by John Barnes
“Kind of bury them in the middle? Got it. He also wanted us to see if you wanted one or two more spare blank notebooks to take with you, but he thought you’d be able to forage for them on your way, too.”
“Maybe one spare would be nice, so I don’t have to forage too soon. Where am I going?”
“Beats me, Mr. Manckiewicz, I’m supposed to take you to the Natcon, and get your pack ready while you’re in with him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”
Cameron Nguyen-Peters was thinner than ever, and whatever traces of a smile had ever been around his mouth had vanished. He still had his pliers-like handshake and disconcerting way of looking directly at you. “Chris,” he said, “you are a problem, and there are only three things that can be done with a problem—ignore it, solve it, or make it someone else’s problem. Have a seat, and we’ll discuss the situation and the options.”
“Um,” Chris said. “I kind of thought I was being held for sedition or some such.”
“Well, that’s the problem. I have a war to run, and the war may go on for decades. From a winning-the-war perspective, which is the only perspective I can really allow myself, a free press has a lousy track record. Yes, I know”—Cameron waved a quick dismissal—“there have been many journalists who did great things for the war effort in past wars, and many ethical journalists who at least did no harm, and so on. But even the best journalists in the wars where they did the best jobs sometimes leaked vital information. As of this moment, we’re beaten, Chris, badly beaten, and I think we’re more likely than not to lose—don’t quote that, anywhere, ever. But I think there’s still a chance to win—if we get it all together and fight seriously. The next year or so will tell the tale, and if we win, then in 2026 we’ll hold those elections, and in 2027 I will set the entire Constitutional apparatus back up. I suppose after that I’ll retire to a farm or something, or maybe hire you to ghostwrite my memoirs. If we lose it won’t matter. But for right now, the Constitution is suspended—to preserve the possibility that someday I will set it back up.”
“I don’t imagine you’re asking for my opinion.”
“Not at all. But here’s the rest of the situation. There can be no point in getting into a civil war, and frankly, almost all of the country’s remaining military strength is down here in the South—actually pretty much in a belt across the bottom of the country from the Carolinas to Arizona. The upper-left-hand corner of the country that went over to Weisbrod, which we might call the Goofy Quadrant, are no danger to us. None. They have historically low rates of military enlistment, they’re not very disciplined in any other way, they’re just not going to put together an army for a civil war, and if they try it will take them years. And they can’t possibly be an invasion route for the other side—whoever that is—because we control most of the warships still moving. So the Goofy Quadrant can’t help us much in the war, and they can’t hurt us much, and common sense says to let them go.
“Which brings me to my solution to the problem of you. I’m giving you the gear you need, and a space-a pass that you should be able to ride out to somewhere on the Plains or maybe down to the Canal Zone, telling you to have fun and go do what you do, and sending you over to Graham Weisbrod. As a public official, I can’t ignore you; as an American, I can’t stand to do anything that would solve you; but luckily, I can make you someone else’s problem. Good luck, Chris, and Merry Christmas! I’ll watch for your byline.”
Chris thought, Well, Cameron Nguyen-Peters has given up smiling for the duration, I guess, but I’ve seldom seen him so cheerful.
FOUR DAYS LATER. SOUTHEAST OF PALE BLUFF. ILLINOIS. 11:00 A.M. CST. SUNDAY. DECEMBER 29.
Chris had struck I-64 the day before, and thanks to his old TV days and his time at KP-1, he hadn’t had to sleep outside or go hungry so far; people here remembered him, and when he said he was going to Olympia to start a new paper there, mostly people seemed to be happy to help.
He’d risen with a couple nice old-farmer types before dawn. They’d given him a large breakfast, filled both his canteens, and sent him on his way. Good weather was holding, so far. There’re a lot of worse walks in the world.
He topped the rise and decided that he was either having the best luck or the worst hallucination of his career. Right there in front of him was what could only be the DC-3 that had brought Weisbrod to Pale Bluff, Illinois. That meant two things: a chance to look at a piece of history, and that Pale Bluff was nearby, which meant a hundred good interviews in all probability.
