Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  From the hour before dawn when the mist had formed round the wagon train, a small group of Mutes camouflaged with scrub had been trailing it, sending reports of its progress to Mr Snow by runner at regular intervals. Mr Snow knew of Hartmann’s navigational error. Indeed, with the knowledge Cadillac had given him, Mr Snow had reached into Hartmann’s mind and had created the confusion that had made the mistake possible and then prevented the wagon master from realising what he had done. The rumble of thunder that Jodi had heard when she turned west over the mountains had been a trial blast by Mr Snow, clearing his throat for the big event.

  Escorted by ten Bears, Mr Snow ran, Mute-fashion, some way behind the two large groups that Jodi had spotted. Cadillac and Clearwater had been ordered to stay hidden in the forest with the She-Wolves – the female warriors – the M’Call elders, the den mothers and the children. The remaining Bears were moving under cover of the trees to a point nearer the wagon train. This much larger group constituted the clan’s strategic reserve and would be committed to the battle as conditions required.

  The whole of Mr Snow’s remarkable mind was concentrated on the task he had set himself. He had produced the cloud and sown a degree of confusion in Hartmann’s mind but he was worried about his ability to summon, control and ultimately survive the immense power he was about to draw from the earth and sky. As a consequence, the soundless volley of rifle fire that mowed down the running warriors around him came as a complete surprise.

  A bullet struck him in the head, sending him sprawling to the ground. Miraculously, the needle-pointed round hit a cluster of knuckle-bones threaded on one of the plaited loops of white hair. The force of the impact drove them against his skull, shattering two in the process, and knocking him temporarily senseless. As his body rolled onto its back amidst his wounded and dying escort, he saw the three blue arrowheads flash overhead.

  ‘You dumb bastard,’ he thought. Darkness overcame him.

  Jodi and her two wingmen achieved a similar surprise when they caught up with the advance groups lead by Motor-Head and Hawk-Wind. Both were running, on an almost parallel front, in open formation, glancing every now and then at the sky. In their case, however, the operative word was ‘up’. They did not look directly over the ground behind them and thus were caught in mid-stride as the three Skyhawks soared into view from a dip in the ground, slammed on full power and swept them, wing-tips clipping the grass, guns firing right, left and centre.

  The stream of bullets from their three-barrelled rifles cut a deadly swathe through the mass of startled warriors. For Jodi and her wingmen there was no heady smell of cordite, or blazing barrels; only a harsh, staccato ‘chu-witt-chu-witt-chu-witt!’ that was never heard by the quarry when flying at altitude and was now drowned by the shrill whine of the motors.

  The leading wave of Bears untouched by the attack, turned back, their faces twisted in expressions of incredulity and anger. A volley of crossbow bolts fired from the hip hummed past the Skyhawks as they climbed away, banking in different directions. A couple of bolts passed through Booker’s port wing, deflating a section of the aerofoil, a third went through the clearview panel above his head. Yates’s aircraft took a bolt in the nose of the cockpit pod. It punched through the thin metal, passed under his raised legs and tore a gaping hole in the other side. Yates’s stomach went cold at the thought of the screaming pain he had so narrowly avoided. A couple of inches higher and it would have passed through both knees…

  Jodi flew through the first volley unscathed. She pressed the transmit button on the control column and spoke to her wingmen. ‘Stay up, keep moving, start picking them off. I’m going down to roast their fannies.’

  Booker and Yates wheeled and side-slipped across the sky in unpredictable flight patterns that made them difficult targets to aim at. With a comparatively high rate of fire of one hundred and eighty rounds a minute, they were able to direct an almost continuous rain of nickel-coated lead at the Bears below and – like all wingmen – they excelled at snap shooting.

  Diving away to one side, Jodi banked low behind a line of trees then flew back up the slope at zero feet. The M’Call Bears armed with crossbows were firing at Booker and Yates; the others stood their ground, stabbing the air defiantly with their knife-sticks, or brandishing stone flails – seemingly oblivious of the clan-brothers falling dead around them.

