Burke nodded; he was satisfied. "Thank you, Mr. President," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Minister Perez and I have a lot to do."
"Of course," Erikkson said.
In the hallway outside, Perez said to Burke, "Nice job, Nat—but what would he have said if he'd known we sent that force out two hours ago? And that it's not so lightly armed?"
Burke smiled without humor. "What could he have done about it?" He paused. "I'm leaving for Garrovick Valley now. Flitter's on the roof. Want to come along?"
"Wouldn't miss it," said Perez.
Chapter Twenty-One:
New Athens
CHEKOV WOKE SHORTLY after second sunrise to the rising hubbub of the survivors' camp in Founders Park. Sleepily he looked around the small, darkened boathouse utility room in which he and Spock had spent the night, mixed in among Dr. Weinstein's small hoard of supplies. Spock was lying supine on his own bedroll against the opposite wall, his eyes open. I vonder if he is avake yet, thought Chekov.
Spock did not stir when Chekov sat up, which told Chekov that Spock was asleep—or was in a state of what passed for sleep—and whatever portion of his brain the Vulcan had put on sentry duty had been ordered not to pay attention to Chekov's movements. Chekov knew of a time once, during an emergency, when Spock had managed to stay awake for weeks without resting—something he had managed to do only through his iron control of supposedly involuntary bodily functions. But Chekov also knew it had been more weeks until Spock had fully recovered from the ordeal.
Chekov had slept in his uniform, and its fabric did not wrinkle. He grabbed his personal kit and quietly left the room. He wished his body were as resilient as his Starfleet clothes; he ached all over from sleeping on the floor. The day before had been busy—in all, he'd flown four round trips between Weinstein's camp and the Enterprise for supplies, plus hours of ambulance and reconnaissance work—and three hours of sleep had not been enough. A shower is too much to ask, I know, but perhaps there is coffee, Chekov told himself hopefully. Perhaps there is ewen a lump or two of sugar for it. I vill not dare hope for a Danish to go vith it.
There was a breakfast line just outside the boathouse. Some two thousand of the refugees in Founders Park had been detailed by Weinstein for food roundup duty. Working together, the food teams had virtually cleared the northern section of New Athens of supplies and were working their way south. The park did not have stasis fields—broadcast power was out for the duration—so all supplies had to be nonperishable.
Sanitary arrangements were less formal and involved a series of long trenches dug in a soccer field next to the main camp. Modesty was up to the user; generally, modesty was ignored. Chekov was glad there was a small head aboard Columbus; there was even a sink.
The breakfast line wasn't very long this soon after second sunrise; Chekov soon made it to the big coffee urns a team had salvaged from a Sears, Roebuck in the southern part of the city. There wasn't any Danish or sugar, but there were tubs of reconstituted scrambled eggs. Chekov thought they would go down well.
The middle-aged woman serving the eggs smiled toothily at Chekov as she ladled some onto his plate. Chekov thanked her and, looking around, found a big tree to sit under; the old veteran had somehow managed to keep most of its leaves through all the troubles that had beset the city. Chekov grabbed a plastic fork from a bin with a sign that read DON'T THROW ANYTHING AWAY! and ambled over to the tree, taking care not to disturb the sleeping people he walked past and sometimes over.
He sat and relaxed, looking up into the sky. It was going to be another heavily overcast day, and that was a good thing. Chekov doubted that very many of these people had managed to bring their sunglasses with them as they fled their homes, and the overcast would save Weinstein and his people from treating thousands of cases of sunglare.
Such things led Chekov to think of Connie Iziharry. She was somewhere around here, Chekov knew, but it wouldn't be easy to find her—and Chekov was not sure he wanted to. Well, yes, he did … but he did not want to part from her again, and it would be easier not meeting her in the first place. Chekov stared into his coffee cup. I thought it might have been for real, he mused. I really thought so, this time. I am indeed—what is Sulu's English word?—a yerk.
"Hi, Pavel," came a voice.
"Hello, Connie," Chekov said, rising. "You look tired."
"Thanks," Connie Iziharry said. "So do you."
Chekov was embarrassed. "I did not mean to be rude, Connie. I vas concerned. Please forgive me."