He was about a hundred feet from the plane when he realized that there was a man inside, talking to himself and swearing. He crept closer and discovered a man in a pair of coveralls, seated on the floor of the plane, and busily wrapping pieces of copper wire with flannel and Elmer’s Glue. It looked like the maddest craft project he’d ever seen.
The man said, “I don’t have any money or food and I’m not leaving soon.”
“I wasn’t going to rob you or jack you. Are you, by any chance, Quattro Larsen, freeholder of Castle Larsen?”
“I am. I am also Quattro Larsen, man bored out of his skull as he wraps miles of wire and hand-rebuilds fuses. The barometer is falling, the hygrometer is rising, and the clouds tell me I’ve got a storm coming; I’ve a day at best to get this idiot thing fixed so I can fly south, dodge the storm, and get home. And I’m a fumble-fingered idiot. Plus I won’t be able to work after dark; I don’t have any artificial light, and I’ll have to walk back to the village in the dark. So I am getting very scared and very sorry for myself.”
“Mind if I climb up and join you?”
“Help yourself.”
“Suppose you show me how to wrap wire. My name is Chris Manckiewicz, I’m a reporter, and I’d be very happy to be your assistant. And it so happens I have a small oil lamp.”
“I used to hear you on the radio.”
“So you know you can trust me.”
“Wrap some wire and let’s see.”
THREE HOURS LATER. PALE BLUFF. ILLINOIS. 2:00 P.M. CST. SUNDAY. DECEMBER 29.
Chris explained who he was quickly; Carol May Kloster said, “Well, I’d sort of like to hang on to the original document. Can you read shorthand?”
“Not a blessed bit. They didn’t even teach it anymore in J-school.”
“Well, of course, I’m flattered and honored that you want a copy of this, but I’ve only had time in the last couple of weeks to make four copies in decent handwriting; my niece Pauline has made about twenty in shorthand, practicing her Gregg, so I was going to give you one of those instead. But that’s all right; I kind of like the idea that my work is going to be published in the country’s biggest newspaper.”
“Actually if you wanted to send me news reports or even just letters from this part of the country, I need a Lower Ohio Valley Correspondent.”
“You have no idea how long-winded I am.”
“You have no idea how short on copy, and reporters, I’m going to be, especially if I’m trying to cover the country. My guess is that if you wait a couple of weeks and then address it to Chris Manckiewicz, the Newspaper, Olympia, and give it to anyone going that way to be passed on to the next person going that way, it’ll find me. Sort of like Internet by hand.” He looked down at the copy of Weisbrod’s speech, and his eyes were pulled into the paper; before he knew it he’d read the whole thing. “Hey, this is a great speech, and yes, you get all the credit for transcribing it. Here’s your first assigned gig: write me an account of your impressions of the speech, how he said it, how people reacted, everything.”
“Really? You want me to write something like that for you?”
“No, just make something up and I’ll throw it in the wastebasket.”
She swatted him playfully, they grinned at each other, and Chris figured I’ve got no paper and it’s breaking my heart, but I’ve got a stringer, and that’s a start. Carol May said, “Pauline should be back any time; she was going to round up a few teenagers who don’t have enough to do to go out and help you
all with getting the plane ready. You’re just lucky the harvest is in, and we all like Mr. Larsen, so we can spare him some time and effort to keep him flying. Especially since he was so good as to put us on the map and has been such a pleasant man to have around these past few days.”
“He thinks he’s not good with people,” Chris said, grinning. “Can’t be persuaded otherwise.”
“Pooh. All he needed to do was ask for help; I’m glad you came along to do it for him!” Carol May Kloster looked at the sky. “If you all hurry, he can take off sometime before the storm hits, and I’m sure that would be a good thing.”
FOUR DAYS LATER. SACRAMENTO. CALIFORNIA. 2:30 P.M. PS£T. THURSDAY. JANUARY 2.
