As the top-rated wagon-train in the Federation, Red River had, for many years, been involved in the delivery and collection of a number of individuals whose reason for being on the overground had never been fully explained but who were clearly engaged in some form of covert activity. Since the soldier-citizens of the Federation were members of one vast army whose chain of command led back to the White House, these individuals had to be working for the First Family but, to date, no one had ever discovered the name or the precise function of the unit they belonged to.
Fargo knew it was unwise to enquire further. No one reached the top spot on the Federation’s premier wagon-train without learning that at a very early age. As an exemplary product of the system, Fargo believed that if a man wasn’t party to secret information then he had no business prying into it. The First Family told you everything you needed to know when it was time for you to know it.
This unquestioning attitude did not mean that the commander of Red River was a colourless, mindless automaton. Initiative and intelligence were part of the job profile. Fargo’s unswerving allegiance to the Federation was comparable to Reinhard Heydrich’s total commitment to the genocidal policies of Hitler’s Third Reich. And like the latter, he had a distinctive personality and a mind of his own. But any reservations he had about the way the First Family ran things (and they were very few) was something he kept strictly to himself.
The first of his visitors had been flown in following a night pick-up by the White House task-force using Skyhawks supplied by Red River. One of their number was a 17-year-old Junior Medical Officer named on the detachment order as Roz Brickman. Since she had little experience of battle-field injuries, three members of Red River’s own surgical team had flown out with her, riding the buddy-frames attached to the fuselages of the five-plane formation.
The badly-wounded Mute had been brought back lashed to the spare berth and had undergone immediate surgery. In the only direct message he had received from CINC-TRAIN, Fargo had been instructed to put the crew and services of Red River at the disposal of the task-force. He had done so. The female Mute – logged aboard as ALPHA-BRAVO – was now in intensive care with the Brickman girl at her bedside. Mitch – Michelle French, Red River’s immensely able CMO, who had performed the major part of the surgery rated her chances at no better than 50–50.
Some thirty-six hours after Red River’s first unwelcome guest had flown in, the second had arrived under his own steam. Or, to be more precise, on the back of a four-legged animal that Fargo – like the rest of his crew – had been told was extinct.
Code-named YANKEE-ZULU by the secretive task-force, the smooth-boned, fair-haired Mute had made his approach in broad daylight astride a horse, with two similar beasts in tow. Fargo had relayed the video pictures through the train so that his crew could share the experience of seeing these living relics of a bygone age. Since he was also required to take the horses on board, there was little point in trying to keep their presence secret. But as he watched them being led towards the train, Fargo could not help asking himself the inevitable question. If COLUMBUS held the wrong data on horses, what other errors had it made?
Fargo erased the question and its consequent uncertainties from his mind. COLUMBUS had not made a mistake. The First Family, in its wisdom, had instructed it to withhold the information. And there would be a good reason for doing so.
Although unhurt, YANKEE-ZULU was now in the blood-wagon – the fully-equipped field-hospital that was an integral part of each wagon-train. The medical staff was accommodated on the ground floor along with stores and small lab units. The second floor contained an operating theatre, pre- and post-op, IC, x-ray and ultra-sound units and a clinic for treating minor wounds and ailments. The top floor contained three medical wards, designed to be self-contained if the need arose. The task-force, led by someone labelled as WALLIS, DONALD, E, had taken over aft-section, sealing itself off behind the sound-proofed partitions with its special radio equipment. ALPHA-BRAVO, still unconscious after her ordeal on the operating table, was in one of the cubicles of the intensive care unit on the floor below.
Fargo could not help wishing he knew what was being discussed behind those closed doors. He was too disciplined to display his feelings in front of his crew but he was more than a little put out by the thought that after eighteen years service in the field he was still denied knowledge of secret operations of which Red River was an integral part. And – as if to add insult to injury – the three horses he had obligingly taken on board were pissing buckets and dropping large steaming piles of crap all over one of his spit and polished cargo floors.
