by Jeff Gulvin
Swann clasped her hand as she stepped off the rostrum and headed away from the gathering. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Spot on, Chey.’
Logan looked at him and grimaced. ‘I hope so. I mean, it could really backfire! Set him off at half cock or something.’
Swann nodded. ‘Let’s hope it does. Up until now, he’s been the consummate professional. If he gets mad he’ll make mistakes, and when he does, we’ll get him.’
Harada sat very still as the news programme cut back to the studio. The anchorman was talking to a colleague, but Harada could not hear what they were saying. He stared beyond the TV to the wall and through the wall into the darkest places of his mind. Logan’s face dominated his thoughts, her words reverberating in his head. He knew now that they would never release Shikomoto. They had stolen his sword and used it against him. The silence lifted from inside him and he could feel the moisture on his palms and the sudden weakness in his limbs. It was over. He had lost. His jaw quivered physically and he had to bite his teeth together to stop the tick in his cheek. He closed his eyes and he thought of April in Japan, and the festival of the cherry blossom and the faces of his children. He knew then that he would never see them again. He thought of his wife and her family, and knew that the FBI broadcast would bounce off satellites round the globe and every country in the world would carry the news item. In Japan, he would be disgraced; in Korea, China and the Bekaa Valley, too. Throughout Europe, where his contacts were still considerable, everybody would know that Fachida Harada had failed. He physically trembled at the thought. And then he thought back to the original approaches in Japan, approaches from the most unlikely source; how he must have been studied from afar and finally after Shikomoto was taken, contacted. And as he thought about it, pieces of the puzzle clicked into place: the Tatenokai, the unorganised American militia, the so-called Hong Kong Troops, the media attention and the movement of weapons. A chill broke through him as he began to appreciate how far that arm could stretch, and the power that arm wielded. Then he marvelled. The Americans had no idea how much was stacked against them and how carefully, how cunningly, the weapons had been arrayed. This was truly the work of the ninja.
He got up and went into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water and looked out on to the street. A police cruiser was moving steadily through the neighbourhood; two officers watching driveways for vehicles. The sedan was safely tucked out of sight in a garage. He drank the water slowly, poured a second glass, and very calmly he made his decision. There had been another phase planned: devices set in ten separate locations, all installed months ago, when the man with the C U SAFELY truck came to inspect security. But that could be left to another generation. Setting down the glass, he went back to his laptop and called up his electronic mail system. He set the single encryption code that had been insisted upon and then he began to type.
Harrison stood at the open door of the boxcar and let the wind blow through his hair. He had his snub-nosed .38 in his boot and the Beretta stuffed in his waistband, and he watched the countryside roll by as the train slowed for Sulphur Springs. The sun was high, though it was not yet noon, and he could see the dust rising from the speeding pick-up truck. He glanced at Sidetrack, who leaned against the other doorjamb with his arms folded and his canine tooth exposed. ‘Ain’t this a little risky?’ Harrison called to him.
‘What?’ Sidetrack cupped a hand to his ear. ‘I can’t hear ya.’
Harrison moved across the door space to him. ‘I said, ain’t this risky?’ He jabbed a thumb at the three big packs that the group were carrying between them. ‘It’s the middle of the fucking day.’
‘So what?’ Sidetrack jerked his shoulders. ‘Nobody knows we’re here. Nobody knows what we do. Besides, we ain’t even stopping.’ He squinted in the sunlight. ‘How come you’re so jumpy?’
Harrison shrugged. ‘Hell, I don’t know. I guess I’m just not used to working in the daytime.’
Sidetrack tipped his head back and laughed. ‘Relax, man. We’ve been making this drop for years.’
Harrison nodded. ‘How come we ain’t getting off like we did the last time?’
‘Because this train’s headed for Wichita Falls and that’s where we need to be.’
Harrison squatted down and looked across the darkened car at the packs: three of them—big old army-style backpacks—with a crate of something in each. He took tobacco from his top pocket and rolled a cigarette.
Sidetrack crouched down next to him. ‘Need you to give me a hand,’ he said. ‘The truck’s running alongside.’
Harrison tucked the cigarette behind his ear and got to his feet. Carlsbad was sitting on one of the packs, playing cards with the others, and Sidetrack kicked him lightly in the backside. ‘Shift it, brother. We got work to do.’