Heather and Bambi were working the crowd in front of the platform, looking for anyone with a weapon, when Bambi whooped. Grinning like a maniac, Quattro Larsen stepped forward. They embraced, laughing just as though it had been years instead of weeks. Another thing we all have to get used to, Heather thought. Nowadays a thousand miles is a long way.
“I take it your giant mechanical bumblebee is working again?” Heather said.
“Giant—I’ll have you know, if there’s ever a National Museum again, that’s the one plane that for sure’ll be in it. At least after there’s another operating plane on the continent, besides my other one.”
“The Stearman’s flying?”
“That’s how Chris and I—Chris!”
Chris Manckiewicz turned from where he’d been taking notes on an intense conversation. “My entire history of the period,” he said, mournfully, “which is all future historians will ever know of our age, will be filled with the phrase, ‘But then Quattro shouted for me, and we had to go.’”
“We met at the Washington Advertiser-Gazette, a long time ago,” Heather said, sticking out her hand.
“I remember you, Ms. O’Grainne, and thanks for all your help on that day.”
“I had no idea at the time you were a pilot. And how did you get out here?”
If Manckiewicz could do anything, it was tell a story, and after a few minutes he’d made Heather laugh more than she had in weeks, describing the adventures of “a guy who thought the props must be the fake parts of the plane,” on his first trip as “assistant mechanic, copilot intern, master chef, and chief wailer-in-terror.” “But,” he added, “by the time we landed at Castle Larsen, I was approaching competence, though I am told I never attained the kind of copilothood that was first achieved by the one, the only, the Amelia Earhart of her generation—”
Bambi made a fart noise with her tongue.
“Which is one-third of the mission here,” Quattro said, smoothly. “I was kind of hoping your interrogation of Ysabel Roth is not complete, that Bambi Castro is still essential to it, and that you’d see the wisdom of leaving them both at Castle Larsen, actually.”
Heather grinned at him. “And you didn’t even mention securing the enduring loyalty of a critical Castle on the California coast.”
“Seemed rude and unnecessary.”
“Well, as for Roth, I don’t think we’ll get more cooperation out of her in another location, and we don’t have to guard her where she is. And we don’t have any way to hold employees against their will, nor—”
“Larry!” Bambi shouted and waved.
Heather turned around and found herself facing a guy who seemed to have been sent from Central Casting as “old sourdough”—baggy wool pants, rope suspenders, immense flannel shirt, floppy broad-brimmed hat, and bushy beard. All he needs is an arrow through that silly hat.
He grinned. “Do you have any idea how great life is when I don’t have to fit the FBI dress code?” He stuck out his hand.
Heather looked down at her current outfit—a heavily stained men’s safari shirt (you could never have too many pockets), black-powder carbine on a sling, combat knife in an arm holster, camo pants, and calf-high moccaboots she’d traded a case of pre-Daybreak Coors for in Limon, Colorado—and said, “Well, I have to admit, I could get through quite a few more years without ever putting on black pumps, jacket, skirt, and a blouse. Biz outfits used to make me look like a giant poodle.”
“Me too,” Mensche said. “I don’t care what Hoover thought, speaking as an FBI agent, the pumps always killed my back.”
“Did you find Debbie?” Bambi asked.
“No luck yet. But she was alive when that bunch of women left Coffee Creek, and she was among the leaders, and at least I’ve established that no one ran into them around the mouth of the Columbia or on the south shore of Puget Sound. It was while I was up there that I persuaded the governor to invite you all to move the Federal government there, and now he seems to think that it was his idea and I was his brilliant assistant, so he thinks he owes me some favors. I’m planning to cash in on them by having him put out sort of a permanent APB for Deb. Meanwhile, I’m thinking maybe Deb’s group out of Coffee Creek headed east for some reason, gonna try to pick up the trail that way.”
“So are you leaving the FBI for good?” Quattro asked.
“Soon as they open an office, I plan to transfer to the US Marshals. I’m not looking to be Eliot Ness anymore. I’m thinking more Wyatt Earp.”
