Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters

by Gilbert, Morris

  Xanthe got up to go, but Allegra came over and said, “Can I talk to you a moment before you leave, Xanthe?”

  “Why, of course.”

  The two women moved over to the far corner of the room, and Allegra said, “Xanthe, can you check military personnel records on Cyclops?”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  Allegra was troubled; she chewed her lip for a moment and studied her friend’s face. “Would—could you get in trouble?”

  “Of course not, Allegra,” Xanthe said confidently. “I’m a high muckety-muck, and I have access to the Great Red Eye. We have four Cyclops drones at the Commissary, and we’re allowed to use them for personal messages. All of us have been Cy-mailing. No one would think twice if I inquired about a friend in the marines. Colonel Neville Saylor, right? At Twenty-Nine Palms?”

  “Yes,” Allegra whispered. “I—I just didn’t want to—my parents are so worried about me and Kyle, I just didn’t want to talk about it in front of them.”

  “I understand.” Xanthe nodded. “I’ll check, and I’m going to try to get back out here once a week, Allegra. Maybe next week I’ll have some news. So would he be trying to send you a message, do you think? Would he use a call sign or a code name?”

  “We never set up any code names. It’d just be on the Cy-net from Neville at Twenty-Nine Palms to Allegra.”

  Xanthe said her good-byes, and David told her, “I’ll walk you out.”

  With some confusion Xanthe murmured, “Okay,” and then hurried out, with David following.

  Xanthe studied David’s profile by the starlight. He had the particular kind of masculine attractiveness, rugged and clean-cut, that she had always admired. In fact, David was everything that Xanthe had ever wanted: he was attractive, resourceful, smart, with a good sense of humor. And he seemed, to Xanthe, to be so out of her league.

  “Whatcha starin’ at, Xanthe?” he teased. “I got something between my teeth or some crumbs on my chin?”

  Xanthe hadn’t realized that they’d reached the Vulcan, and she had been standing there like a mooning goon, staring up at David.

  Blushing furiously, she answered, “N-no, I—sorry—I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Rude?” he asked lightly. “You were thinking rude thoughts about me?”

  “No! It’s just—I know it’s rude to stare. I—I—sorry.”

  “S’okay. I stare at you sometimes, too. It’s just the first time I’ve caught you staring at me.”

  “You—you stare at me? But—but why?” Xanthe asked in confusion. Exasperated, David replied, “’Cause I like to look at you. I think you’ve got the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  Xanthe gulped. “You do?”

  “Yeah,” he rasped. “Go home and look in the mirror, woman.

  You shine.”

  “I—shine?” Xanthe was well and truly bemused now, and David couldn’t help grinning. He gave her a few moments to recover because he knew that though Xanthe St. Dymion might be a tough, courageous high commissar, his warm attentions seemed to throw her completely off balance. He knew he had to go slow with her, and he didn’t want to crowd her.

  Finally she recovered and bristled, as he had thought she would. “Did you bring me out here to talk nonsense, David Mitchell? ’Cause I’m getting cold.”

  “No, My Commissar, I walked you out here so I could say good-bye in private. And also . . .” He frowned. “I—kinda need a favor . . . but I’m having a hard time making up my mind whether to ask you or not.”

  Xanthe immediately said, “You want me to try to contact your team, don’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah, but I—”

  “David, I can take care of myself,” she said stiffly. “No one’s going to question my trying to contact friends. So, who are my friends?”

  “Okay,” he said with resignation. Hesitating, he said, “Uh, if you could send a message to Mama Noc from—uh—Puppy.”

  Xanthe’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? And you are—Puppy?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” David said gruffly.

  “I’ll bet,” Xanthe said dryly.

  “Anyway, put out a message on the ’net, please. Just say Puppy’s home and fine, and would Mama Noc please Cy-mail him and let him know she’s okay and—uh—what her plans are. Yeah, say that.”

  “She?” Xanthe grumbled.

  “That’s Fire Team Eclipse, my outfit, Xanthe. My commanding officer’s name—his name—is Con. Con—Noc—see? We set up some code names and some simple coded messages, just in case we could get Cy-access. Might be overly dramatic, I guess.”