Iziharry sighed. "No, I'm sorry, Pavel. I am tired, and it's beginning to get to me. Where's the coffee?"
"Over there." They walked back to the breakfast line together; Connie's status as a camp nurse allowed her to go to the head of the line without waiting. She refilled Chekov's cup and got one for herself.
They went back to the tree and sat silently for a while. Then Connie said, "Lucky I found you."
"I haven't been around the camp much," Chekov said. "Ve—myself and Mr. Spock—vere flying most of the night. He is still inside. I am staying close to the boathouse until I find out vhat he vants to do today."
"More of the same, I suppose."
"I imagine. But when Captain Kirk and Mr. Sulu return from McIverton, ve vill have another shuttle for recon and supply duty. I vill velcome that."
"I'll bet you will," Connie said. She paused. "Pavel, I wanted you to know. I'm planning to stay here, even after the Enterprise leaves."
Pain lanced through Chekov, but he kept his face impassive.
"I've been talking to Dr. Weinstein and a few other people. This city—the whole planet—will take years to come back from this, this disaster. They need all the help they can get. And I'm from here, Pavel—oh, not from New Athens, but it's my world—and I have to help. My blood is here."
She laughed self-consciously. "I joined Starfleet to get the hell away from here. I guess I thought they didn't need me … oh, I don't know what I thought. But I'm a good nurse, Pavel, and Saul Weinstein needs a good nurse even more than Bones McCoy."
"Have you talked to Dr. McCoy?" Chekov asked.
"Yes. He'll approve my resignation request, and he says he's sure the captain will, too." Connie paused. "Pavel, what I wanted to ask you …"
Chekov waited.
"Well," Iziharry continued, "it's like this: Navigators can quit the service, too, you know."
Chekov blinked. "Resign? Me? And do vhat?"
"Stay with me, you goof!" She was smiling … but her eyes appeared frightened of something.
Oh my dear sweet God, Chekov thought. I cannot do this, stay on vone vorld only. Not even for her. Oh, no. Vhy did this have to happen? Connie's hopeful smile faded as she watched Chekov's face. She nodded slowly. "You won't," she said flatly. "You're a wanderer. You belong out there, among the stars. I thought I did too, once, but it took all this to prove I was wrong."
She paused. "I hoped that … maybe … you'd find the same thing was true of yourself." A tear rolled down her cheek; she wiped at it. "Sorry. Anyway … I'm sorry I wasn't enough to make you stay."
"No, Connie," Chekov said quickly. "Please! You do not understand—I cannot do this thing you ask. I ask you, in return, just to think about it for a vhile. Ve only arrived yesterday, Connie, and you have decided today to stay? Is that fair to yourself? To me?"
"You don't know the nightmares I had, Pavel. I'd wake up in the middle of the night aboard the ship while we were on our way here. Death, destruction, my parents suffering; everyone I loved, horribly gone. Maybe I was screaming; I don't know. You thought I was being shy about—certain things—but I just couldn't have anybody see me like that. And when I got here, Pavel, and started working … well, all the fear and the sorrow stopped. I felt like I was doing something useful and worthwhile, maybe for the first time in my life."
Chekov at last nodded slowly.
"And you would be looking at the stars every night if you stayed here with me," Connie said. "I know I couldn't bear that." She p
aused. "If you ever change your mind, Pavel, you know where to find me."
She kissed him quickly. "I have to run. I love you."
And she did. Chekov watched her go, even after he could no longer see her in the gathering crowds of morning.
He stood there, silent and still, for several minutes until Spock approached. "Good morning, Ensign," the Vulcan said briskly. "I trust you are adequately rested? It is time for our check-in with the ship."
"Coming, Mr. Spock."
Not long after that, Columbus was back in the air over New Athens, on an approach course for the Enterprise.
Uhura had decided to raise hell. Her calls to McIverton over the shortwave had finally roused the night duty officer at the presidential offices, and her persistent demands that Captain Kirk speak to her had finally brought President Erikkson to the microphone. Uhura soon satisfied herself that there was trouble; Erikkson seemed—unfriendly.
And there was that mysterious trace from the middle of the continent.
Uhura put two and two together. She had seen people do that in the past and get an answer of five, but her instincts told her she was right.
