Kennedy brought his fingers up to touch the repair. Lightholler brushed the hand away.
“Later,” he said. “Give it some time.”
“Is it worthy of Michelangelo?”
Lightholler twisted his head as if inspecting a painting. “More like Picasso, but it’ll have to do.”
He helped Kennedy to his feet and they walked over to the sedan. Lightholler drove.
Kennedy’s dark mood appeared to have passed for the moment. Lightholler tried to picture Hardas and Morgan, but there wasn’t much he could dredge up to endear either of them to him. Hardas had played the thug for the majority of their brief acquaintance—drawing a gun on him at the Lone Star hadn’t helped matters. As for Morgan, he was just a fearful intellectual who enjoyed the sound of his voice a little too much; someone who’d bitten off more than he could chew.
Lightholler had called it back in New York City: they were amateurs. Yet he wondered how much they might have seen and endured since hooking up with the major’s holy cause. The answer came with a bludgeoning finality.
They died for it.
Kennedy had talked about travelling through time. The journal spoke of secret installations and of a black and silver orb, a metal crab in a coiled lair of tubes and wiring. Another world where great wars spanned the globe and rockets journeyed to the Moon and Mars and beyond. A world where a Kennedy had become president—yet he still died in Dallas in ’63.
So much different and so much the same. Lost in his musing, he hadn’t realised he had spoken his question aloud.
“How do we know what?” Kennedy replied. He reached for his brow but stopped short, catching Lightholler’s glare.
“How do we know things will be any better if we succeed?”
“How do you mean?”
“Assuming everything you’ve told me is true,” he said, “what makes you so sure that the other world—Wells’ world—is any better, or more justified in existing, than our own?”
“There’s no guarantee, John, but there’s one thing I’m sure of. In his journal he states that he operated on a man from his future. Our world, real or not, will be gone within the year.”
“Gone.” The entire weight of the word sank down on him. “Because of this war?”
“Most likely.”
Lightholler couldn’t help himself. One man may start a war; it takes a few good men to stop one. “And this war started because...?”
Perhaps Kennedy hadn’t noticed the provocation. His reply was distant and softly voiced. “I’ve wondered about that myself.” But when he turned to look at Lightholler, his expression revealed a doleful acquiescence. “What’s done is done.”
“We wouldn’t be going to Nevada in the first place if you really believed that.”
“You’re right.” Kennedy nodded slowly. “Thing is, I don’t know how to fix this. I wouldn’t know where to start. Maybe the future’s not carved in stone, but it’s out there. Do we go back a week and stop the Brandenburgs? Two years, and destroy the journal? Three, and stall Camelot? I don’t know. Go back a hundred years and deal with Wells. Nip it in the bud. Clean the slate. That’s all that makes sense to me.”
“I’ve read most of the journal, Joseph. Wells might have been misguided and he might have been insane. He might have contemplated murder, but that doesn’t make him a criminal.”
“Do you think Stalin thought of himself as a criminal, or Sorel, or Attila the Hun for that matter? Judge his actions and their consequences—not his intentions—the way you’ve judged mine. This is all wrong. I know it and you know it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Was that why he had stuck by Kennedy’s side? He glanced up at his reflection in the rear-view mirror and rapidly looked away without quite understanding what had perturbed him.
“Something got stuck here,” Kennedy continued. “A record-player needle in the final groove, going round and round in circles, but never moving on. There, they had what we’ve only just discovered. That and much more. They had their final conflict more than fifty years ago and it ended in atomics. We chose to start ours with them. They moved forward. The journal is patchy, it’s the work of a madman, it describes some dark, dark times, but it’s still progress.”
“Is that sort of progress a good thing?”
“It sure beats oblivion.”
“If it was so good, why did Wells do what he did? Why did he seek to destroy his future?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Why bother questioning his motives when we don’t know his methods? We just have to stop him.”
“You don’t know what he did?”
“You’ve read the journal, John.” Kennedy’s reply was matter of fact.
