Steve’s own world blew apart.…
Chapter Seventeen
Roz’s eyes opened wide with the shock. She staggered forward as her legs buckled under her. Clearwater and Cadillac caught her outstretched arms and saved her from falling. They eased her gently to the ground and knelt beside her.
‘What happened?!’ cried Cadillac. ‘Is it the baby?!’
Roz leaned back and tried to regulate her breathing as she clutched her swollen belly. ‘No, no …! It’s, uh … uh, someone just tried to kill Steve!’ She drew in several deep breaths through her nostrils. ‘But it’s … it’s okay. He’s … alive. It’s all right!’
The M’Kenzi elder who had come with them to act as a midwife, brought a waterbag from the ox-cart and applied some to her patient’s forehead. True to the promise he had made, Cadillac was bringing Roz back to the place where the M’Calls’ settlement had been to wait out the last month of her pregancy. She had been riding on the ox-cart, but had insisted on taking a short walk.
Cadillac looked worriedly at Clearwater. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Pray to the Great Sky Mother that he comes to no harm. What else can we do?’ The idea of losing Steve and Roz did not bear thinking about.
Roz clutched at her left shoulder and gasped: ‘Oh! Jeezuss!’
‘Steve…?’ asked Clearwater.
‘Yes.’ Roz’s mind got on top of the pain. ‘Feels as if he’s broken a collar-bone.’
‘Don’t move,’ said Cadillac. ‘I’ll fetch the cart.’
The impact with the ground knocked all the breath out of Steve’s body. He tried to drag some air down his throat but his chest seemed to have locked up. In fact, he seemed to be paralysed from head to toe. Eventually, as the shock wore off, some movement returned to his limbs, but despite the high threshold of pain he was supposed to possess as a Mute, it hurt like hell whenever he tried to move anything – especially up near his left shoulder.
He kicked and rolled himself over onto his right side and found himself looking at the smouldering carcass of a Mute – with no head or arms and only one leg. There was debris everywhere, and more mangled bodies with most of the clothes stripped off them. The three carriages had been turned into matchwood. The bogies had been tossed carelessly off the track, and the loco he had seen lifted into the air by the force of the explosion had been sent into a sideways spin, rolling along the track before splitting open and spewing red-hot coals and scalding steam.
It was still spewing out now. Steve was glad he hadn’t been riding the footplate – or in any other part of the train for that matter. He lay back and thanked the Great Sky Mother. The sixth sense that had saved his neck so many times in the past had come to his aid again. But how long would his luck hold? And where – assuming he could walk – was he going to go from here? He would never know whether Chisum had been in that locked sleeping compartment or not, but it no longer mattered. There was only one person who had both the means and the motive to destroy the train and everybody on it – Karlstrom, perhaps with the tacit approval of the P-G. And you could bet your last meal credit Karlstrom had a list of the people who’d been invited to the picnic.
Yehh, and he’d decided that 8902 Brickman, S.R. was surplus to requirements. Steve wiped the dust off his tongue and lips, then rubbed his forehead. Pulling his hand away he saw the palm was smeared with blood. What a mess … and he had no one to turn to. Now that Karlstrom had pulled the plug, he couldn’t go back to Cloudlands. Annie – the only person that might help him – was locked up tight with Crazy Uncle Bart. He was going to have to get out of the Federation – but how?
On his own two feet, that’s how. C’mon, move, Brickman!
He rolled over onto his belly and hauled himself up onto his hands and knees. Looking down he saw his knuckles were scuffed and bleeding. He had definitely done something to his left shoulder, any pressure on it soon became unbearable. Well, he was going to have to bear it. He put the weight on his right arm and tried to get his left knee up and under him, but his left ankle didn’t seem to be working properly.
It was in that position, with his head hanging down, that he heard the sound of a vehicle. He looked over his left shoulder and saw a camouflaged Bobcat bumping across the railway line in his direction. It stopped nearby and the two occupants jumped down and ran over to him.