  Troubled, Xanthe replied, “Maybe not, David. I have to tell you that you may be in greater danger than either of us thought.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “The Germans are furious about the stolen helicopter, and they want it back. They’re offering one million deutsche marks to anyone who can give them any information, especially about who stole it.”

  “They’re not likely to find it way out here,” David said carelessly. “And I’ve got it camouflaged so well even the animals probably think it’s a tree.”

  “They might not find the chopper, David, but one of the other commissars asked me about you. I mean, he asked me about the soldier who came to get me at the fountain . . . and then I disappeared for three days. This commissar isn’t the sharpest knife in the block because he didn’t connect the dates. And the dates match, David. The dates that the chopper was stolen and when you showed up and then I disappeared.”

  “I see what you mean,” he said thoughtfully. “So—what can I do?”

  “Nothing,” she said calmly. “Except I don’t think you need to come into town, especially in uniform.”

  “No danger of that. I don’t want to leave my grandparents that long.”

  She studied him soberly. “David, how well do you know Riley Case?”

  “Know him? Don’t know him at all—at least, I don’t know much about him. I like him, and for some reason—maybe because my grandfather does—I trust him.”

  She thought a few moments, then nodded. “That’s good. If your grandfather trusts him, then he must be all right.”

  David asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Riley Case is on the Commissary’s ten most wanted list.”

  “What for?”

  “He killed a bear in the Three Rivers Biome.”

  “Killed a bear,” David scoffed. “The ultimate crime to green-heads, I guess.”

  She stepped close and laid her hands on his arms, throwing her head back to look up at him. “Listen to me, David. It doesn’t matter how silly it is, especially under the circumstances, but it is a crime. It was a rare black bear, and Riley ran, so he’s a fugitive. And my new chief commissar is from Three Rivers Biome. Believe me, David, he’s having lots of fun lording it over everyone these days.”

  “Great,” David grumbled. “One of those ‘big fish in a little pond’ dudes, huh.”

  “More like a big shark in a little pond,” Xanthe retorted. “He has power, David. Don’t you doubt that. If people start seeing Riley Case on Cy-net, they might connect his face to the man who was in Hot Springs up until the blackout.” She took a deep breath.

  “I’m just trying to tell you, David, that you may not be hidden as well as I thought. Be careful.”

  “I will if you will.” He grinned suddenly and leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. It was a light caress that startled Xanthe.

  “Why—why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to. Do you mind?”

  “Yes—no—no—I guess not.”

  “You tasted good,” he remarked.

  “I—tasted—?” Suddenly Xanthe laughed out loud, then slapped him on the chest with the flat of her hand. She had a marvelous laugh, full and rich. “You fool!” she said, a happy note in her tone. “I’ve got to go.”

  David waited until she had disappeared and the roar of the Vulcan had become muted, then he turned back. One thought was on his m
ind: It’s not that we’re not hidden well, Xanthe . . . It’s that they’re looking for us . . . Oh, yes, he’ll be looking for us . . . He’ll surely be looking for Brother Jesse Mitchell . . .

  SIXTEEN

  OBERSTLEUTNANT REINHART ANGRIFF, of the 77th Luftwaffe Air Wing stationed at Kirtland Air Force Base, had a day off. At dawn he fired up his personal Desert Patrol Vehicle (DPV), drove north, parked by a chunk of three twisted mesquite trees, and hiked into Chaco Canyon.

  Unfortunately Sergeant Rio Valdosta of the 101st Airborne (Air Assault) Division, Fire Team Eclipse, saw him first. Rio, as always, was wearing his 9 mm, and he drew it and aimed at Colonel Angriff as he marched straight toward the team’s quarters.

  Angriff stopped and threw up his hands. “Wait! Don’t shoot!” he shouted.

  “Why not, you slinking Goth!” Rio snarled.

  “I’m not slinking, you fool! I walked right in here in broad daylight!” Angriff shouted back angrily. He was considering drawing his own weapon, a fine .38 caliber Glock, when two other soldiers in dusty BDUs (Battle Dress Uniform) came running out of the doorway behind Rio. That put the odds up at three to one, and Angriff believed in going with the odds. He kept his hands up and remained still.

  Con Slaughter and Ric Darmstedt looked at the German pilot in disbelief, then Con said, “Stay frosty, Rio.”