Steve gazed down at the sleeping figure inside the sterile plastic tent. A breathing tube that reached down into her larynx had been inserted between her pale lips. Her mouth and nose were covered by a clear oxygen mask. There were drip feeds in her arms, drainage tubes from internal organs, and wires linking her to electronic monitoring equipment. Clearwater was a long way from Mr Snow’s herbal mash remedies. Another world …
Her olive brown skin had taken on a deathly pallor. She had no head wounds but someone had cropped her long dark hair, and they’d done it badly, leaving it looking like a porcupine who’d blundered into a chainsaw. But she still looked beautiful, her head and neck resting on a single pillow, miraculously untouched by the hail of bullets.
Steve, who had kept vigil over her broken, bloodstained body, tried not to think of the splintered bones and ruptured flesh that lay beneath the covers. A body so fragile, a curved frame had been placed over it to support the weight of the top sheet.
He turned to Roz. The sides of their bodies came into contact as they gave each other a supporting hug. ‘Is she going to make it, little sister?’
Roz grimaced. ‘At the moment, her chances are no more than even. When the surgical team saw the state she was in they were amazed she’d survived for so long. In fact, there were a couple of times they nearly lost her on the table.’
‘And all because of a stupid, fucking argument – that I provoked.’ Steve broke away and raised his hands in despair. ‘Why?! Ohh, Roz! If she’s crippled for life I’ll never forgive myself!’
Roz flashed him a warning glance and touched her ear to remind him that someone might be listening to their conversation. ‘Guilt is a recognized symptom of shock,’ she said, adopting her best bedside manner. ‘After all you came close to getting killed yourself. It was a pilot from Red River who gunned her down. You and I just did what we had to do.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Steve, cottoning on. He looked down at Clearwater then eyed the screen monitoring her weak heartbeat. ‘Would it be all right if I just held her hand for a minute?’
‘Yes, but very gently – okay?’ Roz gathered up the side of the sterile tent and lifted the sheet. Clearwater’s right hand lay palm up outside the metal frame.
Steve knelt down and sandwiched her hand between his own. The flesh was moist, the fingers limp. He pressed his palm against hers and tried to reach into her mind, tried to channel his life force into her body. He’d done the same thing in the deserted renegade camp in a desperate effort to infuse her with the will to live as they waited for Roz and the Red River medics to arrive.
‘We’ve got to save her, Roz.’
‘We will. Don’t worry. Everything that can be done will be done.’ Then, for the benefit of the hidden microphones she added: ‘You and I aren’t the only people with a vested interest in keeping her alive.’
‘No …’
Roz smiled. ‘And if you think this happened just because you got into an argument with Cadillac then I should take some of the blame. After all, the argument was over me.’
‘That’s true.’ Steve laughed for the first time since they’d been reunited. ‘You’ve been nothing but trouble ever since you were born!’ He parried her playful punch and looked down at Clearwater’s hand in time to see the fingertips twitch then curl slowly upwards against the side of his hand. ‘Roz! See that?!’
‘Yes. Take a look at the screen.’
The weak green trace of Clearwater’s heartbeat had changed. Not dramatically, but every fourth pulse was a little deeper, a little stronger than the others.
Steve’s spirits soared. ‘D’you think she knows I’m here?!’
Roz caressed the back of his head. ‘Yes, I’m sure she does.’ But not because you are holding her hand. She knows because I am within her as I am within you …
In the sealed ward above the intensive care unit, Don Wallis motioned Steve and Roz to take the facing seats in the middle of the table where they were sandwiched between the six-man team from AMEXICO. Wallis, the team leader, sat at the head of the table on Steve’s right. Jake Nevill, his Number Two, was at the other end.
It was Nevill who had flown out with Roz zipped onto the buddy-frame of his Skyhawk. While she and the Red River medics were busy with Clearwater, he and Steve had given each other the buzz. Satisfied he was talking to the right man, Nevill told Steve he had been assigned the temporary code-name of YANKEE-ZULU while on board the wagon-train: his AMEXICO code-name was never to be disclosed to anyone outside the organization. The task-force of mexicans was disguised as a special detachment from the White House, complete with fake ID-cards, name-tags and the distinctive blue and white badge on the shoulders of their camouflaged fatigues.
