Steve had taken one whole Cloud Nine at Forth Worth to deaden the pain from his ankle and left shoulder. Unless he could get some more, that left one half dose to carry him through the rest of his journey to Wyoming. On the jolting drive in to Eisenhower/San Antonio, he realised he’d cracked some ribs too but there hadn’t been time to bandage them. It hurt to breathe, but the pill plus the right mental attitude made it bearable. The next big hurdle would be getting out of Monroe/Wichita. The three months spent working as a Seamster had given him some knowledge of the behind-the-scenes passageways of the Federation, but he certainly wasn’t in any shape to climb up one of the thousand foot-deep ventilation shafts.
The pill had made him feel drowsy, and he slept through most of the journey from Fort Worth to Tulsa. Now it was time to sit up and look alert. At each stop, a four-man team of Provos always walked through the train checking the cards and movements orders of anyone who caught their eye. Steve knew he was bound to attract attention. Trackers didn’t normally travel in camouflage fatigues, and if they were moving between bases, they would usually have a trail-bag.
His ID had been sufficient to allay any suspicions at Fort Worth, but sooner or later, that Bobcat would be found and the hunt would begin – if it hadn’t begun already. Until he got to Monroe/Wichita there was nothing he could do but sit tight and brazen it out. The quarter-hour ticked by minute by interminable minute. Steve glanced out of the window and saw a group of Provos on the platform. They were all facing inwards as if listening to a briefing, but now and then one of them would glance up and down the platform or at the waiting shuttle. The tension was unbearable.
‘I don’t believe this!’ said a voice. ‘Steve Brickman?’
Steve looked up at the owner of the voice, dressed in wing-man blue, who was standing in the aisle just behind his seat. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was Pete Vandenberg, from Condor Squadron, Class of ‘89 at the Flight Academy. A fellow-graduate who had come third in the honours list, relegating him to fourth position by two points.
Steve ignored his burning joints and levered himself up. ‘Pete! What the heck are you doing here?!’
‘I was going to ask you the same question!’ Pete shook Steve’s hand vigorously and fisted Steve’s injured shoulder. Steve almost fainted. He sat down quickly, with his left side out of harm’s way against the side wall of the compartment.
Vandenberg stowed his trail-bag on the overhead rack and sat down facing him. ‘Jeez, man! We got word you were dead! What happened?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Steve.
‘Well, we got an hour to Wichita. You can give me some of it.’ Vandenberg gave Steve’s left knee a friendly slap.
That hurt too. The blood from the skinned knee-cap had stuck to his trouser leg and kept tearing away every time he moved.
‘Great to see you!’ Vandenberg leaned forward. ‘Did you know the left side of your face was swollen?’
‘Yeah. I tripped over my own feet and fell off a Bobcat.’
Vandenberg put his face to the window, checked the platform then said: ‘So how come the uniform?’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Mines and Mills?’
‘That’s another long story.’
Vandenberg caught sight of two people passing the window. He rapped hard with his knuckles, then leapt up and ran along to the open door. Steve didn’t look to see what was happening. Keeping perfectly still seemed to be the best remedy to all his ills.
Vandenberg returned and gestured towards Steve. ‘Now do you believe me?’
Two overlapping voices chorused: ‘Holy shit! – Son of a bitch!’
Steve found himself looking into the grinning faces of Mel Avery and Sonny Ayers, two other ‘89 graduates of the Flight Academy. But Melanie and Sonny had been his classmates in the top-rated Eagle Squadron. They were also dressed in blue with gold wings above the left-hand tunic pocket and lieutenant’s sleeve stripes. Steve shoved out his hand but didn’t get up. The two of them were so excited they almost pulled his arm off.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ they both asked.
‘He won’t say.’ Pete Vandenberg tapped the side of his nose. ‘Special assignment.’
‘That’s right,’ said Steve. ‘So why don’t you guys tell me what you’re up to?’
Before they could reply, two Meat-Loafs walked along the centre aisle and stopped as their eyes lighted upon Steve. ‘You got no name, soldier?’ asked one of the sergeants.
‘Step out into the aisle,’ said his colleague.
Steve reached into his pocket and held out the wallet containing his ID card, but made no move to get up.
The second sergeant took the wallet, lifted the flap, showed the card to the other Meat-Loaf, then handed the wallet back to Steve and gave a short salute. ‘Sorry about that, Captain.’
‘That’s okay, Sergeant.’
