Benny almost feels a cry coming on. He clicks the dial on the stolid brown Admiral radio to OFF. Franklin Roosevelt himself waved across the ocean to him in a speech both stirring and patriotic.
Good grief. After that, might start thinking I could take down Joe Louis with a pea shooter. My, Roosevelt's a slick talker.
So into this emotional heaving is he that Benny forgets he's been sharing this audio transmission with one Corporal Carson Wilkes. Haskins just about falls out of his chair seeing the Canadian. Wilkes sits at an awkward ease, right leg folded over the left, fingers knitted together, face tightened like a bloodhound pointing to a hiding fox.
"Moving speech, though a tad rhetorical if you ask me."
Benny pulls down on a shirt already tucked in tight. "I didn't!" He moseys on over to the desk, watching Wilkes as if he's guarding a captured Jerry. "Talk like his is what keeps troops motivated, Wilkes. You haven't learned that yet? Canada doesn't do inspiration?"
"He basks under an English sun while we toil in the ditch of despair. No. I've lost my confidence in leaders who carry big verbal sticks but don't lead on the field of battle. He should be here right now. Speaking of leading, what magnificent words will you execute in order to get the remainder of us to perform Japanese ritual suicide against the samurai hordes of Motherville?" He plucks out a cigarette from a crimped box and lets it blaze.
Benny feels a hunger begging to punch this cat in the jaw but holds back from feeding it. For now. "Words, huh? You want pretty words, Wilkes? Okay, Buster. Here's what I got. I lay it out for you, and you hit me with the feedback."
"Done," Wilkes announces it like he's hosting Information Please.
Smack! The Brown Bear brings his mitts together hard. "Fine. What I tell the boys is they are soon to fight a creature from another world, an intelligent machine capable of amassing armies seemingly at will. You all are tasked with destroying said enemy, though you'll be outnumbered a hundred to one, have probably no reinforcements that could arrive on time, and almost definitely you will die, and Salem becomes a refuge for robots." The hands rub the pants. Palms are sweaty.
Wilkes rises to drizzle a glass of water out of the cooler. "It's the truth. Soldiers ask for that, and deserve it."
The statement comforts Benny about as much as a lonely sheep feels safe with a starving wolf. "Oh yeah? Well, the truth it ain't."
"How so?"
Take a deep breath. "How? How! This is not a war against some girl-voiced gadget fixated on gaining a new nesting ground. This, Corporal, is a battle against nonsense. Yeah, you heard me, Maple Leaf. Nonsense! Motherville blew into our world after a door got opened by a big kaboom presumably by a hapless ball club. That's it. No planning, no Nazi level of scheming at world conquest. Dame got a lucky break and is running with it. Running! Oh yeah, Trixie is running roughshod over you, me, the Hangar, young kids, the Axis, the Allies maybe even the Moon too! So, whoopee! Momma wants to give us bad dreams? Can't stop her. Momma wants Mister Haskins and Milkman? Probably can't stop her. Momma has ten times the forces over in Wilmington, but go get her! Hey guys, you're gonna go out and die over the inevitable. And Slicks can attend our funeral. Don't laugh. They just might, crazy as their actions are. She can grow simply because she's got the elbow room. We can't stand up to that whether war comes at four-thirty or half past doomsday. There you go. Truth in madness. So forgive me if a thrilling presidential speech gets me motivated because I need something to make me go get in my plane and kick some tail, even though I can't seem to offer the boys anything other than an early eulogy!"
Now he's mad. Shoot. Before Wilkes played devil's advocate, all Benny thought of was Crank's curvy lower back and restraining his urgings to take things with her further. Four-thirty was ages away, plenty of time to work it out. Now...
"Benjamin, we know the risks, the fatality of the situation. But what men need in desperate hours is hope and--"
The door careens open and slaps the office wall. Crank and Skinny burst in like firefighters, startling Carson and raising Benny's gruff.
"Vecchio! Motherville must have taken over the factories in Wilmington to build Slicks and...oh, hi, Corporal Wilkes." She cuts her eyeballs at the Canadian, wary of him since his snide comment days before.
"Crank, now's not the..." The realization of her words smacks the mouth shut. "Hey! Wait a minute! Wilkes! Grab the map of the Delaware River behind you." Snap your digits and watch guys and gals move, double time.