Carlsbad got up and Sidetrack took hold of one of the straps. ‘You’ll need to support your side from the bottom, Four-String,’ he said. ‘This mother is heavy.’
Harrison helped him get it over to the door, then he squatted again, stuck his head into the wind and saw the pick-up racing up the dirt road towards them. The locomotive had slowed considerably and Harrison could have jumped down and landed on his feet with no bother. ‘We’re just dumping it over the side, right?’ He looked at Sidetrack, who nodded.
‘Just the one?’
‘Yep.’
‘OK.’ Harrison took his strap. ‘You ain’t kidding she’s heavy. What the hell’s in it?’
Sidetrack showed his tooth. ‘120-millimetre mortars.’
Harrison lifted one eyebrow. ‘And we’re just chucking it over the side?’
‘It’s packed and sealed, man. What you might call bombproof.’
Harrison shook his head at the joke. ‘Where’s all this stuff come from, anyways?’
‘All over the fucking place.’ Sidetrack was looking over Harrison’s shoulder, concentrating on the truck. He got to his feet and took hold of his side of the pack. Harrison followed suit and between them they dumped it on to the heaped sand at the side of the rails. It landed with a dull whump and then the train rolled on.
The pick-up pulled up and Harrison recognised the tall, lean figure of Randy Meades. Although there were fifty yards between them, Meades saw him and Harrison touched one finger to his temple. Meades looked a moment longer, then bent down for the fallen pack. Harrison turned to find Sidetrack already at the mescal bottle. It used to be just at night, around the fire, keeping out the cold, but over the past few days it had become a regular fixture in the daytime as well. Harrison used it to his advantage. Sidetrack liked to talk when he was sipping liquor.
‘Those boys looking to start a new republic?’ he asked.
Sidetrack laughed in his throat. ‘Old Meades figures he’s still at the Alamo.’
Harrison nodded. ‘Only it ain’t the Mexicans he’s fighting, huh?’
‘No, sir. Not the Mexicans.’
They rolled on, mile after mile of iron railroad. Sidetrack got a little buzz from the mescal and dozed with his head on his pack, eyes closed, an ugly leer spread across his face. Harrison sat down between Hooch and Limpet, who were still in the card game. Carlsbad was clearly out of funds.
‘So what’s at Wichita Falls?’ Harrison said to Limpet.
Limpet played his winning hand and grinned wickedly at Hooch. He glanced sideways at Harrison. ‘Rambo,’ he said.
They left the train before they hit the city and Harrison hefted one of the two remaining packs, with Carlsbad on the other strap. It was something of a mismatch, and Harrison moaned about carrying all the weight.
‘Y’all get used to it,’ Carlsbad muttered. ‘Build up some of those muscles you’ve been wasting.’
They walked beside the singing iron tracks for a while, then Sidetrack took his cellphone from his jacket, checked the signal, grimaced, and walked on. Half a mile nearer the city he stopped abruptly, inspected the face of the phone once more and dialled. The wind had got up and the sun was down, the sky a mass of moon
wash and speckled stars. ‘Sure is pretty,’ Hooch muttered. Harrison followed his gaze and nodded.
‘OK. We’re all set.’ Sidetrack snapped his phone closed and tucked it away again, then led off due north away from the tracks. Harrison looked behind him to where Hooch and Limpet were hefting the other pack and saw that Limpet was struggling.
‘How far we gotta carry these damn things?’ Limpet said.
‘Just up that hill there.’ Sidetrack pointed to where the scrub lifted in a series of small hills, scarred here and there with shadowy outcrops of rock. ‘Man’s coming up the trail on the other side.’
Limpet muttered something under his breath, then all was quiet save the screech of an owl and Carlsbad’s laboured breathing.
Sidetrack strode ahead of them now, climbing the hill and watching for snakes at his feet. ‘Keep your eyes open,’ he said. ‘Goddamn rattlers like the night out here.’
Limpet giggled. ‘No wonder Six don’t come by too often.’
Harrison heard him and his senses were suddenly heightened. Limpet was behind him and cursing now. Harrison looked at the ground, thought about snakes, and all at once he wondered.