‘A captain? With no rank stripes?’ Vandenberg eyed Steve then exchanged glances with Avery and Ayers.
‘Tell me about Wichita,’ said Steve.
‘We’re going out to join Leatherneck,’ said Mel Avery.
Steve tried to sound casual. ‘The Fighting Leathernecks? The wagon-train? You’re kidding.’
‘Why?’ asked Sonny. ‘Are you shipping out on it too?’
Steve grinned. ‘Wish I was. Unfortunately I’ve got some other business to attend to. But I’d love the chance to come on board for an hour or two. When are you due to leave?’
‘Day after tomorrow,’ said Pete. ‘We’re replacing a guy who bought a farm and a couple more who got injured.’ He held out his hand. ‘Okay, Steve, show us the ID.’
Steve locked eyes with him for a moment then laid the wallet on Vandenberg’s palm. Vandenberg opened it and studied the silver ID then angled it towards Avery and Ayers before handing it back.
‘Does that mean what I think it means …?’
Steve nodded.
‘Family…?’ breathed Avery.
Steve nodded again.
‘Smokin’ lumpshit!’ muttered Ayers.
It was Vandenberg’s turn to nod. ‘Always had you down as someone who knew where they were headed.’
If only they knew! Steve responded with a modest smile. ‘Just the luck of the draw, Pete.’
Mel Avery tapped Vandenberg on the arm. ‘Did you tell him who we’re meeting up with at Wichita?’
‘No,’ said Vandenberg. ‘Let that be another surprise.…’
With a dozen different escape scenarios milling around inside his head, Steve mentally gathered himself up for a final effort as the shuttle eased to a halt at the brand new subway station. Part of it was still festooned with construction trestles. Vandenberg secured a wheelie – for which Steve was quietly thankful – and they all piled in and drove up the ramp to the domed central plaza. The main concourse had been paved and planted, but they were still pouring concrete over on the west side.
As the wheelie droned along the vehicle track that ran around the concourse towards the cluster of elevators, Steve saw someone with sandy hair and a blue uniform rise from one of the tables outside a coffee and soft drink unit.
It was Captain Bob Carroll, the Chief Flying Instructor from the Flight Academy at Lindbergh Field, New Mexico. The man who had watched over the progress of Steve and his fellow graduates for three years. It seemed too good to be true.
Carroll, now sporting commander’s rank stripes, returned their salutes and greeted Steve warmly. ‘Good to see you, Brickman.’
‘It’s Captain Brickman, sir,’ said Vandenberg.
Carroll looked Steve over. ‘In that case I won’t ask what happened to your wings – or why you’re working for Mines and Mills.’
‘I’m not, sir, I’m still on active duty.’ He passed Carroll his ID wallet.
Carroll eyed the contents with raised eyebrows then passed it back. ‘Congratulations – and good luck. Always knew they couldn’t keep a good man down.’
Steve pocketed the ID. ‘Same goes for you, sir. Still at the Fligh
t Academy?’
‘Yes, but I’m on a three-month detachment. Always good to get a taste of the real thing. I’m shadowing the Wagon-Master and the Flight Operations Officer on Leatherneck.’
It was getting better by the minute. Steve went for it. ‘Can I ask you a big favour, sir? I don’t have to meet my contacts until tomorrow morning. Is there any chance of being able to come aboard tonight? Apart from a brief spell on Red River last year, I haven’t seen the inside of many wagon-trains lately. Been too busy driving SkyRiders to strange places.’
Carroll didn’t know about AMEXICO or its private air force but he got the message. ‘Sure.’ He grinned. ‘If we can’t find you a bunk, we’ll ask Mel here to move over. Let’s go.’
After passing through Ramp Security, Carroll led them out through a bulkhead door into the warm night air. A full moon hung in a cloudless sky, obscuring all but the brightest stars. Two Bobcats stood on their shadows, headlights gleaming. The wagon-train lay about a quarter of a mile away, drawn into a straight line. Its flight deck was extended and lit, and circling high above were two winking red points of light attached to dark, winged silhouettes – Sky hawks. It was all coming together.…
Steve paused, slipped the remaining half-dose of painkiller into his mouth, took a deep breath and strode forward, willing himself not to limp. You can do it, Brickman! Bear it! Walk tall! You are a Plainfolk warrior!
Carroll led them up the ramp into the belly of the forward command car and took Steve to see the wagon-master while the other three reported to the Trail Boss and went aft to settle in. ‘Shack’ Torrenson, the Leathernecks’ commander, cast his eye over Steve’s ID, listened to Carroll’s pitch, arranged for Steve to be logged in as a visitor and issued with a pass, then shook his hand and expressed the hope he would enjoy his short stay.
