“I’ll tell ’em to move back to the pad.” And Barbara was gone before I could stop her.
“Oh God!” said Judith. “She’ll get herself killed trying to impress you.”
“Impress me—hell! She’s glory-hunting.” And I ran after her.
I lost her in the main distribution hall, and only sighted her again after she had stripped down to her panties and was out on the wharf dodging between containers. I started after her and Enoch hauled me back. “You go out there you’ll get shot, Mister Gavin.”
“But Barbara—your daughter—!” She was breaking from cover, sprinting toward the prisoners.
“She’s banking on them not shooting at a girl.” The strength of his grip on my arm suggested he was not as confident as his daughter. Then it relaxed. “And they ain’t They think she’s a runaway running back now there’s shooting.” Barbara had arrived among the captives and presently the whole group began to move in an amoebalike fashion toward the chopper pad. A Trooper came out of the brush, tried to stop them, got nicked, and dived back to cover. The girls went flat as the subsequent volleys whistled over their heads, then started to crawl. When they were about half-way to the pad they rose together and ran. They were among the civilians before the chopper crews realized they were arriving.
I had only wanted the girls out of the way. Barbara had offensive ideas. Within seconds they were swarming into the cockpits of both ships. By the time they were ejected, both tail-rotors were fouled and neither was in shape for an immediate takeoff. The girls then started fighting the civilians and the chopper crews retreated into their ships, drawing their pistols and threatening anyone who approached.
I got back to the Surveillance Center to hear Midge calling on her com. At extreme range her voice was weak but readable. “I’ve picked up a survivor from that chopper which went into the sea. A bit battered. He’s 'safely roped. Won’t say who he is, but I think he’s one of their honchos.”
I looked at Judith. “Maybe we’ve got a hostage—if we can bring him here.”
“How can we get him across the wharf from the boat?” “Easy! We just have to drive those Troopers farther into the scrub so they can’t shoot up the wharf.” I went to the door. “Tell Midge to stand by offshore and come in when it’s safe.”
“And when will that be?”
“When we’ve driven those Troopers back. I’ll call when we have.” I ran down the stairs and across the hall to the tunnel where men and women were still struggling to shift containers so the gates could be closed.
I found Enoch and explained what was happening. “I need some volunteers to help me keep the wharf free of fire while Midge drops off her prisoner.”
“Volunteers? You need the best. I’ll go get ’em.” He disappeared among the containers and presently returned with a squad headed by Martha. “Here’re your volunteers. They know what you want and they’re willing to go out with you.” Willing perhaps, but no more eager than I was. In this kind of action everybody knows that somebody is going to die. We might not like it but we had to risk it. We had a chance of grabbing the enemy Number One. We had to drive the Troopers back so Midge could come alongside.
“Drive them back if you can. Give me covering fire if you can’t. Those bastards will have used up their grenades by now. So it’s rifle against rifle.”
Martha nodded, taking automatic command, and began to despatch each of her squad to take cover behind a different container. Before she disappeared herself she said, “Shout when you want us to start shooting.”
I went to hide behind the container projecting the farthest onto the wharf, trying to think of some way to save myself from having to run twenty meters while being shot at from a range of one hundred. Smoke? The wind would blow it away across the neck. Just as well or they’d have used it against us by now. Shove this container out to the edge of the wharf as a shield? The damned thing was off the rollers and immovable. Some other place for Midge to off-load her captive? There wasn’t one.
I was convincing myself that the risk to me wasn’t worth grabbing some unknown politico as reward, when Midge came on the com and her voice was loud and clear. “I’m tucked in under the end of the wharf. ... A few dents and the wheelhouse glass. . . . Tell Mister Gavin to come and collect this honcho.”
She had brought her boat in among the rocks, reached the cover of the pier, and cancelled my options. I shouted to Martha, “Give me all you’ve got!” swallowed twice, and launched myself before my resolution evaporated.
