But she would be the first.
He smiled at her. ‘Good to see you.’
‘You too. The word at Fort Worth was that you’d powered down last June.’
‘Just goes to show you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’ Steve nodded towards the black hood that now lay on his lap. ‘Are you sure it’s okay to take that thing off? Supposing the other guys see me – and make trouble?’
Lundkwist smiled. ‘Relax. Rick Wyman said it would be okay. In fact he suggested it. We’re all from Big Blue – right?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. Thanks.’ Big Blue was the graduates nickname for the Flight Academy at Lindberg Field – buried fifteen hundred feet down under the sands of New Mexico.
Lundkwist eyed him. ‘Incredible. We knew we were picking up a wingman but I had no idea it was going to turn out to be you under that hood. Christopher – the idea of you as a cee-bee is really hard to take on board. It just… doesn’t make sense!’
Steve shrugged. ‘It must be somebody.’ He gazed out through the canopy and wondered if Lundkwist’s presence was just pure coincidence or whether – because they knew each other – she had been sent to pump him. Maybe even the removal of his hood as a gesture of solidarity was all part of the business. Whatever the answer, if Lundkwist was hoping to trap him into revealing some code-breaking indiscretion she would discover it had been wasted journey. During his five months as a prisoner of the Mutes, something had snapped. His previous automatic, almost robotic, responses to the military style discipline that governed the thoughts and behaviour of everyone within the Federation had gone. He had realised it from the moment Harmer, the pudgy-faced lieutenant had rushed out of the way-station with his heavily armed men and had tried to haul him in on a line.
From early childhood, Steve had become adept at concealing his true feelings. He had used that skill to exploit the system to his own advantage but he had, nevertheless, believed in the system wholeheartedly. That certainty had now evaporated; his time with the Mutes had exposed the Federation’s weaknesses; had made him aware that he wanted something other than what it had to offer. He was not yet sure exactly what that ‘something other’ was. He only knew that he wanted things his way. Now that he was back, he would say and do the right things but, from here on in, it would be nothing more than an elaborate game.
Even so, Steve was under no illusions. This was no inconsequential battle of wits or abstract triumph of will. He was about to pit himself against the collective might of the Federation and the all-pervading power of the First Family.
This game was for real; a deadly contest in which the slightest false move could cost him his life.
‘I’ve got your gear in the back. Naylor’s knife and Fazetti’s helmet. Did Lou –?’
‘Yeah. He went into the meat business.’ And not just metaphorically, thought Steve. Every time Steve had seen that helmet it conjured up the image of Fazetti’s impaled head. In all the time he’d been a prisoner, he’d never found out what the M’Calls had done with the body and he’d tried not to dwell on the possibility that bits of Fazzetti might have ended up in one of the thick hot-flavoured stews his captors had fed him with.
Looking back over his shoulder, he surveyed the aircraft formation on their starboard wing and noted the dramatic change in its appearance. ‘What are you guys flying – Red River Specials?’
Lundkwist smiled. ‘The Mark Two Skyhawk. Part of a batch delivered for field trials.’
‘What happened to the rifle mount above the cockpit?’
‘We’ve got a fixed, forward firing set-up called Thor instead. Six revolving barrels, motor driven and drum fed, delivering twelve hundred rounds a minute.’
‘Smokin’ lumpshit! Is this one armed too?’
‘No, this is just a delivery truck.’
Steve jerked his head towards the cockpit canopy. ‘This must be great for keeping out the rain. How well does it stand up to Mute crossbow bolts?’
‘Depends on the range. It won’t stop a bolt hitting it more or less dead on – say eighty or ninety degrees – but if the strike is at an angle of seventy degrees or under it tends to bounce off. But that’s not all, we’ve got lightweight armoured panels made from some new composite under the floor, around the sides and the behind the seat.’
Steve gazed around the cockpit and shook his head. ‘Pilot armour, six-barrelled guns, canopies –’ He glanced back up over his shoulder at the ribbed starboard wing, ‘– a totally new method of construction. It’s too much to handle.’
‘You’re forgetting you’ve been out of circulation for five months.’
‘So what? Come on, Don, you know as well as I do they haven’t even changed the nut sizes on the Skyhawk in the last fifty years! And now suddenly, all this –’ Steve swept his eyes over the cockpit. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as amazing?’
‘Yeah, fantastic,’ said Lundkwist. ‘But I don’t see what you’re getting at. You know what Federation policy is – “If it works, you don’t change it.” Going up against the Plainfolk Mutes showed us the old Skyhawk was too vulnerable. You guys aboard The Lady found that out the hard way.’
‘Yeah…’ Steve thought back to the bloody battle in the flooded river bed.
‘And we lost a few guys during the summer too. That’s what’s so wonderful about the First Family. Right from the very beginning, they’ve always provided us with the right tools, the right equipment and technology to enable us to the job they ask of us.’
‘They’ve certainly been busy,’ admitted Steve. ‘How many of the wagon-trains have got the new model your friends are flying?’
‘Right now, nobody else but us. They’re still gearing up the new production line at Reagan/Lubbock.’