  “I’m frosty, Cap’n,” Rio muttered. “I’m cool. And I got a perfect bead on him.”

  Con said, “Okay. Let’s approach him. Rio, keep your target, but don’t shoot unless I give the order. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Rio replied, though he added inaudibly, “but I don’t like it.”

  The three approached Reinhart Angriff.

  Angriff was not by nature an arrogant man, but he was proud. As the dirty, weather-beaten soldiers drew near, he straightened his shoulders and held his head high. He was a handsome man, with clean-cut features and crisp brown hair, and he was immaculately groomed. His black BDUs were stiffly creased; his paratrooper’s boots were glass-shined; his black leather pilot’s jacket was clean and polished. He wore a black BDU cap and dark glasses. Next to him, the three American soldiers looked sorry, and they knew it. Especially Ric Darmstedt, who had the same regard for meticulousness in his blood as did this German pilot.

  “Okay, start talkin’,” Con growled. He stopped a little to the left of the pilot, so Rio could get a clear shot. But Rio marched right up to the pilot and pointed the 9 mm at his nose. “Rio, back up a coupla inches. Give the man talking room,” Con said with exasperation. Rio obeyed—very slowly.

  “I am Colonel Reinhart Angriff of the 77th Luftwaffe Air Wing,” he said stiffly. “I protest this treatment. You are Airborne? Screaming Eagles—101st? Why should you threaten me like this?”

  “Yeah, well, you might say we got our reasons, Colonel,” Con retorted angrily. “We’re not too happy with the Luftwaffe right now. Bet you can guess why.”

  Angriff frowned. “Is this an American joke? Because I speak English, but I don’t always understand your humor.”

  Con studied him carefully, searching his face with eyes narrowed razor-thin. Angriff stared back at him, his eyes hidden by the dark glasses. But Con thought that, at least, the man was no threat. No immediate threat anyway. “You alone?” he asked cautiously.

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “DPV. It’s back at the east entrance to the canyon, by that stand of three mesquite trees on the small hill.”

  “Go check, Rio,” Con said.

  “But, Cap’n, I—”

  “No, Sergeant Valdosta, you’re not going to shoot this man.

  Not right now anyway. I want to talk to him. I gave you an order, Sergeant!”

  “Yes, sir!” Rio ran, holstering his pistol.

  Ric Darmstedt and Con Slaughter stared suspiciously at the German.

  Reinhart Angriff waited, his eyes hidden, his arms crossed, his shoulders ruler straight.

  Then Angriff nodded his head slightly, his mouth twisting.

  “Behind you, Captain. The man I came to see.”

  Without turning, Con grumbled, “Zoan, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That man,” Ric Darmstedt said, rolling his eyes, “could sneak up on a snake.”

  “Ja,” Reinhart Angriff agreed. “Zoan ist eine Wunderkind.”

  By the time Rio returned from checking that Angriff had come alone, everyone knew that the German pilot was there. All forty-five occupants of Chaco Canyon crowded into the huge common room of the complex where Fire Team Eclipse was quartered.

  Angriff cataloged them carefully, surprised that there were so many people. Even though, after his plane had gone down in the autumnal equinox, he’d been in the canyon for three days and nights, he’d seen only Little Bird, Zoan, Cody Bent Knife, and a few of the other Indian men.

  Now Angriff observed there were quite a few more Indians than he’d known about, including a couple of families with children; and there were other women and children and civilians—and the soldiers, of course, including two Israelis, or New Zionists, as they preferred to be called. Angriff was certain that the soldiers hadn’t been here the night he’d crashed his Tornado and Zoan had saved his life. Instead of Zoan and Cody Bent Knife, they certainly would have taken a hand in deciding his fate back then. It seemed that the American soldiers were in complete charge now.

  “I’ve already answered that question, Captain Slaughter,” Angriff said with the first open trace of impatience. “And Zoan and Cody and the others have confirmed my story. I will tell you, once again, that I came here to bring some things—gifts—to Zoan, and to let him and his friends know what’s happening in the outside world.”