Carlsbad suddenly dumped his side of the pack. ‘Fucking thing’s pulling my arm outta the socket.’
Harrison laid down his side more gently and took a sip from his water bottle. Not only were they hefting the backpack, he had his own bag, bottle and banjo to think about.
Sidetrack was at the crown of the hill, scanning the horizon. Limpet sat down on his pack and rubbed his upper arm. ‘I wasn’t born to hump boxes across no desert,’ he groaned.
‘Stop whimping on, Limpet, and get me that other bottle.’ Sidetrack was still watching the horizon.
Limpet grabbed the fresh mescal from his own pack, and Harrison took it from him, walked up the hill and handed it to Sidetrack. He looked where Sidetrack looked and saw nothing. A coyote called from out among the scrub and sagebrush. The wind caught Harrison’s hair and blew it over his shoulders, the ends whipping at his face. He took a fresh tie from his jeans’ pocket and bunched his hair into a ponytail. Next to him, Sidetrack sipped mescal and stared into the darkness.
The moon lightened the night and the landscape was silhouetted in shadow rather than pitch-black. Harrison could make out small stands of scrubby trees and darker patches where the bunch-grass was thickest. Sidetrack passed him the bottle and he took a sip of the oily, sweet liquor and gagged. ‘I don’t know how you can drink so much of this shit,’ he said.
Sidetrack did not respond. He was still watching the landscape, and then Harrison saw two tiny lights at the edge of the horizon. Sidetrack looked at his watch, smacked his lips together and took another long swallow from the mescal bottle. ‘The man’s on time,’ he said.
Harrison watched and saw a second set of lights behind the first. He looked back down the hill then, to where the two backpacks were waiting, and screwed up his eyes. ‘Gonna take two trucks to haul those packs, uh?’
Sidetrack shook his head. ‘The other one’s our ride, Four-String.’ He smiled in the darkness, showing that one long tooth, and laid a hand on Harrison’s shoulder. ‘Don’t I think of everything?’
He went back down the hill, but Harrison remained where he was for a few moments and watched the approaching headlights. They were still a long way off and he figured at least half an hour before the trucks got to their position.
Sidetrack was sipping mescal and Limpet was rolling him a smoke. ‘Put a little grass in it, man,’ Sidetrack muttered. ‘I’m in that kinda mood.’
Harrison sat and watched Limpet expertly make the joint, twisting up one end and sticking a cardboard roach in the other. He passed it to Sidetrack and struck a match on a rock. Sidetrack sucked on the joint, gripping it between his third and little fingers and drawing in a great lungful of smoke. He held it, dipped his chin to his chest and let the smoke creep out through his nostrils. He passed the joint to Harrison, who took a long toke himself. It was grass, and he had not come across such good stuff in a while.
‘Where did you get this shit?’ he said. ‘This is good.’
Sidetrack chuckled. ‘This comes from Mexico, Four-String. A little sideline we got going.’
Harrison took another long pull and held the smoke in his lungs before handing the joint back. The wind had died away now and he could hear the vague hum of an engine far in the distance. Limpet heard it too and pricked up his ears like a dog.
‘That’ll be Rambo,’ he said.
‘Who’s Rambo?’ Harrison asked him.
Limpet just smiled.
Sidetrack moved back to the top of the hill and the others joined him. Harrison could see that the trail cut through the scrub—just a dust road, pitted and broken by mud holes and rocks of varying sizes. It twisted right up through the cluster of small hills, and passed at the northern edge of the one they were standing on. Sidetrack watched as the headlights got closer and closer and the engine grew louder and louder, and then he nodded to Limpet. ‘Get the stuff shifted down to the road there.’ He pointed to the track and the four of them went back for the packs.
Sidetrack stayed on top of the hill while they manhandled the stuff down the northern side. The engines were much louder now, the unmistakable rumble of a V8 from one of them. Harrison rolled a cigarette and lit it, cupping his hands to the new breeze that had lifted. Limpet stood next to him, with his lazy eye half closed. The trucks got louder and Harrison heard gears being ground in, and then the headlights shone in his face and the first truck lurched to a halt right alongside them.
