‘I have.’ Hartmann screened himself through to his deputy.
Lt. Commander Cooper’s face appeared on the VDU. ‘Morning, skipper.’
‘Morning, Coop. I’ve got some items that are going to keep me busy for the next twenty minutes, so I’d be obliged if you’d get The Lady underway. CINC-TRAIN had ordered a course change and a three-shift roll. Tell Mr McDonnell to bring the section chiefs to the saddle at 0730. I want you and the rest of my staff there too.’
‘Very good, skipper.’ Cooper paused. ‘Sounds serious.’
‘Well, I don’t think anyone’s gonna feel like dancin’ “Turkey in the Middle”,’ said Hartmann. ‘But keep this under your hat till I go on the air – okay?’
‘Will do …’
Hartmann blanked the screen and put the VDU into text and sound mode. He then stripped off the olive-drab tee-shirt he wore when sleeping and approached the shower with his thumbs inside the waistband of his matching boxer shorts. ‘Mind if I join you?’
Anderssen opened up the curtain, revealing the now familiar lines of her firm, thirty-six-year-old body. ‘Be my guest…’
Hartmann stepped into the shower cubicle. There was no way two people could stand under the spray head without their bodies touching in several interesting places – but that was something they’d long been accustomed to. At the Academy, male and female recruits shared the same sleeping quarters and bathroom facilities which included communal shower blocks with units that could house four at a time – or six good friends.
Hartmann pumped some soap out of the dispenser and worked up a lather. He hadn’t joined Mary-Ann in the shower because he was feeling horny. When the water was running, it was the only place in the wagon-train you could talk without anyone being able to listen in. Hartmann had no firm proof that the train was bugged but he had not reached the rank of commander without discovering that careless talk could, on occasion, cost lives.
‘Want me to scrub your back?’
‘Yeah, why not …,’ Hartmann faced the wall. Anderssen went to work with both hands. ‘It’s my back you’re supposed to be doing.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get there. We usually manage this twice a year. Twice in one week arouses all kinds of unhealthy appetites.’
‘It’s the wrong time and the wrong place, honeybun. Listen. CINC-TRAIN just came through. The Lady’s not going home. Not yet, anyway.’
Anderssen’s hands kept moving. ‘So how do I get to Santa Fe?’
‘We’re going to fly you there.’
‘Bill, be serious. I’ve never flown in one of those stick and string contraptions and I don’t intend to start now.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m under orders from CINC-TRAIN and while you’re on The Lady, you do as I say. Which means you’ve got about forty-three minutes to get used to the idea.’
‘Bastard …’
Anderssen tweaked his buttocks with iron hard fingers but Hartmann, anticipating a revenge attack, had already firmed them up so it didn’t hurt too much.
‘C’mon, Mary-Ann. Ease up. A few puffs of the stuff you keep hidden away and you won’t feel a thing.’
‘Great idea but I never carry it around – especially to Grand Central. But never mind that, just where the hell am I gonna sit? If you think I’m going to let myself be zipped into one of those buddy-frames you can forget it!’ Anderssen’s voice softened as Hartmann eased himself around. She smiled up at him as their loins came into contact.
Hartmann made himself comfortable. ‘Don’t worry. CINC-TRAIN already thought of that. One of those two-seat Skyriders is coming out from Santa Fe.’
‘Oh, dandy …’
‘Hey – snap to it! You got a reputation to keep up. Don’t they call you the Iron Lady?’
‘Yeah. But that’s when I’ve got my feet on the ground.’
‘Look, it’s a hundred and seventy-two miles by road. By air, it won’t take more than an hour and a half. All you’ve gotta do is hang tough for ninety minutes. You telling me you can’t handle that?’
‘How was it with you the first time?’
Hartmann responded, tongue-in-cheek. ‘I’m still waiting for someone to offer me a ride.’ He silenced her protest with a quick kiss. ‘Listen, if it starts getting to you, just close your eyes, lay back and think of–’
Anderssen’s firm thighs put the squeeze on his brace and bit. ‘Don’t say anything you might regret, Billy-boy …’
Hartmann pinned her arms inside his and locked his wrists against the base of her spine. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This is no time to be kidding around. Do you realize we’ve only six good years left – maybe eight, if we’re lucky?’ He sighed. ‘Wish I was going with you …’
Anderssen didn’t resist as he pulled her even closer. She laid her head under his chin as they rocked gently from side to side under the raying jets of warm water. ‘Do you still miss Lauren?’