It was, explained Nevill, standard procedure when operating alongside regular army units.
As a JMO, Roz was wearing hospital whites with her name tag, surmounted by miniature lieutenant’s rank stripes, tacked onto a Velcro patch above her right breast pocket.
Steve, after a long, hot shower and a medical examination designed to make sure he had not contracted some unspeakable overground infection, had been given a set of Trail-Blazer fatigues with no name-tag or badges. Since he still had his long ragged hair, rat-tail plaits and multi-coloured skin markings, the effect was bizarre. The task-force’s bewildered reaction on first seeing him in uniform reminded Steve of his painful encounter with Lt. Harmer at the Pueblo way-station. This time however, no one tried to pulverize his liver with the butt end of a rifle.
How much does Roz know about all this? he wondered. In the few brief moments they had spent together since boarding Red River he had been so concerned about Clearwater, he hadn’t even asked Roz how she came to be on the wagon-train. He had just been thankful she’d been close at hand when he needed her. It was probably wiser to say nothing at this stage. Her silent reminder that Clearwater’s cubicle might be bugged had jerked him back to the reality of the Federation. The fear that whatever you said might be recorded and used in evidence against you.
Maybe, when the time was right, she would come through on their private line. She was the expert. Steve, who had wilfully neglected his telepathic gifts, was still restricted to the channel used for broadcasting May-Day messages.
Wallis aligned his electronic memo-pad with the edge of the table, cleared his throat and began: ‘Steve, ahh – this first session is essentially a debriefing. You’ve met Jake. I don’t think we need formal introductions. The names are on the labels.’
Steve said hello to George Hannah and Cal Parsons who sat across the table on either side of Roz, and to Daryl Coates and Tom Watkins who sat on his left and right respectively.
‘They’re all members of the organization, and in case you feel a little tongue-tied, Roz has been made an honorary member.’
Steve eyed Roz then looked blankly at Wallis.
‘It means she doesn’t have a code-name or a call-sign,’ said Wallis. He fingered his left earlobe in a seemingly absent-minded gesture.
‘Got it…’ Steve smiled at Roz. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Well, you know what I’m like – always dying to know what you’re up to.’ Roz’s face bore just the merest hint of a smile but Steve knew that inwardly she was savouring the exquisite irony of the situation.
‘Hey! Come on, you two – snap out of it!’ exclaimed Nevill.
Steve ignored him and turned to Wallis. ‘You were saying?’
‘I’ve been asked to congratulate you both,’ said Wallis. ‘That message comes jointly from the Operational Director and the Oval Office. Initially there was some concern that the goods had been damaged in transit but ALPHA-BRAVO’s disablement probably makes the task of shipping her back to Grand Central a lot easier. As Roz has probably told you, it’s early days yet, but given the level of medical support available here and down the line, I’ve been assured that if our target survives the next two weeks, she has every chance of making a full recovery.’
‘Glad to hear my efforts weren’t totally wasted,’ said Steve.
‘If she needs any other specialists, they can fly out and treat her on the return trip.’
Steve’s eyes met Roz’s briefly. With six people watching them they had to tread carefully. ‘Return trip …?’
‘Yes,’ said Wallis ‘We were planning to airlift her into the Federation but Red River’s CMO has advised against it. And I agree. We made that night pick-up because we were in a life-or-death situation but it would be crazy to risk losing such a valuable asset between here and Grand Central. This is the safest way for her to travel. So as soon as we know what your plans are, we’re going to run for home.’
Steve weighed up the other members of the task-force then came back to Wallis shaking his head. ‘No. Sorry. You’re going to have to call Mother and tell him you can’t do that.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because I need Red River to stay here with Clearwater on board. She’s the bait that will lure the other two into the net.’