The Troopers weren’t expecting a target to pop out from between containers like a clay pigeon from a trap. They were slow in shifting their attention to me and the first burst whined over my head as I vaulted down into the well of Sea Eagle. The tide was not yet full and the dockside gave the boat cover. I picked myself up and swung round. Midge was crouching amid shattered glass in the wheelhouse, one hand on the wheel.
“Where is he?”
“On the bunk in the cabin. Wrists tied behind him. I think he can walk.” She paused. “Pilot’s down there too. Dead. I had to shoot him.”
I plunged into the cabin, stepped across a body, rolled over the damp form on the bank. And found myself facing Gerald Futrell. Gaunt and gray-haired, etched by pain and fatigue, it was still the face of the man I hated.
I drew my Luger, aimed at his right eye. He recognized me, flinched, but did not speak. With an effort I reholstered my gun. I pulled him to his feet, pushed him up to the wheel-house. “I’m going to get you into the Pen—alive or dead!”
“Be careful with him, Mister Gavin,” called Midge. “Remember—he’s my prisoner. Not yours!”
“I’ll keep him alive as long as I can—if his pals let me!” I lifted him bodily and shoved him over the edge of the wharf. Then I followed, calling back to Midge, “Now get to hell out of here! Lie offshore until you’re called in.”
Beside me Futrell murmured, “Knox—Gavin Knox! Fucking things up again!”
For the moment the shooting had stopped. I pulled my handkerchief out of my pocket, tied it to the muzzle of my Luger, and waved it in the air above us. “That’s the best I can do for you,” I growled. “Now—stand up! Let your boys see you!”
“Stand up?” He got to his knees, mouth set in a feral snarl. “I can’t. Not unless you help me.”
I hesitated, seized him around the waist and pulled him to his feet, supporting him, waiting for a burst to kill us both.
No burst came. For the Troopers out in the scrub a white flag was a signal that we wanted to talk. And by now they were probably ready to talk. Time was passing and their ammunition would be running low. Then their officer must have recognized Futrell, for I heard him shout, “Hold your fire!”
Still waving my hankerchief like a pennant I urged Futrell across the wharf to the cover of the nearest container. Enoch was waiting and caught him as he fell.
“Is this the one?”
“That’s him. The devil himself! Get him up to the Surveillance Center.”
They dragged Futrell away. I waited until I was sure there would be no rescue attempt. Then I followed.
Futrell was slumped in a chair with Judith standing over him. She turned when I came in. “He’s got his com with him. He’s going to call the troops. Arrange for a cease-fire. So we can get the girls into the Pen.”
“He’d better!” I went over, caught his hair, jerked his head back to face me. “Listen well! There’s a gallows in this place. The designers put one in—just in case the Government decided to start hanging murderers again. It’s never been used. You’ll be its first customer—if you’re lucky and do as you’re told. If you don’t—you’ll die slowly over the next two days. I know all the tricks of the trade. I’ve never had to use ’em. But I’d be delighted to start on you!”
He stared back at me, fear mixed with defiance.
Judith tried to pull me away. “He’s Midge’s prisoner. Like she told you. She just called on the com. You’re not to hurt him, do you hear?”
<
br /> I swung around. “If he does as I tell him, I won’t hurt him. I’ll hang him painlessly like I promised. But if he doesn’t— then I’ll hurt him all right!”
Futrell’s eyes were on Judith. Without meaning to we had moved into the “bad cop” versus “good cop” routine. His eyes went wide. I turned and saw Judith was raising the Jeta. “Not that—you silly bitch! We want him conscious.”
Then I realized she was pointing it at my chest. I jumped toward her, the dart hit, and I found myself collapsing at her feet.
XX
Consciousness came back slowly. I rose through a phase of disorientation as I realized that I had been knocked out by a Jeta and tried to remember where and by whom. I still hadn’t solved that problem when I discovered I couldn’t move. I opened my eyes, stared at the lights above me, and decided I was in an operating room. Then that I was strapped to an operating table.
It was going to be forced mind-wipe! I’d been caught and brought back to the Pen. Or I’d never escaped! Or—
“He’s awake.” That was Judith’s voice. Her face swam over me. Then Barbara’s. And memory flooded back.
