A sabre from the Battle of Washita was in a case over the map. Heads turned. Lauderdale saluted.
“Sir,” he said.
A tallish, well-built man with an iron gray moustache returned the captain’s salute. He must be in his fifties, but he looked fit enough to be a gladiator.
“Sir, this is Ms Chantal Juillerat, from Rome.”
The officer extended a hand, which she shook.
“This is our commanding officer, Major General Younger.”
“Brevet Major General Younger, Lauderdale. At your service ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve been looked after?”
“I have.”
“You like ossobuco?”
Chantal was fazed. “Why, I’ve never had it.”
“Fine. You won’t have anything to compare my efforts with. Eight o’clock sharp suit you? Dinner, I mean?”
Lauderdale, who turned into a statue with a steel backbone in Younger’s presence, chipped in with “Ms Juillerat wanted to see our command centre, sir.”
“Commendable, captain. Eight o’clock?”
“Certainly, Brevet Major General.”
Lights moved on the big map, and people with headsets talked into their microphones. It was the kind of set Chantal remembered from teevee coverage of the space program in the late ’70s, or from repeated secret agent shows from the ’60s. The Man From UNCLE with Robert Vaughn, Mission: Impossible with Peter Graves, or Get Smart with Ronald Reagan.
“What precisely are you doing at this moment?” she asked.
“Well, ma’am,” began the Major General, “there are always many missions to keep track of. There’s a GenTech convoy out of El Paso headed for San Bernardino. El Paso is the railhead for the vat-grown organs that come out of Mexico, and San Berdoo is GenTech’s West Coast centre for transplant surgery. We’re riding shotgun on a shipment of hearts, lungs and livers, I guess.”
“GenTech are a major customer?”
The Major General looked stern for a moment. “The United States Cavalry doesn’t have customers, ma’am. We are public servants. We’re here for the taxpayers.”
“I’m sorry. English is not my first language. Sometimes I make errors.”
“Think nothing of it. You’re right, GenTech do route much of their interstate traffic by us. I think that’s a mark of confidence. The other corps do the same. And we do a lot of wagonmaster work.”
“You shepherd the resettlers?”
“That we do. It’s a tradition of the outfit.”
“Do you have much connection with the Josephites?”
Younger paused. Chantal wondered if she had said the wrong thing, aroused his suspicion. Finally, he answered her, “no, not that much. At the first, we kept the route to Salt Lake open, but they have their own Ops now. I understand they do a decent job, but I’m not really up on the affairs of Deseret. I’m not sure if it’s within our jurisdiction. It’s only notionally part of the United States.”
“Sir,” cut in a woman at one of the tracking consoles. “We have a trace from Tyree…”
Younger turned, and stood over the tracker, peering at the screen. There was a moving blip, travelling down an anonymous road.
“Put it up on the big screen, Finney.”
Captain Finney, a plain, pleasant-faced person, punched some keys, and her picture took up the whole wall. There were placenames. Dead Rat, Friendly, Baker Butte, Poland, Crown King, Octave. The blip travelled fast. It was the only thing moving.
“That’s wrong,” said Finney. “Tyree was supposed to swing by the Petrified Forest, check out Escadilla and come back by way of Tucson. She’s in the Tonto Basin.”
“You’re sure it’s her cruiser?”
Finney flicked some switches. “Double-checking. Yep, the radio’s down, but the auto-recognition is still holding steady. She’s moving flat out
, pushing the capabilities of the cart if you ask me. That’s Tyree all right. At least, that’s her ve-hickle and it’s not programmed for any other driver.”
“Looks like we’ve got us a rogue. Vladek, muster some pursuits.”
Colonel Rintoon got on the telephone, and scrambled some field units, ordering them to intercept. He held the receiver to his uniform chest and looked up at the screen, taking it personally.
Chantal was trying to follow this.
“Leona is true and blue, sir,” said Finney. “She’s Cav from the toes up. Something bad must be going down.”
“I don’t like this.” Younger pulled out a cigar and chewed it unlit.
“Is this an unusual occurrence?” Chantal asked.
Younger chewed some more, and looked pained. “I should say so. You can’t hijack a Cav cruiser. It shuts down unless you feed it your personal code, and it even double-checks your body heat pattern. There’s only human error.”
“And what exactly has gone wrong?”
“Sergeant Tyree—a good soldier—appears to have gone renegade. She’s obviously not in pursuit of anything, and she’s way off her course. She’s twelve hours overdue on a return to the fort, and she hasn’t called in since some time yesterday afternoon. She’s got a Trooper and a liaison from Turner-Harvest-Ramirez with her.”
“I have a response from a patrol,” said Rintoon. “Conway and Mixter are up on Mogollon Mesa. They can come down and interface with Tyree and Stack. If they need help, Conway’ll give it. If they’ve turned, Conway’ll put an end to that.”
Finney looked as if she was about to protest, but she let it go. Younger nodded, and Rintoon relayed the order. A new blip appeared on the screen, moving in a course set to intercept the original light.
“Who’s the T-H-R guy? What do we know about him?”
Rintoon had the facts. “Kenneth Kling. A nobody. No record at all. He just has a nuisance value assignment.”
“If Tyree is clean, it could be this Kling who’s gone psycho on us.”
Finney swivelled on her chair and tapped another keyboard. “I’ll have his profile faxed in from T-H-R in Denver.” A printer stuttered, and Finney tore off a strip. “Shit! Uh, sorry, sir. I mean, uh, we have a negative on Kling. He’s in his peter position, no advancement possible, no initiative, no more than basic skills, no major kinks. Someone has handwritten ”self-important sonofabitch“ in the psychological evaluation box. This jack is one of nature’s born hostages. No way could he be behind it.”