Both of them were dressed in red, black and brown camouflage fatigues and field caps, with shoulder badges that showed they were with an overground Mines and Mills Unit based at Eisenhower/San Antonio. Their breast tags named them as Coombs and Murchison.
Coombs squatted down beside him. ‘You okay, good buddy? Jeezuss! You must be the luckiest man alive!’
Murchison surveyed the litter of broken bodies. ‘Looks like he’s the only man alive! Shee-itt! This is something, ain’t it?’
‘Could you help me up?’ gasped Steve.
‘Sure!’ said Coombs. ‘Let’s get you over to the ‘Cat. We got a first aid kit in there.’
‘Looks like you need it,’ added Murchison. He sat Steve up against one of the wheels while Coombs climbed into the vehicle to get the kit and some water.
‘How did you get here?’ asked Steve.
Murchison shrugged. ‘Saw the explosion, reckoned somethin’ was wrong – drove straight through the goddam fence.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
Coombs knelt on the platform that ran alongside the cabin section of the amphib and cleaned Steve’s headwound. ‘Uhh, that’s not too deep, but you might need some stitches.’ He applied some antibiotic gel then gave Steve the wet cotton swab. ‘Clean off your hands, they look like they could use some gel too.’
Murchison hunkered down in front of him. ‘How’s the ankle? D’you want it splinted up?’
‘No. I think I just twisted it. It’ll come right.’
Murchison eyed the grey leather boots and the rest of Steve’s torn and dirt-covered Confederate uniform as he straightened up. ‘Pretty fancy rig you got there – what’s left of it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Steve. He loosened some buttons on his tunic, reached inside and produced his silver ID card. ‘Family … can you run me to San Antone?’
Murchison saluted. ‘Yessirr, Captain!’
Steve gestured towards the scattered wreckage of the train. ‘Have you called this in?’
‘No, sir. We just saw it happen and steamed over. Who would you like us to call? We can do it right now.’
‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll make the calls when I reach your divisional base. This is the work of subversives – I’m going to have to speak with the State Provost Marshal and the White House. But I shall need you to come back here and guard that breach in the fence until our people get here.’ He masked the pain that wracked his body. ‘Okay, let’s hit the road!’
Murchison pulled out the retractable step ladder between the second and third portside wheels. As Steve turned towards the vehicle, he saw a crumpled swathe of yellow material pinned underneath the rear tyre of the Bobcat. It was part of the dress Fran had been wearing. The one she had hung up before lying down to take the nap she would never wake up from.…
He climbed onto the hull, entered the four-seat cabin through the side door and settled down in the back row. Coombs, the smaller of the two, got in behind the wheel. Murchison took the seat on his right.
Steve saw the two carbines racked on the side walls of the cabin and glanced at his watch. 16:24 … the afternoon was almost gone. ‘Can you make the base by 17:00?’
‘We can try, but it’s gonna rattle your bones,’ said Coombs.
That’s the least of my worries,’ said Steve. ‘Go for it.’
The duty crew watching the screens in the observation tower atop the huge concrete bunker that formed the interface between the overground and the subterranean world below, saw the camouflaged Bobcat approach at speed, then slew round and stop facing the other way as it neared the main entrance ramp. An onscreen check of the code letters painted on its
roof identified it as belonging to the Mines and Mills detachment which had been booked out that morning to PFC.Coombs and Murchison.
A voice through the speaker tuned to the open channel. ‘Tower, this is 8753 Coombs, Cat H-94. We’re dropping off someone from Grand Central who’s been involved in a traffic accident. He’s able to walk in, but requests assistance at the ramp. We’re heading back out to complete our assignment. Over.’
One of the duty Comm-Techs responded. ‘Roger, H-94. Over and out.’
He looked at the screen relaying pictures from the tv cameras monitoring the ramp. A guy with blond crewcut hair, dressed in camouflage fatigues emerged from the driver’s side of the Bobcat, waved to the people inside, then closed the door and jumped down as the vehicle moved off and headed across country.
The Comm-Tech who had taken the call keyed himself through to Main Ramp Security and told them they had an incoming who might need medical assistance.