The map unfurls into a black and white miasma of lines both thick and thin, overshadowing the entire office desk with more to spare. At first blink it appears as drivel. But closer inspection reveals the broad swath of the river as it becomes the Delaware Bay showcases more than water and lighthouses. The streets of Wilmington, Salem, Penns Grove, Delaware City, Pennsville and more are detailed very well. Benny taps his chin while the quartet studies.
"Here," Skinny pinpoints the spot. "This line along the Riverside by Governor Printz Boulevard. This length holds docks, warehouses, manufacturing and oil."
"Oil," gurgles off the lips of the other three. Black gold. Death residue of the Last Age breathing life into the New. Armies marched on it now more than food. Diesel. Petrol. Luftwaffe. Special Technologies. Motherville. All cultures divided while fighting to suck off the same teet, bloated breasts of the underworld.
"So obvious," Benny scratches at the map as if he can pluck reserves safely away from Wilmington and relocate them. "We should blow them sky high." He skulks off.
Crank gawks at Wilkes, then Skinny. "Ah...we need it just as much as them." She stares into her beau, but he's busy mapgazing.
A thick finger from Haskins heads skyward. "Starve the enemy. We can get oil from elsewhere. Philadelphia. Get a ship coming in from the Gulf Coast. I don't know! Maybe the convoy coming--"
"Convoy?"
"Yeah, Wilkes. The call from Chief Fish mentioned sending us whatever we need."
"You could have mentioned that in our talk, Benjamin."
"Maybe I'm not so sure help will come. Look around! Seen anything resembling reinforcements come around yet? No. Not when Coursey asked or when Crank called them before nabbing me. How many Salemites do you think have crammed telephone lines to our government buddies begging, screaming for aid? Did they get it? Heck, no one would even make this invasion public until recently. Too little, too late I say."
"No." Skinny bellows soft and haggered.
"No! So why not? Fish is on the run, hopping from one hideaway to the next. ST is on the lam. We represent the single, solitary force holding ground. Well, for today, that is."
Benny wanders the room but wherever he goes, Crank manages to get ahead of him. "Listen to me. These new transformable E-fighter planes are the best things in the skies! The armor, speed, maneuverability, weaponry. Heck, the engines alone! That's my math. One of these planes equals three of any other model. P-Fifty-One, Corsairs, Spitfires, nothing comes close to our gear. That evens out our odds some. We're fit!"
He rubs her smooth chin. Benny sees in those eyes wide hope. But Crank speaks with big gulps between words. She believes the speech, but grandeur can't cover up the black cloud on the horizon.
A knock startles all involved. The quartet turn, half defensive, half scared straight. An Asian man is in the doorway boasting the ST black uniform, a slim build and large head with thin noir hair in a comb over. Bulky files weigh down the left arm. A weary smile creases the face.
"Someone rang for backup?" The smile broadens as he crosses the office to extend a handshake to Benny. Guy can't be more than an inch taller than Frederica. "Hello. Roy Fuse. That's foo-say, but considering my job the guys call me Fuse, as in lights. I've come, heh, a long way bearing gifts."
They crowd him while wary Haskins places Fuse's hand in a python grip. Fuse flinches, his thin smile gains five pounds of painful weight. Questions asked simultaneously battle for earspace:
"How'd you get here? Forty-Nine is shut off!"
"Any news a
bout the missing Republic workers? Is there anybody running things in Trenton? Is there a Trenton?"
"Watchtowers along the shore and in Delaware...Motherville hasn't gotten to them yet, has she?"
"How much of America is free? Did they evacuate Wilmington?"
"Why does the radio play shows and tunes like all is well across the country?"
They berate his poor mug with the issues of the day, fired full speed off of .50 caliber tongues. He attempts to offer what he knows:
"Most of the towers are gone, but Number Twenty-Three out in Cape May stands. They put up one heck of a scrap. We saw some of it coming in on a series of coal ships and an ocean liner to throw off the scent, then hit road driving the back road from Bay Point. Wilmington is now a ghost town, mostly." Fuse speaks in a calm demeanor, a gentle rainfall entering their hostile climate.
Other than Benny putting an end to cracking Fuse's metacarpals, nobody makes a peep. Roy Fuse actually gets nervous. His forehead perspires.
"That's all you got?"