‘Not as much as I’m going to miss you.’
Anderssen slid her arms around his waist. ‘Where are you headed?’
‘Cedar Rapids, Iowa …’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s about twelve hundred miles north-west of here. On the same latitude as Chicago.’
‘Christo! Doesn’t it snow up there at this time of year?’
‘So they tell me.’
‘Must be pretty important for them to risk sending you that far north. Do you have any back-up?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘So what’s the bottom line – or haven’t they told you yet?’
‘It’s a search and rescue mission. At least, that’s what CINC-TRAIN calls it. Five of our people have gone missing up there.’ He shrugged. ‘Houston want me to find them and … bring ’em in.’
‘Feds…?’
‘If they are, they’re not going to tell me.’
‘Feds’ was the nickname applied to special undercover agents thought to be employed by the First Family. No one had ever come up with any hard evidence that such people existed but that had not dispelled the widespread belief that they did.
‘The only other kind of people roamin’ around out there are breakers. Apart from FINTEL, of course. But it’s the first time I ever heard of anyone operating east of the Mississippi.’
‘Yeah. The other odd thing is, two of them are wingmen from The Lady – Jodi Kazan, the flight section leader did five tours with me before disappearing over the side in a ball of flame. In that battle I told you about when we –’
‘Ran into some unexpected trouble …’
‘Yeah, that one. The second was a new boy called Brickman. One of three we lost before we turned and ran south to lick our wounds. I’ve got nothing on the other three – apart from the fact one’s a wingman – but everyone thought Kazan and Brickman were both posted KIA over Wyoming last June.’ Hartmann shrugged. ‘It seems we were mistaken.’
Anderssen leaned away from her shower-mate. ‘This guy Brickman … would he happen to be 2102-8902 Steven Roosevelt Brickman?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. How d’you know his name and number?’
‘Because he’s the kind of guy you remember – for all kinds of reasons.’
‘But why in particular – and how come?’
‘He flew into Pueblo on a wing and a prayer almost a year ago today. Said he’d escaped after being shot down then captured and held prisoner by a clan of Mutes –’
Hartmann looked surprised. ‘Held prisoner?’
‘That’s what he said. We radioed The Lady to check that you had a crewman by that name. Your Signals Officer obviously didn’t tell you about our query. Anyway, he confirmed that Brickman was one of three wingmen listed PD/ET north-east of Cheyenne on June 12th – as the defaulter claimed.’
‘Defaulter?’
‘It’s SOP. Anyone who comes wandering in from the overground adrift from his unit and without an ID is automatically regarded as a potential code-breaker until proved otherwise. You know that.’
‘Sur
e,’ grunted Hartmann. ‘But up to now, the only breakers I’ve seen have been dead ones. So what was his story?’
‘I never got to hear it.’ Anderssen dropped her voice right down. ‘When we called up Brickman’s dope-sheet from Grand Central, it came prefixed with a Level Nine entry.’
‘Which only you could read.’
‘Lucky I did. Otherwise I might have got my buns roasted. Your Mr Brickman is on the Special Treatment List.’
The news caused Hartmann’s eyebrows to rise. ‘Is he? Well, well, well … Thanks for telling me – although, to be honest, I can’t say it comes as a total surprise. I always have a one-to-one word with new crewmen when they come aboard then compare notes with McDonnell my Trail Boss. We both had him down as someone who might go far.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Anderssen. ‘He has that … look about him.’
Hartmann drew her to him. ‘Yeah. It’s the eyes.’ He looked deep into hers.
‘So, be careful, huh?’
‘You too.’ He planted a brotherly kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘Okay, fun’s over. Git outta here.’
‘Sure …’ Anderssen pushed the curtain aside. ‘Just out of interest – do you always wear socks in the shower?’