“Most of it. I’ve read most of it.”
“The journal ends on the day of the sinking. It ends with a one-word entry. He never mentions how he actually planned to intervene. He had long-term plans for the world. The Titanic was just the first phase. He was just flexing his muscles.”
Lightholler hit the brakes. He swung the sedan off the road and let it idle. He looked over at Kennedy and started laughing without amusement.
“Jesus, Joseph, how do you expect us to stop him then?”
“I have a few ideas.”
“You know, this cryptic shit of yours is starting to wear a little thin at the edges.”
“I’m hoping we get the luxury of arguing the finer points of our mission, but for now, how about we get to Nevada first?”
“I always thought we were going to try and stop Wells on the ship. Isn’t that why you dragged me into all of this?”
Kennedy’s look was one of laboured patience, the sort he might give a child. Then he read something in Lightholler’s eyes. “John, the ship is our last chance. We were—” He caught himself. “We are going to try and intercept him in the desert. But the accuracy of the machine may be unpredictable, especially on a complete insertion.”
“A what?”
“Doc will explain that to you. For now all you need to know is that the Titanic has always been a contingency plan. Wells lay low after arriving in 1911. If we don’t catch him in the desert, we can be sure of finding him on the ship.”
“So I’m just part of your contingency plan.”
“No, you’re my last hope,” Kennedy replied solemnly.
“But why me?” He was surprised at the plaintive tone of his question. “There must be lots of guys who fit the bill.”
“You were on the shortlist of suitable candidates.”
“Suitable for what? Killing yakuza? Providing first aid? Hijacking an ocean liner?”
“Something along those lines,” Kennedy replied. He was smiling.
“I just don’t get it.”
“I had five guys in mind, John, all reasonably experienced, reasonably talented ... qualified in one way or another. They just weren’t hungry enough.”
“Hungry?”
Kennedy shot him a piercing look. “You’ve been waiting to do something like this your whole life.”
“When did you become the psychologist?”
“Tell me I’m wrong, John.”
“You’re more than that. You’re completely insane.”
“And you’re an empty, dissatisfied shit trying to escape your ancestor’s coat-tails.”
“I think you’re describing yourself,” Lightholler murmured.
“So, you finally get it then?”
“I get it.”
Lightholler looked away. He put the sedan in gear and brought them back onto the road. All he had seen and done ... for the sake of contingency. For the sake of friendship?
He asked, “How am I doing so far?”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Lightholler heard the gentle laughter in Kennedy’s voice and kept his eyes on the highway.
They crossed the Mississippi some time after dawn and abandoned the sedan by a watering hole near the aptly named town of Mud Lake. They washed in a frigid stream. Kennedy stood in the water
beating his arms against his chest for warmth while Lightholler’s sturdy, pale body cut through the sparkling blue.
Surfacing for a lungful of air, Lightholler said, “Tell me, which one of us is Tom Sawyer?”
They retrieved their clothing and the satchel from the sedan, then walked back into town, arguing briefly along the way over which car to steal. Lightholler favoured a battered black Austin; Kennedy suggested a lighter colour, saying it would be less conspicuous and better protection against the heat of the day. They settled on a cream-coloured Blitzen with Louisiana plates.
They switched plates at the next town and drove west.
Arkansas unfolded in hills and valleys, in forests of oak and pine, laced by the languorous tresses of the slow, wide river. They ate in a diner across the road from a train station and watched as negroes rolled crates along the platform and loaded them into the long grey freight car of a Confed Pacific.
Kennedy thumbed through a discarded newspaper, held the headline up for Lightholler to read. NASHVILLE REDOUBT. JAPANESE ASSAULT HALTED.
The kicker called it a “Night of Infamy”. President Clancy was convening Congress that afternoon. Kennedy scanned the paper for his name and found nothing. He interpreted the mild euphoria he felt as a result of poor sleep, but that assumption took little away from his satisfaction.