Fuse double blinks. "Yes, Captain Haskins, other than that I have twelve trucks outside full of gear and men, and other goodies. Seven more I sent to Fort Mott in Pennsville to set up the Triple A's we drove in. M1's."
"How many?"
"Four for now, with hopes of more later."
Benny nods at Wilkes. "Fort Mott, huh? Good, good. Put the old place to good use." Mott was built to ward off the Spanish in the late nineteenth century. The Spanish, Motherville ain't. Rest assured.
"I would have been in sooner but there's quite a kerfuffle at the gate with the locals."
Benny gets wide eyed. "At the gate? Our gate? You could have led with that, you know!" He pushes past the new guy to hit the stairs. "C'mon, Wilkes! Let's see who's crashing the party!"
Wilkes follows, as does Skinny. Fuse is left with Crank, who smiles gleefully.
"Soooo keen that your last name is synonymous with your work! I'm Crank, by the way."
"I'm a juice jerker, but I prefer dabbling in ham radios and frequencies. I've heard tremendous things about you, Miss. But your name, well, it takes the cake." He deposits the files on the desk. They shake and march downstairs.
Crank glows. "So, how did ST choose you for the convoy mission?"
"I requested it. After Chief Fish relocated again we managed to destroy Motherville's contingent invading San Diego. It won't be on the news, of that I can assure you. We found in the battle that her control over large distances is intermittent at best. Slicks are sent out, but as the control signal fades..."
"They lose their cohesiveness as a unit?"
"Correct. So taking them down in other states has been a piece of cake, relatively speaking." He halts. "I'm sorry. It's just that I realized how long it's been since I had the pleasure of eating cake. I miss it! Now where was I? Oh yes. I have a...personal stake in the area, and am curious to work out some defensive measures here in Motherville's prime locale."
They cross the hangar for the beat up outer door, cracking it open to catch the death ray brightness of the sun in their face. Crank puts up her hands. Fuse calmly places a pair of blackened welding goggles over his eyes.
The hangar yard is abuzz with activity.
When Fish promised the goods, he delivered. Well, Roy Fuse did the delivering. But anyway, Crank sees Benny and Wilkes in the center of a military cyclone. G-505 trucks are pulling in like mad dogs. Ice and dust cloud the yard. Soldier's in GI green jump off and begin unloading crates, yelling out orders, driving in tanks.
Tanks! M24's, light models, fresh off the assembly line kick up frigid mud as they zoom in. Seven enter the grounds in a fury, rolling, churning, poised for combat. It's enough to make a harried warrior cry tears of joy. Crank does. She runs up to touch one of them, to ensure this is real, to kiss it and ask whoever is inside to open up so Crank can eyeball the torsion bar suspension system. The air is tainted with the toxic marvels of diesel fuel, axle grease and chaotic discipline.
"It is real..."
Fuse gets to commanding the new boys to organize the supplies: rations, ammunition, uniforms, bombs, grenades, WLA motorcycles for recon, cooking utensils, tents, tarps, pilots for the fighters, helmets and the list goes on. Crates stamped in black ink might as well read SALVATION or VICTORY, But Benny and company have to play chicken with these machines and guys blindly unloading goods just to reach the gate. They vanish in the circus.
Once they get there, they wish they'd stayed inside.
Skinny points out the facts. "John Crowe? That's John for sure. Good man, known him a long time. What's going on?"
John paces back and forth with Gillette and five of the State Guardsmen guarding the gate. Each man waves his weapon in the direction of dozens of Salem locals across the street. Benny squints.
"Lot of them have...is that blood...on their clothes?"
Skinny pushes through a line of GI's to exit the gate. He takes Crowe by the shoulders. "Officer Crowe, what's going on?"
"Bubba! Am I ever glad to see you! It's the townsfolk, even ones out in the farms. Good deal of them started...to..." John drops his head. Poor man's lost energy and spirit, a one-two punch that's left him hollowed out.
"To what, John?"
Their eyes lock. Skinny's confused, even frightened. John barely holds on to hope. "To kill their families."
The shoulder grip ends. Skinny wipes his mouth while staring at the bloodied crowd. More of the town wanders up Front Street, more of the silent, newly sinister variety. Benny charges their way.
"Bobby wasn't enough was he, you wench?" Skinny mumbles.