Steve eyed her with a touch of resentment. ‘So meanwhile, the rest of the guys are flying garbage…’
Lundkwist smiled. ‘You know how it is with Big Red One. It’s the outfit that gets the best of everything.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
Lundkwist checked the sky around them then glanced back at Steve. ‘How did you get into this mess?’
‘Good question. I got shot down over Wyoming and was made a prisoner by the Mutes. It’s a long story but finally, after five months, I managed to escape.’
Lundkwist frowned. ‘But –’
‘Yeah, I know what you’re going to say. “Mutes don’t take prisoners.” That’s what everyone keeps telling me.’
‘And you mean you were out there, with them for five whole months? How come you’re still in one piece?’
‘That’s another good question. You tell me. Trouble is I have a feeling that if you came up with the right answer you might find yourself at the top of the Most Wanted List.’
Lundkwist looked across at him. ‘I’m not quite sure what you mean.’
‘Neither do I. Forget it.’
‘So how did it happen?’
‘Gus White and I were fire-bombing some Mute cropfields north of Cheyenne. I got hit by a cross-bow bolt, lost control – and spun in from about three hundred feet.’
‘How did you manage when they, uh – touched you?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, y’know how it is with lumpheads. They have diseased skins. You got hit by a crossbow bolt and fell out of the sky. Was that when they grabbed you?’
‘Yeah. I broke a few things here and there and couldn’t move. A couple of them pulled me out of the wreckage and took me to this old, uh, lumphead who was some kind of medicine man. He patched me up.’
‘Ughhh, shit…’ Lundkwist’s face wrinkled up with disgust at the idea. Trackers were raised from birth to believe that skin to skin contact with Mutes could cause their own flesh to rot. Gangrenous open sores; swollen leprous limbs. There were videopics on the Public Access Channel to prove it. Some of the radiation-sick renegrades she had seen executed on tv had been infected that way too.
Steve had felt exactly the same when Mr Snow and Cadillac, his two pri
ncipal captors, had tended the injuries caused in the crash. Now though, the picture that came into his mind was of Clearwater; her perfect face; her firm flawless body entwined with his on the soft layered animal furs in the moondark. ‘I know how you feel,’ he said. ‘I try not to think about it too much.’
Lundkwist shook her head. ‘Five months out in the open breathing bad air, with a mess of Mutes pawing you. How did you survive? What did you eat?’
Steve shrugged. ‘I ate what they gave me. Had no choice.’
Lundkwist looked disgusted. ‘Makes me feel sick.’
‘Made me feel sick too. For the first week I couldn’t keep anything down. In the end I had to force myself. It was the only way to stay alive.’
‘But – all that stuff out there – it’s poisonous! It’s not just the bad air that can kill you. It’s in the water, the grass – everything!’
Steve turned back to Don. ‘What would you have done?’
Lundkwist thought it over. ‘I don’t know. What you did, I guess. But it must be awful having to eat when you know you’re killing yourself with every mouthful. Are you sure you feel okay?’
Steve shrugged. ‘I’m here talking to you now. My brain feels like it’s in one piece. What can I tell you?’
‘I really don’t understand it. It just… doesn’t make sense.’
‘I’ve discovered there are a lot of things that don’t make sense,’ replied Steve. ‘Don’t let it worry you.’
‘Sure but…’ Lundkwist looked concerned, ‘… even though I can see you’re still coming on like a hard-assed sonofabitch I’d like to think you were gonna make it.’
Steve gave another shrug. ‘I’ve made it this far. What happens to me from here on in depends on what they’re cooking up at Grand Central.’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I was just thinking about when I last saw you, how worried you were about not making seventeen.’
‘Yeah.’ Lundkwist’s grin was tinged with sadness. ‘You wanna know something? I’m getting to think like you. It’s not good to get too close to people. It hurts too much.’
‘Not only older but wiser,’ observed Steve. ‘Happy birthday whenever.’
‘July 4th.’
Steve nodded. ‘Must remember to make a note of that…’
In Anderssen’s office, Deke played back the videotape he had made of Steve’s arrival at Pueblo, plus general coverage and close-up details of his flying machine and the standard mug-shot footage taken soon after he had been hustled inside but before he’d lost his beribboned plaits; the last segment showed Brickman as seen by a concealed camera in his cell.
Seated behind her desk, Anderssen watched the run-through in silence. She looked up at Deke as the screen cleared. ‘Do you think we ought to trim out that bit where Harmer lays into him? She dismissed the question with a wave. ‘Ahhgh, what the heck! Leave it.’ She checked her watch. ‘Just make sure that goes down the wire to Grand Central in the next hour.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Deke removed the cassette, threw a casual salute that he knew Anderssen would accept when there was no one else around and headed for the door.
‘Oh, Deke,’ said Anderssen.
Deke paused with his hand on the door. ‘Sir-ma’am?’
‘I’ve got a little problem. A couple of days before Brickman arrived I asked Major Hiller to run a check on our inventory of videotapes – including the ones currently on issue to the watch-tower. She checked the racks and we seem to be one short. Did you know that?’