Steve pulled the field cap firmly down over his scalp wound and limped through what was known as the single access door onto Level Ten–10 of Eisenhower/San Antone. Two Provos, anonymous behind the mirrored half-visors of their red and white helmets, and a medic, stepped forward to meet him.
‘Where’s your name-tag, soldier?’
Steve pushed his silver ID card towards their faces. ‘I’m not required to wear one, Sergeant!’
The realisation that they were dealing with a member of the First Family brought a radical change of attitude. ‘Uhh, no SIRR, Captain!’ barked his first interrogator.
‘How can we be of assistance, sir?!’ barked the second Meat-Loaf.
‘Help me over to the Ramp Office. I need some information, and while you’re getting it, I’d be grateful if the medic could bandage my left ankle.’
‘Yes, SIR! This way, SIR!’
Brown-nosing bastards…
The medic and the first Meat-Loaf assisted Steve to the Ramp Office, while the second cleared the way ahead. Steve slumped down gratefully into the offered chair and fought off the pain generated by the bone-shaking ride, and his leap off the moving Bobcat. He looked down at the kneeling medic. ‘Just bind it up as tight as you can. And if you’ve got a couple of Cloud Nines, I’ll personally arrange a Class One Citation.’
The medic passed them over to him, tested the swelling on his ankle, sprayed on some Novocaine and began to bandage it. Steve swallowed half of one of the strong pain killers, pocketed the rest for later and caught the eye of the desk clerk. ‘Could you check the time of the next shuttle to Monroe/Wichita?’
‘Rightaway, sir!’ She called up the information on the nearest video screen. ‘That’ll be the 17:15, sir, stopping at Fort Worth and Tulsa … arriving Wichita 23:00.’ She looked at the wall clock. The time was 17:11. ‘Looks like you’re going to miss than one, sir. The next is at –’
‘Call the Platform Master. Tell him to hold the train.’
‘But, sir –’
‘Just DO it!’ yelled Steve. He flashed his silver card.
The clerk looked uncertainly at the two Provos. They gave her the nod. She switched her video to communications mode and keyed in the required number.
Steve levered himself upright.
‘I’m not through with your ankle!’ said the medic.
‘You can finish it in the elevator!’ cried Steve. He limped out of the office, followed by the medic. When he reached the turnstile to the elevator lobby, Steve turned and jabbed a finger at the Provos. ‘And you! Make sure they hold that fucking train!’
The two sergeants leapt to attention and saluted as one. ‘Yess – SIRR!’
As they doubled back to the Ramp Office, Steve carded himself through the turnstile, followed by the medic. He passed the first major hurdle. The fact that the computer-controlled mechanism had let him through meant his card was still valid. Karlstrom must have been so certain that everybody on the train would be killed, he had not yet gotten around to arranging for his card to be cancelled.
He was in with a chance. If he could cover the next six hundred and thirty miles without running into trouble, he would be in Kansas, one of the new Territories. The divisional base of Monroe/Wichita had just been completed, but they were still not fully up and running – and best of all, Monroe was the only base in the whole state. Wagon-trains were still busy trying to drive out the Mutes. If he could get to Level Ten–10 and past Ramp Security, he was almost home and dry.
The medic followed him into the nearest open elevator and got to work on the ankle as Steve hit the button marked ‘Subway’!
When Bull Jefferson’s train failed to show up at the Cloudlands railyard at 19:00 hours, the time originally scheduled, no alarm was raised. It had been a warm, sunny day – ideal for outdoor pursuits – his party had probably decided to extend their outing. Even so, it was no way to run a railway. There had been no radio contact between the train and the Line Master’s office since its reported departure from the shunting yard in mid-afternoon.
At 20:00 hours, after repeated attempts to contact the train, the Line Master’s office called Security Brigade HQ. They put a Skyhawk up to fly down the line. It wasn’t long before the pilot discovered the wreckage of the train and whilst manoeuvering to make another low pass, spotted the breach in the security fence.