And she always trusted her instincts.
It was time for Spock to take hold of things.
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Garrovick Valley
KIRK COULD EASILY remember standing watches more unpleasant than this one.
The captain was actually rather content. Here he was in his favorite place, sitting in an utterly comfortable, custom-contoured chair, a steaming coffeepot to his left and a thick, good book in his lap. The spotlamp he was using did not disturb those sleeping in the room.
It was the middle of a beautifully mild and quiet Centaurian night, and Kirk was home, for the first time in quite a while. The hell with the circumstances; he was enjoying it.
Kirk glanced at the luminous chronometer on the far wall. It read 02:77, and that meant just about twenty-five Centaurian minutes to the end of his watch. Kirk yawned.
He glanced over at the bed. Sulu—like Kirk, still dressed in civilian clothing—was dead to the world. Let him sleep, Kirk decided. Another hour or two of this won't kill me—and Sulu's still got a good dose of that drug, whatever it was, in him. He should sleep it off. Kirk walked back to his chair, poured himself a fifth cup of coffee, and picked up his book. It was one of his oldest: Asimov's Foundation Trilogy, a timeless piece of work Kirk had read twice before.
He got lost in it again, and the next time he looked at the chronometer it read 05:52. Good God, Kirk thought ruefully. The night's almost gone. Well, Sulu, you owe me a couple of hours' sack time, I think. With a little regret, Kirk folded the dustcover flap into the book to hold his place, and put it down next to the now-empty coffeepot. His eyes felt gritty; his mouth tasted worse.
Kirk switched off the spotlamp and stood. The sky was beginning to lighten as firstdawn approached his mountains. Soon the birds would greet the day with song; Kirk decided he wanted to be outside for that. He grabbed his jacket and put it on against the early-morning chill. He opened the cabin door quietly and stepped outside.
ZZZZZSSSSssssss! went past his ear.
Instinctively Kirk crouched and flung himself back inside, slamming the door shut with his booted foot. "Everybody up!" he ordered. "Sulu! Weapons case. Fast!"
The helmsman had risen quickly at the slam of the door. Now he ducked under the bed and retrieved a suitcase-sized black case with an Enterprise insigne on it: a standard-issue shuttlecraft portable weapons case. It looked like leather but was much tougher than that, and any attempt to force it open would result in its destruction—and the destruction of everything else within a radius of fifty meters. Sulu pressed his thumb against a touchplate on the lock; the case decided it was allowed to open, and it did.
Sulu passed phasers, pistol grips and extra power packs to Kirk and Cogley, and kept a set for himself. He relocked the case, slamming it shut.
Barclay and his four associates were awake, now.
"Smith" and "Jones" were sitting on the floor, watching Kirk and Sulu examine their weapons. Cogley was looking at his own phaser, a bit mystified; he had never held one before. Max and Dave were looking warily out the front window. Barclay was reclining comfortably on his bedroll, his arms folded underneath his head; he didn't seem to have a care in the world.
"What's happening, Captain?" asked "Jones." He looked a little mussed.
"We've been shot at," Kirk said shortly. "High-energy-level weapon. We must have a nice char mark on the front of the cabin now." Kirk did not mention that the beam had passed his head no farther away than ten centimeters; otherwise, he would not have heard it. He tagged it as a focused phaser blast, invisible and silent—and deadly.
It was not as efficient as a standard phaser blast, so it didn't have as great a range—which only meant that whoever it was outside was too damned close to the cabin to suit Kirk.
Barclay's eyebrows went up. "So. We've been followed," he drawled. "I don't think much of your hiding place, Captain."
"You can't afford to sneer, Barclay," Kirk said. "You're too close to being dead right now. So shut that hole in your face and stay down on the floor."
"Who fired that shot?" Burke raged, not far away.
"Dunno, sir," a lieutenant colonel in the Security Service replied. "Coulda been anyone in that stand of trees over there." He pointed; about fifteen troops in camouflage gear had taken shelter there, preparatory to raiding Kirk's cabin.
"When this is over, Colonel, I want a full investigation," Burke said through gritted teeth. "Your man has blown the element of surprise in this mission. Now we have to capture alive a number of men who don't want to be taken—and they're backed up by one of the toughest men in Starfleet!"