Deke felt a slight chill creep up from the base of his spine. He framed his reply carefully. ‘No, sir-ma’am. We log the movement of all tapes. I can’t understand how one could have been removed from the tower without –’
Anderssen waved him down. ‘I didn’t say it had been removed from the tower, Deke. I said it wasn’t on the racks.’ She smiled. ‘If you are going to make unauthorised recordings, you really ought to find some better place to hide them.’ Anderssen paused and eyed Deke in silence, prolonging the agony. ‘It’s not that I have any particular objection to clouds. It could always be argued it was a batch of sky searches that you forgot to wipe. But you might have some problems justifying that sound track to the Provost-Marshals.’
‘Yes, sir-ma’am. Are you… putting me on report?’
‘It’s something I have to consider, Deke. Handling blackjack is a Code One offence. You do realise that if your case were to reach the Assessors, they will not accept a plea of mitigation. Code One sentences cannot be modified, or commuted, and the accused has no right of appeal.’
‘I know that, ma’am. My action is indefensible. I only hope that it does not reflect on your command.’
‘So do I,’ said Anderssen. She eyed Deke and shook her head. ‘I just never had you down as a guy who would stick his neck out.’ She opened a drawer, took out the code-breaking cassette and laid it on the desk. ‘Okay – who else has been handling this stuff at Pueblo?’
‘No one, ma’am. I found the track by accident on a brand new, unused videotape. We always run our own quality check by doing what we call a reel-to-reel scan before using ’em in the tower. This one was part of a consignment that was shipped in from Grand Central last July. They come as sealed packs often, one hundred to a box. The stores issued me with ten – I broke open the wrapper myself. The batch inspection ticket was still on it.’
‘Sounds plausible. Last spring Commander Hartmann told me he’d gotten an FYO ordering him to reload a shipment of videotapes he’d just delivered to Amarillo. Later, I heard that a couple of guys at GC had gone to the wall for handling spiked tape. There may or may not be a connection. In any case, they’re certainly not the only ones involved.’ Anderssen laid her hand on the cassette. ‘Okay – let me get this straight. Was it this one that came in with the blackjack on it?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Has anyone else heard this?’
‘No, sir-ma’am.’
‘And you are definitely not pushing this stuff? I don’t want you to feed me one story only to discover you’ve been hauled in and that the Deputy Provos have beaten a totally different one out of you.’
‘There’s no question of that, ma’am. I know there’s been talk about some outfits where guys are trading this stuff off against grass but nothing like that is happening here. There’s no network.’
‘There’d better not be. If there was, I’d bury every mother-fucking one of you.’
‘If there was anything like that going down the wire, I’d know about it, ma’am.’
Yeah. Like you know all about your stalwart Mary-Ann smoking grass. Oh, Deke, you asshole, thought Anderssen, without malice. She turned the cassette over between her fingers. ‘You realise, of course, that this could be a set-up, don’t you? If it came in on a blank tape, sooner or later someone was bound to find it. Maybe it came from some internal renegade outfit but suppose it didn’t? You know what devious bastards those Provost-Marshals are. They’ve got guys back at GC who do nothing else but dream up stings like this. I have to report it, Deke – just to cover my own ass.’
Deke wavered on his crippled leg then drew himself up straight. ‘Yessir-ma’am!’
Anderssen waved him down. ‘Relax. I’m talking about the tape. I don’t want you struck off the roster. Shit…you’re the only guy within a hundred miles of here who can tell those dummies in the electronics pool how to fix all this junk.’ She handed the video cassette to Deke. ‘It may be marked in some way, so this is the one that has to go back. Clean everything off it except the sound track. And wipe my prints off the case. When you’ve done that, report what you’ve found to the duty officer. Shock, horror, outrage, loyal indignation. You know the drill.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And if you want to save your pretty pictures dupe them onto some other tape – but find some way of fiddling the stock returns, and Deke, please, don’t stick it back under the drawer. It’s so fucking obvious! Use your imagination.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Okay, don’t waste time saluting, get on it.’ Anderssen waved him away.
Deke headed for the door.
‘Wait a minute–’
Deke froze, and turned round awkwardly, his heart beating overtime.
‘I think it would be a good idea if you ran me off a copy of that sound track. Just for the files, you understand.’
‘Of course, ma’am…’
Anderssen smiled. ‘I think it’s important that I should have some idea of what it is we’re trying to stamp out, don’t you? After all, we may get another spiked shipment. If you are a doctor trying to stop a contagious disease from spreading, you have to be able to recognise the symptoms – right?’
‘Absolutely…’
‘Do you know where this music is from, Deke? Who it’s by?’
Deke hesitated. ‘Well, it’s hard to be certain. There are so few facts available but I’d say it was definitely vintage material. My guess is it’s pre-Holocaust –’
Anderssen sucked in her breath. ‘As old as that…?’
‘Oh, yes, the real thing. Probably the work of a man called Vangellis.’
Anderssen nodded. ‘This conversation didn’t take place, Deke.’
‘I did not hear, or say, a word, ma’am.’
‘Good,’ said Anderssen. ‘One last thing. You’ve got two tapes there. One of Brickman, and one of clouds. For Christoper’s sake, don’t send the wrong fucking one down the wire.’
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