  Approaching the battleground, Jodi pulled the control column hard back and over to the right. As her aircraft went into a steep climbing turn she released the three small napalm canisters from the port rack in quick succession, lobbing them over a wide arc. The canisters flew lazily through the air tumbling end over end then fell amongst the Mutes, erupting in an explosive burst of flame that spurted forwards from the point of impact, engulfing the unwary warriors in their path and sending searing tendrils of flame out on both sides. Motor-Head and his clan-brothers, most of whom had somehow remained untouched by the guns of the circling arrowheads, stared aghast as the ball of flame and thick black smoke rolled towards them. They broke and ran for their lives, with the screams of their brother Bears ringing in their ears.

  It was at this moment that Talisman, or the Sky Voices, or whatever power it was that plots the course of the world and the men who serve it, brought Mr Snow back to his senses and gave him the earth-forces to command. Swept by a terrible premonition of danger, he staggered to his feet then, as the strength flooded back into his limbs and his mind cleared, he ran forward, down and up over the rise, reaching the crest in time to see the three napalm canisters burst among the M’Call Bears; saw the flame blossom and unfold like the black-edged petals of a giant flower, heavy with the scent of death. A jolting current galvanised his leg and stomach muscles; made him gasp for air. He became rooted to the earth as the forces flowed through him. He flung out his arms, fists clenched at the sky and a blood-chilling ululating cry burst from his throat.

  The response was almost immediate. A shrill whistling rushing sound built up to a frightening crescendo. It was as if the whole sky had become the mouth of a giant sucking in air then expelling it with terrible force. A mighty wind swept down from the mountains behind Mr Snow, tearing at the tops of the trees. It whirled and screamed around his head then swept upwards, sending Jodi’s Skyhawk cartwheeling across the sky like a kite that has snapped its string. As she fought desperately to regain control, she heard a sharp dry cracking sound like a felled tree tearing itself loose from its almost severed trunk. The sky exploded with a terrifying, ear-splitting roar; was filled with blinding light. As the Skyhawk whirled round, a searing image burned itself into Jodi’s brain like a night scene suddenly revealed by a photographer’s flash-bulb. A great shaft of lightning ripped across the heavens, divided in two, and struck Booker and Yates. The split-second horror was slowed by Jodi’s brain into a gruesome slow-motion sequence as the two Skyhawks burst apart like ripped bags of confetti, then were immediately engulfed in an explosion of flame as their load of napalm ignited. Two great splashes of orange were suddenly smeared across the blue canvas of the sky, incinerating the pilots and the falling debris. The bits that remained were scattered by the driving wind, like flurries of sparks from burning pine branches.

  A new blast of wind hit Jodi, this time from the west, creating a maelstrom of turbulence as it met the storm-bringer from the east. Clouds built up at a terrifying rate and, in what seemed like a matter of minutes, a towering anvil-head of cumulo-nimbus rose to blot out the sun. More lightning forked out of the sky. Jodi quickly pulled the lever that would jettison the three napalm tanks she was still carrying and tried to fly her way out of the bad weather. It was a losing battle; some malevolent force seemed to be drawing her into the heart of the storm.

  Down on the ground, the thunder and lightning that had destroyed Booker and Yates and put Kazan in peril had been heard but the noise had been muted by the multi-walled skin of the wagon train. The persistent layer of mist and low-cloud also prevented Hartmann and his execs from being aware of the sto
rm clouds forming over the valley. They did, however, detect the onset of the rain. And it was about the same time that Hartmann began to take increasing note of the steepening river banks and decided to check their position on the map with the Navigator, Captain Ryder. Hartmann was also worried about the sudden increase in radio static which had rendered transmissions from Kazan virtually unintelligible.

  A few moments’ intensive study of the route taken by Interstate 80 showed no match with their present position and the rapidly growing feeling that they were rolling along a dry river bed was reinforced by the growing stream of water now washing round the bend ahead and between the sets of huge wheels. Hartmann realised that he could quite easily go into reverse. Both command cars had the full range of controls. Like many pre-historic streetcars, the head and tail of the ‘snake’ were interchangeable. Hartmann decided instead to press on. It was, arguably, his third mistake of the day. What he was hoping to find around the next bend was a break in the bank through which The Lady could climb out and get back onto course.