“What the hell are you doing? Where’s Futrell?”
“Safe in a cell.” Judith bent to pull up my left eyelid and stare at my pupil. “Relax, Gavin. Everything’s under control.”
“Futrell!” I tried to sit up. “He’ll be the first murderer to swing from the Pen’s gallows!”
“No he won’t/’ said Judith, filling a syringe. “I gave him my word that if he persuaded the soldiers to let those women come into the Pen we’d turn him loose unharmed.”
“You had no right to do that!”
“I did. You went crazy and I had to take over.” She came toward me, syringe in hand. “If we’d had to fight it out, a lot more poeple would have been killed.” She put a tourniquet around my arm and began to swab the skin. “He accepted my word.”
“Well—he hasn’t got mine.” I wrenched at the straps holding me. “Let me up, will you!”
“Not till after you’ve been debugged.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Gavin, I told you after you went berserk in Sherando that someone’s planted a directive in you. You thought you’d licked it. You haven’t. The sight of Futrell still triggers it. You’ll still try to kill him when you see him. You can only control yourself long enough to delay—as you did when you fetched him from the boat. I’ve got to help you find out who planted that directive, and why.”
“Balls! Keep that needle away from me! Post-hypnotic suggestion doesn’t work.”
“It does on rigid-minded duty-bound individuals—if it’s something they really want to do. And you want to kill Futrell all right! The compulsion’s forcing you to try to kill him, regardless of everything else. Futrell’s face can still switch you to automatic.”
I found the straps would not loosen and lay panting. “What are you doing?” She was slapping the skin of my bound arm and the veins were starting to stand out as the tourniquet cut off the return blood flow.
“Trying to pick a good vein.” She was bending, intent, over my arm. Running her little finger across the skin to feel the bulging vessels. “This stuff damages tissue if it leaks outside the vein.”
“What stuff?”
“Neoscopolamine. It’ll send you to sleep and let you abreact.”
“Leave me alone! Abreact—hell! I want to kill Futrell because he’s a traitor to the United States!”
“That he may be. Or he may only be trying to salvage something from the wreck. Either way, you can hunt him later. When he’s left Iona’s Point. And when you don’t go crazy at the sight of his face.” She sank the needle into a vein, drew back the plunger so that blood mixed with the liquid in the syringe, pulled off the tourniquet, and looked at me. “Gavin, you’ll go to sleep when I inject this. You’ll dream about being conditioned. That memory’s been suppressed. I want you to remember. Remembering may break the compulsion. I hope so—for all our sakes.”
“Judy! This is nonsense.” I heard the rattle of an automatic from somewhere outside. “There’s still fighting. You can’t drug me while there’s still fighting!”
“Not fighting. Just mopping up. You’re not needed for that. Now lie quiet while I’m injecting!” Her voice had acquired the ring of authority that went with her white coat. She looked down at me, helpless on the table, and her words came hard and clear. The words of the Wise Woman. “Go back and re-live being ordered to kill Gerald Futrell.”
I passed out with her command reverberating in my skull.
I woke slowly into a dream. But a dream of unique completeness. A dream which included every perception, every sensation. After the first few moments I forgot it was a dream. I only remembered that it was a fine April afternoon on the Chesapeake, that Grainer and I had taken Gloria and Helga sailing. I was lying half-asleep on the port locker, the boat moving gently under me, the sun warm on my bare chest. When I opened my eyes I could see white sails curving above me and blue sky beyond.
“You awake, Gavin?”
That was Arnold Grainer’s voice. I raised my head and looked around. We were coasting along under a light breeze a few kilometers off the Eastern Shore. And he was at the wheel. Helga had my hand on her lap. Gloria was kissing my ear. Two beautiful women. Like everybody in Grainer’s employ they were superb performers. Like most people in his personal service they were his devoted admirers. And because he treated me as an intimate on these pleasure expeditions both girls were gladly intimate with me.
He looked at me and laughed. “Gav—maybe we should anchor and let me relax too!”