John just catches the whisper on the wind. "Bobby? Bobby Meyer who worked here? So this is the Motherville thing doing this?"
"Yes. Remodulateds. Capsules she puts in a person's gut. How did she get them in so many people?"
John holds Skinny's hand. "I'm terribly sorry, son. I know about you and Bobby..."
"How could you know...? I kept it--"
"Small town, son. I know of most folks' skeletons. You'll get no judgement from me."
Skinny chokes up as Benny barges in. "Hey! What are you all staring at?" Remods don't scare the Brown Bear. After the theater, the dreams, the past, shoot! Benny's caught the rams again. No need for alcohol. Doubts subside. He's on fire. "Hey! Cagliari's cabinet! You wanna play with fire? C'mon! We got plenty! Step on up and get yourselves a handful of hurt!"
"Ben!" Skinny tries to whisper it, to keep the soldiers nearby from seeing dissension. Most hear it. Everyone sees it, as Bubba turns to jump into the captain's personal space. "They're what we're fighting for! This is my town, my people here! Maybe you don't care 'cuz it's nothing but a bad memory for you!"
A hand goes up to Skinny's mouth. The burly mechanic steps back. Benny takes in all the air of Salem County and let's it out slow. "Skin, I know you can't stand me right now. But you know deep down, you know, that these people are goners. They might come to some a hair's breadth before kicking the bucket, but by then nobody can save them. They're not Salem anymore. They belong to her."
"You mean whoever this robot controls stays hers til death?" John breaks in. His hands shake. Benny can fully sympathize.
"Yessir."
Crank and Fuse enter the discussion. Fuse observes the distant crowd, their pendulum ambling along the road, the unblinking eyes. Crank, seeing their lifeless demeanors, slips behind Benny.
"Oh gosh! They're all remodulated! How? Oh, Benny. We can't kill half the town. We're not going to. Right?"
"Curious," Fuse instructs, "seeing the level of control Motherville exerts in her primary 'court' as it were. She owns these people, but now seems uncertain as to what to do with them. There has to be some way to jam the signal, no matter how strong it is. I have an idea or two but need time to work them out."
"Yeah guy. You work on that." Benny never takes his eyes off the curious mob. He's waiting for, no, anticipating a throwdown. The gloves are off. "Crank. You, Skin and Fuse round up the cars and hit the town
. Take as many of the Army guys as you need. Whatever ideas come to mind to stop the remodulation, take it. Just keep these puppets away from the hangar. Lead them back into town, corral them somewhere. Gotta be a half dozen places to stash these white zombies, and find City Council. No telling why she wants them. We pilots have gotta get the planes up and ready, cuz we take off now. No more surprises!"
"I told them we hid City Council in the hangar," says John. "I...was at a loss as to what to do. I...had to kill one of my closest friends today."
Speaking of pilots, the hanger's previous truck pulls in, Larry at the wheel. Brakes smash axle. "Boy, you guys would not believe how hard it is to get sugar in this podunk! Cashiers are real violent chickadees, lemme tell you! What's the deal?" Teller, riding shotgun, has a face full of scratch marks.
There's the old feeling again. Urban conflict and heartache faster than light, the speed of depression. "Get this officer inside and put some Joe in him. Don't worry, sir. We'll get things straightened out. Larry. We fly. Now." Confidence. Is it brimming in Benjamin Haskins? He's beginning to think so.
Or maybe the line has been crossed.
"Conquer the county seat," says the lot across the street.
"Ah, shut up!" Benny waves the troops away to get the gears going. "We gotta war to win!" He spins a finger in the air.
"Start your engines!"
"Conquer...conquer...con--!" Mrs. Jackson, or the broad who was once Mrs. Jackson drops a broken cutting board on Front Street. An hour ago she had taken the board from its dull task of hosting freshly chopped green peppers to caving in the skull of her five-year old son, Randy. Now remodulated, the missus finds she has not the verve to take on a foe who is actually awake and alert.
Crank ducks her wild swing and introduces Mrs. Jackson's chin to her Army boot. Whomp.
It takes less than a minute for Benny's order to go into effect. Roy Fuse initiated the clearest response to the remodulated outside of the hangar.
"Hand-to-hand. For now, we knock them out. Put them in a truck and make it to the police station jail cells."
Down Jersey Driveshaft Page 20