  The wagon train nosed round the next bend and was met by a shrieking, howling wind that ripped away the mist, replacing it with driving rain that hammered along the length of The Lady like an unending fusillade of bullets. Hartmann pressed forward for another mile. The rain poured down relentlessly; bolts of lightning split the sky to be greeted almost simultaneously by earth-shaking thunderclaps: a sign that the raging storm was directly overhead. The depth of water rushing beneath the wagon train increased rapidly. It was no longer a stream, it was a river – and one that Hartmann was suddenly anxious to get out of. Rounding another bend, he found the right hand bank less steep than before. He sent The Lady rolling up it. The tyres of the command car skidded wildly. The rain had turned the slope into a mud-slide. This in itself was not an insurmountable problem. As long as there was twenty-five per cent traction, the wagon trains could usually push or pull themselves over most obstacles and out of trouble – rather like a centipede. All wheels, however, have certain limitations; even those designed by the First Family; especially in mud.

  Urged on by Hartmann, The Lady angled up the bank, the skidding lead cars pushed by those at the rear. A few yards from firmer ground, the wagon train began to slip sideways. The helmsman turned the wheels, Hartmann called for full power. The huge cleated tyres spun wildly, sprayed mud, slipped even further to the left then shuddered to a halt as the left front wheel sank into a hole. Hartmann told the helmsman to straighten her up and tried to roll her out using front and rear-end traction. The offending wheel merely dug itself in deeper, blocked from going forward by something immovable – probably a rock. Hartmann cut the drive to the front-end wheels and tried again. The Lady edged forward a few feet and stopped again. The First Engineer got a red light from the strain gauge on the front left axle.

  ‘We’re going to have to back down and take another run at it,’ he told Hartmann. ‘Otherwise we’re going to tear that wheel off.’

  Hartmann cursed under his breath and passed control of the steering to Jim Cooper, the Deputy Wagon Master stationed in the rear command car. Cooper eased The Lady off the slope, ran her two hundred yards down river and gave her back to Hartmann. The wagon master was determined to roll her out, mud or no mud. He took her out of the deepening river up on to the shallow slope at the foot of the steep left-hand bank so that he could curve round across the bed of the river to hit the mud slope at a better angle.

  And that, although he couldn’t really help it, was his fourth mistake of the day. As The Lady moved back across the river with the body of the wagon train angled over on the slope behind him, he and the rest of the crew became aware of a low, rumbling roar that built up rapidly into a thunderous crescendo.

  It was a flash-flood.

  An angry foaming, twenty foot-high, mud-coloured wall of water crashed against the outside bank of the up-river bend then careened crazily down towards them, carrying trees and boulders in its wake. The raging torrent exploded against the exposed flanks of the first five cars in a great cloud of spray then swept over and around them to engulf the rest of the train. Huge trees swept down river, slamming, like floating battering rams, into the sides of the lead cars with tremendous force, causing branches as thick as a man’s body to crumple like matchwood. The Lady reeled under the repeated blows. The lead cars tilted over and stuck at a crazy angle as boulders carried along the river bed by the current became wedged underneath the wheels, held in place by the unbroken branches of the trapped trees. Startled trail-hands in the lead cars picked themselves up off the floor. Buck McDonnell’s voice boomed through the train telling everyone to hold fast and stay at their stations.

  Up in the saddle, Hartmann hauled himself upright. The execs around him balanced awkwardly on the sloping floor and ran through the well-rehearsed damage control procedure. Conditions were verging on the chaotic but nobody lost their cool.

  ‘We’re jammed fast,’ yelled Barber, the First Engineer. ‘All wheels are underwater, rear end has only ten per cent traction and we’ve got a ruptured passway between cars five and six!’

  ‘Is that where we’ve angled over?’ asked Hartmann.

  ‘Yes sir!’

  ‘Any radiation inflow?’

  ‘Not enough to show on the dial,’ said Barber. ‘The hatches on both sides close automatically when the air seal is broken.’

  Hartmann nodded and put himself on the visicomm circuit to address the crew. ‘Now hear this. A course error caused by the thick mist we woke up has put us in a dry river bed. What began as bad weather has got worse and we’ve been caught in a flash-flood. The Lady has taken some superficial damage and we have lost traction due to a buildup of flood debris. But the worst is over. This storm will soon blow itself out and then we’ll get The Lady back on the road. So sit tight and look chipper.’ He grinned. ‘This command has never had a wagon train sink under it yet.’