“Fine!” I disengaged myself from the girls and went forward to furl the jib and drop the anchor as Grainer brought the sloop into the wind. The Coast Guard cutter discreetly escorting us hove-to a couple of kilometers astern. The watching chopper drifted down to land on the beach. Ashore the primary campaigns were in full swing. Grainer had lost Maine and only held Massachusetts by the barest margin. The politicos expected New York to finish him and were preparing to celebrate his rejection; here on the Chesapeake the President and I prepared to enjoy ourselves.
I snugged down the boat, then went back to the cockpit. Grainer had already taken Gloria into the cabin. Helga had slipped out of her bikini and was waiting for me on the starboard cushions.
Afterwards I dozed off and only woke when Grainer came up the companionway, a bourbon in each hand. He gave me one and said, “Helga, go and help Gloria fix supper.”
She kissed me and disappeared below. Grainer sat down. I sipped my bourbon and waited. One of my jobs was to act as a wall against which the President could bounce ideas. After a moment he asked, “How do you think the Convention will go?”
“You’ll take it. Not by much. But you’ll get the delegates.” He knew that already, so there was something else he wanted to bounce off me. I pulled on my slacks, then my sweater. It was growing cooler as the afternoon waned.
“I will! I must! I’ve got to finish the job. The most important job any President ever tackled.” He sat, nursing his bourbon, watching me drink mine. “The girls have been bugging me about Futrell. They’re scared of him.”
“Futrell’s ruthless. A real bastard. They’re afraid that if—” “If anything happens to me he’ll silence everybody close to me? Is that it?”
“More or less.” I shrugged. “Futrell likes to play it safe. And the only safe way to silence anybody is to silence them permanently.”
“Like I silenced Shantz?”
I looked into my glass. “I didn’t hear that! Anyway, Shantz deserved what he got. The girls don’t. They’re afraid that Futrell will assume that they’ve picked up more than they have and he’ll—well—take precautions. They’d be happier if he wasn’t AG.” I took another mouthful of bourbon. “So would I! He’s turned the Secret Service into a Secret Police.”
“I know! I know! The goddamn thing is that’s what I may need! And that’s why I need Futrell
.” He swirled his whiskey. “I’ll tell him to leave the girls alone—whatever happens.” “Whatever happens? What might happen?” The sun, the love-making, the bourbon, were all combining to make me sleepy. Even had I been interested in the machinations of politicians I was too drowsy to care. “What do you expect to happen?”
Grainer leaned forward across the cockpit. Our knees were almost touching, his face was directly opposite mine. I felt the aura of his power more intensely than I had ever felt it before. “Gav—there are people who’ll try to kill me if they think I’m likely to win in November.”
“After New York they’ll know you will! Arnold—what—” Under his stare I could only ask weakly, “What do you want me to do?”
“Protect me if you can. Protect Futrell if you can’t.”
That didn’t make sense, but I was too sleepy and confused to question the logic. Grainer was saying something about Futrell’s ruthless dedication when Gloria called him down to the cabin and I fell asleep.
I was partly awakened by Helga shaking me, clamping her hand over my mouth, hissing in my ear. “If anything happens to Arnold—kill Futrell! Kill him before he kills us!”
That made more sense. I mumbled, “If Arnold’s killed, 1 kill Futrell. Yes! I hate that bastard.”
Helga was gone; Grainer was back in the cockpit, cursing because he’d given me too much of something. I managed to sit up. He was gripping my arm. “Do you understand, Gavin? Do you understand what you’ve been told to do?”
“Sure.” I struggled to order my thoughts, but everything was confused and hazy. In the middle of the haze Grainer’s eyes burned like twin fires and from out of it Helga’s voice echoed in my ear. “Yes, Arnold. I know what to do.”
“And you will forget about this conversation?”
“I will forget about this conversation.” I’d forget gladly.
He let me fall back onto the cushions, and said something about Gavin having had too much bourbon and to let him sleep it off.
Edward Llewellyn - [Douglas Convolution 03] Page 28