Hartmann looked down at his olive-drab feet. ‘Awww, shee-utt! Y’see what happens when you’re around?’ he peeled off the socks and started to wring them out.
‘It might help if you turned the water off.’ Marie Anderssen stepped out of the cubicle and picked up a couple of towels. She threw one at Hartmann then started to give herself a vigorous rub-down. ‘So what’s the word on the rest of my party? Are they being flown to Santa Fe too? Or do they have to walk it?’
‘Neither,’ replied Hartmann. ‘They’re staying aboard.’
Mary-Ann stopped drying her hair with one end of the towel as the other end stalled between her thighs. ‘But these guys are –’
‘Due three months leave, yeah. It’s been postponed. Tough, but that’s the way it is. They’ll get home when we do.’
‘That is outrageous …’ Anderssen cast around for a solution. ‘Can’t you drop them off at Monroe/Wichita on your way through? I know the interface isn’t operational yet but they could ride down the air shaft that was drilled through the floor of the old way-station.’
‘We’re not going through Wichita. We’ve been routed through Great Bend and Salina. The terrain is easier to navigate – which means we can maintain speed during our nighttime run.’
Anderssen swore violently then vented her frustration on her own body with an extra-punishing rub-down. ‘There must be something we can do!’
‘Uh-uh, not so much of the “we”. This is your beef, hon.’
Her voice turned sour. ‘Thanks, I’ll remember that.’
‘Listen, Marie, I’ve got my orders. If you don’t like what’s happening, take it up with CINC-TRAIN – when you get to Santa Fe.’
‘Yeah, sure. It means going through channels. Any complaint I make has got to go all the way up to Pioneer Corps HQ before being sent over to CINC-TRAIN. By which time–’
‘– assuming it ever gets that far –’
‘– you’ll be out of sight across the Missouri.’
‘Exactly. You know the score – just like CINC-TRAIN knew your guys were hitching a ride home on The Lady. There was no order to off-load them because no one at Grand Central gives a shit whether they get home for New Year or not. All GC cares about is getting this wagon-train to Cedar Rapids. Pronto. So don’t take it out on me.’
Anderssen turned away from him, sawed the towel rapidly across her buttocks and down the back of her legs.
Hartmann didn’t need to see her face to know that she would have preferred to throttle him with it. Hanging his own towel round his neck, he fished a clean pair of socks and a set of underwear from one of the drawers in his clothes cupboard. He wasn’t completely dry but he now only had four minutes in which to get dressed before he was due to break the bad news to his execs and section-chiefs – and he did not relish the prospect.
As a commander who had a genuine interest in the morale and general well-being of the men serving under him, he could understand Marie Anderssen being reluctant to abandon her soldiers but he was irritated to discover that she appeared to be more concerned about them than she was about him. In less than thirty minutes she would be flying out, leaving him with a glum-faced crew and the unwanted problem of coping for upwards of two months with an extra sixty-four disgruntled dog-faces.
He zipped up his khaki fatigues and set a yellow baseball cap at the regulation angle on his head. Anderssen, now in briefs and T-shirt, was stuffing her belongings into a trail-bag. She still had her back to him.
‘C’mon, Anderssen – spare me the fire and ice. This new assignment CINC-TRAIN has thrown at us is going to be tough on everybody.’
As she turned around, the tight line of her mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Everybody except me. You’re right. You’re the last person I should be dumping on. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t say sorry. Just say goodbye.’
They hugged each other warmly. Anderssen raised her face to his. ‘Till whenever, huh?’
‘Sure. And don’t worry about your guys. It’s not going to be a joy-ride but I’ll do my best to look after ’em.’ Their lips met briefly then, as they disengaged reluctantly, Hartmann picked up his wristwatch. ‘Christo! I’m late!’ He buckled it on and gripped her shoulder, his voice now a whisper. ‘Listen, this guy Brickman. Where did he go after he left you?’
‘He was hooded and chained then flown to Santa Fe aboard a Skyrider from Big Red One and handed over to the Provost-Marshal of New Mexico for onward transmission to Grand Central. And GC also ordered us to erase his name from our station-log.’