  Everyone was still standing in a ragged circle around the flier. He seemed at ease, unafraid, though the air in the lofty, barren room was tense. Zoan stood close to Angriff, his eyes and attention fixed on Con Slaughter, for Zoan had great trouble shifting his attention back and forth in a group setting. Oddly Con felt ill at ease under Zoan’s patient scrutiny. Finally he said, “Okay, Rio, let’s can the armor. We’re not going to shoot this man down in cold blood.”

  “But, sir, he’s the enemy!” Rio protested. “Don’t tell me you’re going to let him keep his PSA!”

  Con stepped toward Angriff, holding out his hand. “Colonel Angriff, I must ask you to surrender your side arm to me.”

  Angriff crossed his arms again and said calmly, “No. You have no authority to take my weapon—not to mention rank.” Angriff was extremely proud of his recent promotion to colonel even though it was from unit citations given to everyone who participated in Projekt Schlußenheit.

  Con’s tanned face grew taut, and his voice grew dangerously soft. “I might declare you a prisoner of war, Angriff. Then your “But you would be making a grave mistake, Captain,” Angriff replied coolly. “We are not at war. Your country and mine, we are allies. I can see that you are not aware of this, so I won’t consider your offense as mutinous.” rank don’t mean spit.”

  Rio snarled, stepping forward between his captain and the German, “Cap’n! He’s Cat meat!”

  Zoan said sadly, “Sergeant Rio, Cat wouldn’t eat him. He’s my friend.”

  A stunned silence followed this statement, and then, as so often happened, many people—even the cold and aloof Reinhart Angriff—smiled at Zoan’s simplicity. That genuine smile changed Con’s attitude toward Angriff.

  “Colonel Angriff, I won’t apologize for my caution,” he said rather stiffly, but his voice was a more natural timbre than the hoarse half-whisper that signaled danger to those who knew him.

  “I will ask you, however, to let Zoan hold your side arm.”

  “If you and your team will give yours to him, I will do so,”

  Angriff replied.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Con nodded. “All right. Eclipse, hand ’em over.”

  “Aw, Cap’n, man, you gonna let this Goth disarm us?” Rio said in disbelief.r />
  Ric handed Zoan his 9 mm easily. With one eyebrow raised slightly, Angriff watched, then asked, “Darmstedt? Sie ein Deutscher? ”

  “Nein,” Ric replied gruffly, turning away. “Ich bin Ameri-kaner.” “Sie sprechen Deutsch,” Angriff observed.

  Ric shrugged. “And you speak English. Don’t make you American, Oberstleutnant.”

  “I didn’t know you spoke German,” Con said quietly as he handed Zoan his pistol.

  Ric frowned. “Yeah, well, you know I’ve been having a little trouble with taking pride in my heritage lately, sir.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t mean that Colonel Nicanor and I are to surrender our weapons for this German’s peace of mind, Captain Slaughter,” Colonel Darkon Ben-ammi said darkly, staring at Angriff as if the pilot were a lobster he was picking out of a tank to be boiled.

  Angriff didn’t react; he merely watched Con Slaughter with mild curiosity.

  Slaughter answered, “Colonel Ben-ammi, Colonel Nicanor, I can’t order you to give up your weapons. But you, sir, of all people, should know that we need to talk to Colonel Angriff and listen to him. Do we really need to be armed to do that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rio volunteered.

  “No, we don’t,” Con said. “Give it up, Rio. You won’t die of d.t.’s.”

  Rio reluctantly handed Zoan his weapon, still muttering almost inaudibly under his breath.

  Darkon Ben-ammi and Vashti Nicanor held a hurried whispered conference, then Darkon said grumpily, “All right, Captain Slaughter. But we do this out of respect for you—not because we recognize this German’s right to dictate terms to us.”

  The crowd surrounding the soldiers relaxed somewhat, then began milling around and spreading blankets to sit on the floor in a loose semicircle around the central hearth. Zoan dropped a gun with a jarring clatter. Rio swore, then apologized to the women and children. Clumsily Zoan piled the six firearms untidily in a corner, then seated himself by Reinhart Angriff, who was facing the crowd. The implication was unmistakable—though Zoan did not consciously align himself as if in defense of the German pilot—and Con Slaughter felt even more strongly that he must be as fair as he could be to Angriff. Even if Angriff was a hated Goth, he was Zoan’s friend.