The driver’s window was rolled down and Harrison looked at a flat-faced man with a grunt haircut, and a plug of chewing tobacco bulging at his cheek. The sleeves of his light jacket were pushed up and Harrison could see he was wearing a military shirt. He spat a stream of juice that just missed Harrison’s foot. He spoke to Limpet and jerked his thumb at Harrison. ‘Who’s this sonofabitch?’
‘Name’s Four-String. He’s one of us.’
The man revved the engine of the V8 and looked through skinny-lidded eyes at Harrison. ‘Load the gear in the other truck, then haul your butts into this one. And make it snappy, Sidetrack. I don’t got all night. The fucking state troopers in Texas are a pain in the fucking ass. Every mother’s son is looking to be a hero.’
Sidetrack told them to load up the gear and two men climbed out of the second truck to help them. Harrison noticed their clothes: jeans and jackets; but their hair was cropped and both were wearing military shirts. The vehicles were private, licensed in Texas, and Harrison made a mental note of the numbers.
When the gear was loaded, Sidetrack and Limpet got into the cab of the V8. The driver jerked his head at the back, and Harrison, Hooch and Carlsbad hoisted themselves over the tailgate.
The drive was about as uncomfortable as it could get—bumpy and winding—and Harrison had to grip the rail to hold on. Carlsbad swore at every divot in the road and Hooch just sat there scowling. ‘How come Limpet gets to ride up front? That’s what I wanna know.’
Harrison said nothing, but took in their bearings and ran over the licence numbers in his head. They drove along the pitted trail for perhaps twenty miles before the V8 slowed briefly and Harrison could make out the thin dark strip of the blacktop, running diagonally across the flat land ahead of them. A few minutes later, they left the dirt road and headed west along the highway.
Hooch had just got settled, half lying against his pack, with his head out of the wind, when the driver took a right turn and they were racing along another dirt road. ‘Goddammit. Makes a boxcar look comfortable. What the hell’s he think he’s doing?’
‘He’s avoiding the state troopers,’ Harrison said. ‘Who highballs through the night with a buncha low lifes like us in the back of their truck?’
They ran north for a while and then east again, for perhaps another thirty miles. Theirs was the lead truck; the lights from the second one, some way back down the road. ‘I guess that guy is Ram
bo, huh?’ Harrison yelled in Carlsbad’s ear.
The big man nodded. ‘Some kinda soldier, I think.’
‘Militia?’
Carlsbad shrugged. ‘I don’t pay no mind to nothing but the money, Four-String. But I figure he’s still in the service.’
‘What we hauling?’
‘Mortars. Same as we dropped in Sulphur Springs.’
Harrison fell silent once more and they rolled on, lurching and bumping across the Texas plains in the middle of the night. He could no longer see any lights from the highway. Ten miles further on, the truck slowed and the driver mashed the gears, then took a right turn off the main dirt road. Harrison was slammed against the back of the cab, his ribs crashing into the metal. Angrily, he banged his right fist hard on the cab top and saw Rambo look over his shoulder through the glass. Harrison gave him the bird and Carlsbad shook his head. ‘Not very smart, Four-String. That guy can be an asshole.’
Ten minutes later, the truck slowed again and they pulled up outside a set of wire-meshed gates that looked as though they were fixed between two massive boulders. The driver honked the horn and, a moment or so later, Harrison saw a fresh pair of headlights coming up from the other side. Carlsbad tapped him on the shoulder. ‘We gotta get down, man, haul the gear to that other truck.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then we’re outta here. The railroad’s half a mile thataway.’
Harrison nodded. ‘Where we at, anyways?’
‘North of Wichita Falls.’
‘So what’s this place?’
Carlsbad shrugged. ‘Beats me, brother. Some kinda weapons dump, I guess.’
Hooch was jumping down from the truck. ‘It ain’t used any more,’ he said. ‘I think the marines did use it one time. There’s caves back beyond those gates, like some kinda natural storage. I don’t know. I think this place is still Texas Guard, though.’
Harrison was helping with the first pack and he shifted it over the tailgate of the second pick-up with Hooch. They dropped it to the ground, then Harrison straightened and rubbed his back. He felt breath on his neck and looked round. The flat-faced driver with the thick arms was looking down his nose at him. ‘If you made a dent in my truck, you shitkicker, I’m gonna use your head to knock it out again.’