  His words brought a smile to Steve’s face. He looked around him and saw that the tight, strained faces of the other crewmen had also cracked open.

  Just as Hartmann finished speaking, the NavComTech picked up a low strength call from Jodi Kazan sandwiched between several bad bursts of static. ‘Have attacked Mute… broken up… Booker and Yates have gone down… hit by… Request…’ There followed the warbling tone of the automatic Mayday distress signal.

  The NavComTech responded by switching on the fore and aft Navigation lasers. He left the red beam on the lead car pointing vertically upwards and put the green on what was known as ‘sweep and creep’. This caused the beam to rock back and forth, quartering the sky, North, South, East and West, from horizon to horizon, then repeating the same pattern, ‘creeping’ round in a clockwise direction at five degree intervals. The laser was, in effect, performing a similar function to the rotating beam of a pre-Holocaust lighthouse. And if Kazan picked it up – as she was bound to if she was within range – all she had to do was fly down the beam towards the source of the light.

  Baxter, the F.O.O., sounded the alert in the flight-car, told the crewmen of Kazan’s imminent arrival, and ordered them to prepare for landing-on. Buck McDonnell, who had wriggled through the emergency hatches on either side of the broken passway passed through the flight car to check that the weapon turrets in the rear cars were correctly manned. He buttonholed Steve and the other wingmen and told them to take their rifles up top to cover the ground-crew waiting to receive the incoming Skyhawk. ‘It’s blowing a storm out there so it may take all of you to hold her down. The guns are in case some Mutes decide to hitch a ride.’ He passed through to Car Nine.

  Steve hurriedly donned his helmet, took his air carbine out of the rack, checked the magazine and the compressed air bottle under the barrel, packed a couple more mags into his breast pockets and went out through one of the starboard hatches. Inside the cars the sound of the storm had been muffled. Now he faced its full fury. The wind tore at his clothes, made him gag as he tried to draw breath, and pinned him to the balcony rail. Below, th
e flood waters swirled past at breakneck speed, sweeping broken trees and bushes downstream. Ahead, he could see the lead cars of The Lady curved across the torrent, twisted over like the broken wall of a dam. She rocked violently in a burst of spray every time she was struck by another uprooted tree.

  Gus tugged at his sleeve. ‘Here she comes!’ he yelled. He pointed across the flight deck.

  Steve peered through the rain-swept murk and saw two disembodied lights; the landing lights of Jodi Kazan’s Skyhawk. She appeared to be about a hundred yards away on the port side of the wagon train, heading up river into the teeth of the gale. As she crabbed nearer, Steve was able to make out the aircraft more clearly; its swept-back wings rocking wildly from side to side. Now he could see the red and white dot that was Jodi’s helmet in the slim cockpit pod underneath.

  ‘She’s never going to make it,’ yelled Steve to the grizzled crew-chief, who was crouched on all fours on the deck above him. The wind was gusting from seventy to over ninety miles an hour. What the hell was she going to do? The maximum speed of the Skyhawk was eighty-five miles an hour. Simple arithmetic told him that Jodi was going to end up flying backwards. A conventional landing over the rear cars and onto the flight deck was impossible.

  Jodi had evidently come to the same conclusion and, in the few vital seconds when the windspeed slackened, she edged ahead of the wagon train. She evidently planned to drift in sideways at full power, letting the wind carry her back level with the flight-deck.

  Steve suddenly understood what she was trying to do and was quietly appalled at the prospect. It would mean standing up on the exposed flight-deck in the teeth of a howling gale that threatened to blow him off his feet and into the water. It would mean reaching up and literally grabbing her out of the air as she drifted across. The Skyhawk was not heavy – half a dozen guys could easily handle it, and her ground speed would, with luck, be virtually nil. But her motor would be turning at full revs. If they weren’t careful, someone was going to be shredded by that goddam propellor… Steve blotted the gruesome image from his mind and leapt up onto the deck, leaning into the wind beside the crew-chief and his men.