“Or Gabby Hayes,” Bambi suggested.
TWO DAYS LATER. THE COW CREEK COUNTRY. NORTH OF GRANT’S PASS. OREGON. NOON PST. SATURDAY. JANUARY 4.
Word from farther up the line was that coal was getting hard to locate, so they were towing six coal cars in addition to Amtrak One and the supporting staff and troop cars, which made for a slow climb; they had crossed into southern Oregon a few hours ago, and stopped for the obligatory speech in Grant’s Pass, which seemed, like many smaller cities that had always been somewhat isolated, to be doing relatively well. The crowd had been enthusiastic, putting Graham in what Heather was beginning to think of as a too-good mood.
We’d have been in Olympia three days ago if it weren’t for all the whistle stops, she thought. It’s like he’s practicing running for president—and I guess with there being an election next year (again, dammit!) and his being the president, he might decide to run for re-election. Now there’s a… scary? cheerful? ironic? well, it’s a thought, anyway.
After Grant’s Pass, the rail line swung wide of I-5 and the modern roads, winding up through the Cow Creek country, threading between pine-covered, fog-shrounded mountains, turning back and forth in great swooping bends. We started late, too, out of Ashland. For a daring escape, this has sure turned into a parade.
She was just checking whether there was any tea left—they had run out of coffee two days ago and she was still headachy from caffeine withdrawal—when the train’s brakes shrieked. Everyone and everything fell or slid forward. Chris Manckiewicz, in the corner and working as ever in one of his notebooks, grunted sharply in frustration.
Heather staggered to her feet and headed forward. Oh crap, having to start on an up slope, and towing all this coal, it’s going to take forever to get going again.
Strange sound—familiar and yet not familiar—and then she realized.
She shouted, “Helicopters!” and dropped to her knees to peer over the edge of the window.
Here, where the rails made a wide 180-degree turn, there was a broad spot on the road to their right, and the creek was to their left, far down the hill; a Marine helicopter was skimming just above the road, dropping men in battle armor as it went, and they were rolling and diving into the brush between the road and the train, moving forward in a rapid buddy rush, each man advancing a few paces ahead of the man covering him, dropping, and covering the man behind him who ran forward in turn, a swift leapfrog to close the distance.
Shots cracked from the Ranger car; Heather rolled onto the floor as windows shattered from the Marines returning fire. Their stuff has been sealed on shipboard all this time and they’ve still got modern smokeless powder and automatic. At least twenty of them to our nine Rangers and three Feds.
Manckiewicz rolled, punched the door, and darted into the Ranger car. Heather consi
dered following—get the guns together, better organized defense—no, I can probably do more good here, between the Rangers in the lead car and the president’s car, at least slow them up if they try to come through here, keep them from having this car to work from.
She rolled and came up beside a shattered window. They want him alive, otherwise they’ d’ve bombed the train or shredded it with the helicopter’s guns. So—
She drew her 9mm and fired at a hand reaching over the sill of the window beside her; it was a relief that the gun worked at least once; she’d cleaned it just that morning, but the ammunition had been smelling strange for weeks, and she was using Crisco because they had no unspoiled gun oil.
Scrambling sounds outside the car. A burst of automatic fire from the Rangers’ car; apparently maniacal maintenance had kept a few of their modern weapons working.
One of the Marines outside poked a stick over the sill; careful not to waste a round, Heather didn’t go for that, but positioned herself carefully to see where the next try would come, watching both sides because it occurred to her that one of them might try crawling under the cars.
Another flurry of automatic-weapons fire, mixed with some deeper bangs from black-powder guns, from the car ahead. Then some bangs from far back on the train; Rogers and Machado, if she remembered right, had been taking a turn as snipers in the caboose, and either they had a shot at the attackers, or more likely the attackers were trying to flank them on that side.
The stick came in again, still on the road side of the train, but a moment later on the creek side, a stealthy hand reached up and tried the window; Heather aimed and squeezed the trigger, but it didn’t fire. She ejected the bad round as she crept closer; then there were two hands.