They got back into the car and headed west again. He nodded off mid-afternoon and woke to find they were just outside Little Rock. He offered to take the wheel at the next gas station, but Lightholler shrugged off the suggestion.
The Ozarks grew out of the horizon, a purple fringe, gold-tinged in the early afternoon sun. They switched at Benton after he told Lightholler they were about an hour from Morning Star. Lightholler was asleep before they hit the highway.
He turned on the radio and trawled for a local station. Between the evangelists and easy listening he caught a traffic report. A trailer truck had jackknifed on Route 70. There was oil on the road and a trapped passenger. Delays were expected.
He reached for Lightholler’s cigarettes and lit one, drew a breath and tossed it. He flicked the dial and came up with some classical music. He turned up the volume, keeping an eye on Lightholler’s closed lids. He let the music carry him.
His mind drifted. Considering the music’s perfection, he began to question his own delusion. The scheme he’d formulated so many months ago had lapsed into chaos. It had fallen prey to powers as inexorable as gravity. Lightholler was right to question his role in the great disaster ahead.
A wind in the road brought them up to a crest. An oncoming coupé winked its lights at them. He slowed down. He made out the flash of emergency vehicles and the outline of the road train spread in a heat haze across the blacktop. There was a fire engine, an ambulance and two black-and-whites. A line of traffic had built up ahead.
He nudged Lightholler awake and explained the situation. Lightholler urged him to pull over.
A black van had broken down on the shoulder just ahead of them. Someone was working on a flat tyre while a woman stood by the roadside. She had her hair tied up in a scarf and, despite the heat, she had a shawl wrapped tightly around her body. Turning, she waved at them.
“I guess we’ll need to double back. Find another approach,” Lightholler said as they rolled to a stop.
Kennedy nodded.
Lightholler stared at the approaching woman. “All these people, why does she choose us to play Good Samaritan?”
Kennedy slipped the car into gear. The woman had reached his window. She motioned him to unwind it. He looked over at Lightholler, shrugged and shifted back to park. He rolled down the window.
Lightholler tapped his shoulder and pointed at the windshield.
Kennedy looked up. Two men were approaching from the van. He turned to look at the woman. She had wisps of black hair that curled from beneath her scarf. She wore a pair of heavily tinted sunglasses. Her shawl had fallen open. She had a nine-millimetre Dillinger in her hand.
Kennedy only had time for one word.
“Patricia?”
A GAME OF CHESS V
The Kennedy Defence
These are primarily weapons for those with patience, stubbornness and resourcefulness. Not for the faint at heart, the Kennedy Defence begins with a violation of principle and rapidly proceeds to parts unknown. Even in the hands of a seasoned player it outfolds more like a work in progress rather than a fully formed strategy. The encouragement of White’s unimpeded advance to the centre, and the unfavourable early exchange of a pawn, finds little favour with today’s masters. Most believe that the defence is too cramped and requires meticulous handling. The intriguing manipulation of the White’s own pieces into a barrier against further development, however, may occasionally bear rich fruit.
Black’s best chance is that the opponent will overplay his hand.
Excerpt from Modern Chess Openings
Leon Browarnik
I
April 26, 2012
Houston, Texas
It always started off blurry, out of focus. Nothing more than peach fuzz. Shifting pink shapes against a pastel backdrop.
Webster marvelled at the convenient design of hotel rooms. If the mirror wasn’t exactly opposite the bed, it was damn well close enough.
The image sharpened and the sound cut off abruptly. That was where Agent Birch stepped on the audio cable while trying to adjust the lens. By the time the agents realised their error it was all over. She was in the shower and he was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, so all that was heard was the steady stream of water in the background.
Webster didn’t need the sound. He’d seen the footage maybe thirty times by now. The film canister was propped on the table beside him. It was labelled: “Desert Inn, March, 2007. Room 12. Subjects: Caucasian male, 45; Caucasian female, 27”.