Hartmann nodded. ‘That explains why we were never sent an up-date. We still have him listed KIA.’
‘I don’t get it,’ breathed Anderssen. ‘If he was sent to GC as a defaulter last November, what the hell is he doing up to his ass in snow in Iowa?’
‘Good question,’ said Hartmann. ‘But even if I find him, you and I are never going to know the answer. Young Mr Brickman is on the Special Treatment List – remember?’
Chapter Two
For Steve Brickman, any advantages bestowed upon those selected for special treatment were, at that precise moment in time, fated to remain unspecified and dubious. He certainly had no reason to feel privileged, except in the negative sense that he and his four travelling companions had been chosen to be on the receiving end of a sudden run of bad luck. Once again, hasty, ill-considered action had placed him in a situation fraught with difficulty and danger.
Their arrival, before dawn that same day, on the wind-carved dunes of Long Point, on the western shore of Lake Erie, had marked the end of the first phase of a perilous escape from Ne-Issan, the eastern lands over which the Iron Masters held sway. The second phase, a fifteen-hundred-mile journey by air to Wyoming lay ahead. It was this journey which, after a tense but triumphant start, had gone disastrously wrong. Two and a half hours into the flight, Steve had discovered they were rapidly running out of fuel – and there was worse to come.
With the help of two Tracker renegades – Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso – Steve had made good a promise to rescue Cadillac and Clearwater, two gifted Plainfolk Mutes from the clan M’Call who had fallen into the hands of the Iron Masters. The promise had been made to Mr Snow, the clan’s quirky, ageing wordsmith whose brain acted as the repository for nine hundred years of oral history. Mr Snow might be the guardian of the past and the clan’s guiding intelligence but that did not stop him making mistakes. It was he who was responsible for sending Cadillac and Clearwater to Ne-Issan in the first place; a decision he had later come to regret and which Steve, in a rash moment, had offered to repair.
But as with most situations Steve found himself in, it was not as simple as that. Before making his promise to Mr Snow, Steve had been recruited into the ranks of AMEXICO – the AM
trak EXecutive Intelligence COmmando – a top-secret organisation working directly for the President-General of the Amtrak Federation. So secret that only a select handful of the First Family knew of its existence.
Trained as a wingman – the airborne elite of the Federation’s overground strike-force, Steve was now a mexican – a generic term proudly adopted by AMEXICO operatives along with the use of words and phrases from the pre-Holo-caust language known as Spanish; the language of the long-vanished nation which had once bordered the southern edge of the Federation and was now the refuge for some of the displaced clans of Southern Mutes.
Steve’s new boss, Commander-General Ben Karlstrom had given him the same assignment as Mr Snow. But since he didn’t regard Mutes as people, he had referred to Cadillac and Clearwater as ‘targets’, and the word ‘rescue’ had been replaced by ‘capture’.
Mr Snow had also been targeted – to paraphrase Karlstrom – ‘for removal from the equation’. Steve’s mission was to bring all three back to the Federation alive, or leave their bodies for the death birds. Or else.
There had been a veiled threat of punitive sanctions that might be levied on Steve’s kin-sister Roz and his guard-parents, Annie and Poppa Jack. The death or ill-treatment of his guard-parents would have caused him great distress but it was something he could have borne. It was the threats against Roz that could not be countenanced.
Steve had accepted the assignment because it offered a chance to get back into the Blue-Sky World where he had time to think and room to manoeuvre. Time to think how to rig the board so that everybody got what they wanted – or were fooled into thinking they had. He had the impression that Karlstrom didn’t trust him completely. The feeling was mutual. In several action-packed months on the overground, Steve had discovered that the First Family had been lying to their loyal troops for centuries – perhaps from the very beginning when the ash-clouds from the firestorms that had swept across America turned the sun into a chilling, crimson eye for more than three decades.
But it was not all threats and double-dealing. When the chips were down it was Karlstrom who had provided the vital back-up Steve had needed to blast his way to freedom. Part of that back-up had been a fellow-agent code-named Side-Winder disguised as a lump-head with the aid of plastic surgery.
The Amtrak Wars: Blood River Page 3