"We'll get 'em, Minister Burke," the lieutenant colonel said, a touch nervously.
"Oh, you'd better," Burke returned, too quietly. Those bastards in there killed my wife and kids, and if you think they're getting a chance to get away because some damn fool punk squeezed off a shot, you're crazier than they are. Who the hell did you lose in New Athens, Colonel?
"And let me remind you of your orders, Colonel," Burke continued, scathingly. "You are not to take any, repeat, any offensive action against Captain Kirk or Lieutenant Sulu. I don't care what they're wearing—Starfleet uniforms, civilian suits, or your Aunt Mabel's kitchen apron—you know what those two men look like; I showed you the pictures myself. I'm warning you, Colonel: Be more careful. Your force may defend itself if Kirk and Sulu resist—but Kirk and Sulu are Federation officers and will be treated as such. They are not the enemy! Your men will not take potshots at them, as if this were some Thanksgiving Day turkey shoot! Got that?"
"Yessir!" the lieutenant colonel said, his jaw clenched. "Permission to proceed, sir?"
"Go." The man saluted and went.
Perez strolled over and stood beside Burke. "Sorry for the foul-up, Nat. Deerfield's a good man, though; I think you were a little hard on him."
"Oh, really?" Burke said coldly, still looking toward the cabin. "He may be your man, Dan, but it's my operation. Take some advice: Don't forget it."
After a moment Perez went away, too, leaving Burke alone with his vengeance. Nobody dared bother Burke again after that.
* * *
Crouching below the front windowsill, Kirk watched the hills. Once in a while he thought he could see some movement of the foliage against the wind. The presence of a few infiltrators indicated the presence of many; from what Kirk knew of standard encirclement tactics, he guessed there must be a force of seventy or eighty in the area. Well, we can eliminate the notion of running for it, he thought. We're surrounded.
"Well, Kirk?" Barclay demanded. "Just what are you going to do to ensure our safety?"
Kirk ignored him.
"I'm talking to you, Captain. I demand the courtesy of an answer."
"I'd advise you to be a little more quiet, Mr. Barclay," Sam Cogley said from his position at the other window.
"The captain is rather busy."
"When I want your advice, Cogley, I'll tell you," Barclay snapped. "Kirk, if you're thinking of surrendering us, let me tell you this: Don't do it. You wouldn't like the consequences." Barclay smiled nastily.
"Keep your client quiet, Sam," Kirk advised. His mind was on other things. Tactically, their situation was desperate. Kirk had two men to protect five other men, none of whom could be trusted with a weapon. Kirk knew these woods far better than the members of the invading force, but that knowledge was useless as long as Kirk was confined to the cabin. The cabin had no secret exits, no arms cache, no transporter pad, not even a flying carpet.
All that the infiltrators had to do was storm the cabin; three men could not hold off nearly a hundred—not for long, anyway. An infantry combat phaser on heavy stun would do the job. That assumed, of course, that Burke—Kirk knew it had to be Burke out there, and maybe Perez, too—was interested in taking them alive. He wasn't sure about that, but the fact that the cabin and those in it still existed was a good sign. If Burke wanted them all dead, then one plane dropping one "smart" bomb could have done the job during the night. The assumption that Burke wanted them alive severely limited what Burke could do to capture them—as long as Barclay and his boys didn't try to leave the valley.
That meant they had time—a little, anyway. "Watch the window, Sulu," Kirk ordered as he took his communicator from his belt. He flipped it open; the initiating signal went out, but there was no answerback. Communications were still out.
Kirk's only alternative to voice communication would have been a ground-to-space laser signaler—and Galileo didn't have one aboard; a signaler wasn't standard equipment, according to the book. That was an oversight Kirk would remedy within one minute of his return to the Enterprise . . . assuming he did return. Under these conditions Kirk could have simply poked a hole in the roof, stuck the nozzle of the signaler through it and fired a beam of coherent light into space. Visible light would pass through the tachyonic interference barrier as if it were glass; the Enterprise's sensors would then quickly find the laser beam and trace it back to its source. They did have phasers, but the weapons could not fire a powerful enough beam to be detected from orbit.
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