Wallis pursed his lips. ‘You mean Cadillac and Mr Snow …’
‘Yes.’ Steve looked at Roz, but apart from listening with interest, like everyone else, she did not respond.
‘You had Cadillac – knocked out cold – and you let him go,’ This was Nevill again.
‘I let him go because he’s the one who will bring Mr Snow to us,’ said Steve patiently. ‘I need a month to get things organized. Six weeks at the outside.’
‘Six weeks?!’ cried Nevill.
‘That’s not very long when you consider it’s taken me a year to put this together.’
‘Christo! Just to kidnap three lumpheads? If someone had given me the job I’d have winkled ’em out inside forty-eight hours.’
‘With an airborne snatch-squad?’
‘Yeah. They’d be back in Grand Central before they knew what hit ’em.’
Steve looked impressed. ‘That certainly would have been a remarkable feat of logistics. One of the trio was in Wyoming, the others were in two separate locations in Ne-Issan – held by people opposed to our friends who run the local network.’
‘Quite,’ said Wallace hurriedly. He was the only person at the table who knew what Steve was alluding too and it was a subject he wanted to put a cap on. Attempting to be diplomatic he added: ‘I don’t think you’ve fully appreciated who it is we’re dealing with, Jake.’
‘Exactly,’ said Steve, opting for a head-on collision instead of conciliation. ‘Have you ever come up against a summoner? Actually seen them channelling earth magic through their bodies?’
‘No, but –’
Steve cut across Nevill’s reply and addressed the other mexicans. ‘Have any of you?’
They all shook their heads.
‘Well, I have. I’ve been on the receiving end when I was on board The Lady from Louisiana in 2989 –’
‘I think we’ve all read the report on that one,’ said Wallis, trying to keep his team’s end up.
‘But I’ve also seen them make it happen. Seen ’em make rocks fly, blow away half a hillside, take control of someone’s mind.’
Steve described the death of Lord Yama-Shita. How Clearwater had made him drive his sword repeatedly through his body. And each time, the blade had sunk in right up to the blood-drenched hilt. Eight killing strokes, one for each of the Mutes he had condemned to death on the giant iron-bound paddle of his wheel
-boat.
Turning to Nevill, he said: ‘Mr Snow’s other name is the Storm-Bringer. That’s not just a fancy title. It means precisely what it says. He’d have blown your snatch-squad right out of the sky.’
‘But you, of course, know how to handle him,’ said Nevill.
Sarcastic sonofabitch … Steve had run up against guys like Nevill before. There were some people who took an instant dislike to him and no amount of sweet talk could bring them round. They just did not respond to treatment. The important thing was not to get mad. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘With Roz’s help I think I can.’
Wallis made another attempt to lower the temperature. ‘Roz – what shape will ALPHA-BRAVO be in six weeks from now?’
‘Clearwater? She’ll still be flat on her back. All we’ve done so far is stabilize her condition. She needs several more ops and at least four months convalescence before she’s on her feet – assuming there are no complications.’
‘Okay,’ said Wallis. ‘Let’s move on. Steve, why don’t you begin by telling us what happened from the time you took off from Long Point.’
Steve recoiled. ‘Wow … you mean everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘Okay, uhh, before I start – do you happen to know if Kelso and Jodi got home in one piece?’
‘Jodi did,’ said Wallis. ‘Someone found the explosive charge strapped to her chest and managed to pull the detonator out a split-second before it was triggered. It was the other that did the damage.’
Steve nodded soberly. ‘The transmitter was hidden under Kelso along with the Px.’
‘How did you know?’ asked Nevill. ‘D’you put it there?’
‘No. It was a couple of days before I discovered the explosives were missing. That was when Cadillac told me what they’d done. And later, we heard a wagon-train had been blown apart.’
‘Yeah,’ said Nevill. ‘The Lady from Louisiana. Your ex-crew-mates. Nice gesture, Brickman.’
Death-Bringer Page 4