The President-General was immediately alerted to what looked like a major act of sabotage by subversives who had penetrated the enclave. The first question he asked was how the fence could be breached without triggering the alarm system which was supposed to indicate the sector where the illegal entry was taking place.
An embarrassing question. The red-faced respondent was obliged to explain that the sector alarm system was not yet operational, and the video cameras had not been installed in the robot watch-towers. Only the proximity sensors – which reacted to the movement of any solid body towards the fence and issued a recorded warning through loud hailers – were up and running.
For Karlstrom, the breach in the security fence was a heaven-sent bonus – especially as Bull Jefferson had known about the uncompleted alarm systems when planning his inaugural trip down the new stretch of line.
The mystery deepened and took a new twist when Mines and Mills at Eisenhower/San Antonio sent out four Bobcats to look for a missing vehicle and received a radio message at 21:15 that it had been found, nosedown in an irrigation ditch. Coombs and Murchison, the two crewmen, were strapped in the back seats. Both had been shot in the head. Murchison had also had his neck broken by a heavy blow to the side of his skull. His boots, camouflage fatigues and field cap were missing. The engine had stalled but the vehicle’s cruise control was still set and locked on 40mph.
This information was routed through the communications room in the observation tower that had handled the earlier exchange with H-94. But there had been a change of shifts. The new crew were unaware that H-94 had returned to base and dropped off a passenger. Steve’s desperate ruse might have succeeded had it not been for the chance social visit of an off-duty Comm-Tech from the earlier shift. Hearing his colleagues discussing the incident, he recalled the arrival of the camouflaged ‘accident victim’, and alerted Ramp Security – mainly to cover his own ass.
The two Provos were also off-duty. Summoned in midswallow from the mess-deck, they couldn’t remember the name on the ID card that had been thrust in their faces. The shock at being confronted by a First Family ID card had frozen their brains. All they had recorded was that the photo on the card matched the face and that the owner held the rank of captain.
The Provo Commander – like everyone else on the base – knew nothing about the explosion that had occurred some twenty miles away. He wasn’t over-eager to get involved in Family business, but the fact that the captain with the silver card had been wearing camouflage fatigues with M&M and San Antonio shoulder badges indicated that he’d taken them from one of the dead crewmen. Which linked him to their murder. Whatever happened later, a Code One violation had been committed within his jurisdiction –
and it was his duty to follow it up.
The first thing he had to do was establish the captain’s identity. The card-operated turnstile to the elevator lobby recorded the name and number of everyone who passed through – and the card would have been used again before boarding the shuttle. The computer records could be accessed – but not instantly. The Provo Commander set the ball rolling.
As soon as they had the captain’s name and number, the information could be fed back to the central computer. Once alerted that the card was invalid, the computer would deny entry to all controlled sectors, elevators and long-distance transportation. It would also alert local security as to his whereabouts – for there was no guarantee that the mysterious captain was still heading for Monroe/Wichita. He could have already changed at Fort Worth and gone west to Santa Fe, northeast to Little Rock or … back to Grand Central. In fact he could already be there.
The Commander was aware there was still time to alert the Provo Commander at Kennedy/Tulsa, but he was reluctant to meddle with the Family. They operated in a realm of their own and were not answerable to the ordinary law enforcement agencies. He was not prepared to jeopardise his career by acting without the proper information. When that was at his disposal, he would contact the Black Tower and ask them to relay it to the White House.
While the Commander was wrestling with his little local difficulty, the senior office-holders of the White House were trying to come to terms with the full horror of the disaster which had wiped out an entire branch of the First Family. Neither the President-General – who had taken on the task of informing the nearest relatives of the train’s passengers – or Karlstrom, knew about the dead crewmen inside the Bobcat, or about the long-distance traveller who, with each passing minute, was getting nearer and nearer to the end of the line.…
Having made up the initial delay on the run to Fort Worth, the MagLev shuttle slid smoothly into the subway station at Tulsa at precisely 21:45 for its second fifteen minute stop before the last leg to Monroe/Wichita.
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