He selected a purple pill. No-Som. Chased it down with a mouthful of water. He’d started taking them soon after the quacks had told him that the only way they could remove the pain was to remove his sight. He’d been popping them since New York had fallen. He hadn’t slept in three days. He had two bottles: purple for up, pink for down. He’d save the pink for the flight out west, mixing and matching pharmaceuticals. Pastel City.
Purples gave him that buzz. That pop, pop, pop. Watching Malcolm’s pert ass pop-pop-popping up and down. Peach fuzz. He’d popped an eye at Mazatlan thanks to that turd Kennedy.
He squinted watching her slide slow, up and down. A writhe that was part passion and part show, if he read her right. He watched as Kennedy’s hands worked their way up from her waist to her breasts.
He took inventory.
He had his bag packed.
He had the Kennedy files on his desk next to the canister. The stuff Malcolm didn’t get to see. The pathology report from late 2007—her miscarriage, scraped and scoped under a different kind of lens. What would Kennedy make of that?
He had Kennedy pumping up and down while the lab rat squirmed.
He had a thousand men, sequestered throughout the South and ready to roll.
He had a flight booked for Phoenix, as per President Clancy’s request. A connect to take him to Vegas, and from there a scout to the Patton.
He was going to get to see the closing shot, up close and personal.
No-Som gave him that buzz, kept him up and running; his red eye skittering across maps and documents; dry mouth spitting out the orders and commands. Thoughts racing. Hot-wired.
Clancy convenes Congress. Kiboshes the Kennedy Crusade and calls on Clan and Country.
He liked the sounds the words made in his head.
She’d twisted around now to face the mirror but Kennedy was still holding on to her tits for dear life. Her hair was in her face, masking the eyes, but her lips were pursed in a rictus of desire.
Webster couldn’t see her eyes but he could see what he thought were rivulets of sweat.
He had a nursery rhyme going round and round in his head. Maybe the last purple was a ba
d idea. Flight was in four hours.
Pop goes the weasel.
II
April 26, 2012
In transit: Houston, Texas / Phoenix, Arizona
He’d taken his first sedative over an hour ago, and coming down felt like breathing out real slow. It felt like something was emptying.
Buzz became headache and a dull weight on his eyelids.
The Raptor’s cabin was empty. A bright seam was visible under the cockpit entrance. Through the windows, the flash of wingtip navigation lights and the flicker of distant stars. All else was darkness. Webster thought about the other Raptors—sleek black darts winging their way across the country towards their shared destination.
President Clancy had called him at 0600 hours, and Webster had told him that Nashville was a bust. No Kennedy, no Camelot operatives. They’d worked the story till they’d turned failure into success. They played down the Kennedy angle and juggled the kill-ratio until they were left with a whole bunch of dead nips and a reasonable number of martyrs.
Webster told him about the next phase of Avalon, the set-up in Arkansas. Clancy told him to kill the Kennedy angle. Webster explained that he had evidence pointing to a third secret camp, under Kennedy’s command. Clancy had told him to kill the Kennedy angle.
Then the President filled him in. He confirmed that the Kaiser was alive and well and running the German show from Danzig. The Germans were concentrating on the East Coast, hell bent on relieving their New York beachhead. To that effect, they were routing all of their troops east of the Mississippi. Paratroopers held Richmond, and were working their way towards Washington. Brandenburg squads had already disabled most of the major choke points in a three-hundred mile radius of the beleaguered capital city, while the 5th Fleet controlled the waters from Maine down to Key West. Additionally, a joint British and Canadian force had blasted corridors through Pennsylvania and New York State and were digging in outside of Pittsburgh and Albany.
While the Japanese appeared stymied by the well-coordinated Anglo– German assault on the Union, they’d met with a series of successes in their ongoing Russian and Indian campaigns. Heavy counterattacks were expected as the Japanese shifted the bulk of their army from the American West Coast, but for the moment the Far East appeared contained.
The Company of the Dead Page 38