Carroll pulled a wheelie off the line for the run back to the flight car. ‘I imagine you’ll want to go topside.’
‘If I can, sir. Why have you got aircraft up this late?’
‘New routine we’re trying out,’ replied Carroll. ‘We’ve heard that Mutes usually keep their heads down after dark. So we’re working up for night operations. The idea is to have a high-flier pin-point the settlements during the day, then go in after dark behind a navigation leader who will mark and light up the target with flares for the main force. We’ll be able to go in low and fast, lay down the napalm, then strafe them as they come running out with their pants down. And of course the night sky gives us perfect cover. Can’t fail.’
‘No. It sounds good,’ said Steve hollowly.
They went up into one of the duck-holes set along the edges of the flight deck and watched several dummy approaches, hook-on landings and catapult launchings from the steam-powered booms. Half of the wing-men on board had been tapped for night-flying exercises, and they were taking it in turn to practise take-offs and landings, using the faster, twin-boom Skyhawk Mark 2.
Pete Vandenberg, Mel Avery and Ayers joined Steve in the duckhole. Carroll turned to Steve. ‘Do you want to try your hand at a couple of circuits? May be your last chance for a while.’
Steve tried to sound interested but not over-eager. ‘Well, yes – if you’re sure it’s okay.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Carroll. ‘I trust you.’ He stopped as a thought struck him. ‘You have flown the Mark Two, haven’t you?’
‘A few times,’ lied Steve.
‘Then you should be okay. Most of the systems are duplicated on the SkyRider. Should be no problem. Do a few dummy approaches. If you find yourself running out of deck, go round again and land alongside. We’ll haul you aboard on the boom.’
Sonny Ayers chortled at the prospect. ‘Ohh, this I gotta see!’
They waited until the next Skyhawk landed on, then climbed out and followed it as the deck crew manhandled it onto the starboard catapult. Carroll stopped the departing wing-man and borrowed his helmet. He handed it to Steve with a smile. This takes me back a few years.’
‘Yeah, me too, sir. There’s another question I’ve been wanting to ask. Maybe you’ll feel unable to answer it, but…’
‘I think I know what it is, but go ahead anyway.’
‘The passing-out exam. Were the final marks rigged?’
‘Yes, they were. You scored 197 – close to the double century you were aiming for.’
‘So what happened?’
Carroll shrugged. ‘An order came through to mark you down. That’s all I can tell you – and don’t ask me why. But you’re still top in my book. Best pupil I ever had. And that silver card shows that other far more important people think very highly of you too.’
Steve laughed. ‘Yehh, you’re right.’ He shook Carroll’s hand. ‘Thank you, sir. You don’t realise how much this means to me.’
Carroll waved his words away. ‘Just show us what you can do, Brickman – and don’t bend it!’
Steve saluted, climbed into the Skyhawk, exchanged his field cap for the visored bone-dome, checked the instruments and control movements then closed the cockpit cover. The catapult boom lifted to form an angle of fifteen degrees with the deck. The crew chief crouched low on the deck, and gave Steve the wind-up signal. He selected ten degrees of flap and opened the throttle to full revs. When the needle hit the mark, he braced himself in his seat with his head against the backrest and spoke into the helmet mike. ‘Flaps set, trim set, speed set, Go!’
Whhoooossssshhhhh! Steve gave an exultant yell as he soared into the night sky and climbed steadily upwards towards the beckoning moon.
Some fifteen minutes after Steve had left the flight-deck, the central computer system picked up his exit from the elevator lobby on Level Ten–10 at Monroe/Wichita and Karlstrom was now on the case. It did not take long to discover that he had talked his way on board the Fighting Leathernecks, and had coolly borrowed a Skyhawk that he obviously had no intention of bringing back.
Brickman had demonstrated his resourcefulness yet again. How he had escaped the blast was a mystery Karlstrom did not intend to waste time solving. The runaway had to be stopped, not because he could damage AMEXICO, or the Federation, but because he had become a challenge Karlstrom could not ignore. This was personal. He could not allow anyone to get the better of him.
A crestfallen Commander Carroll had supplied the necessary information. The Skyhawk, which was powered by methane gas, had not been fully tanked up. The maximum distance Brickman could travel before he ran dry was one hundred and fifty miles. That would bring him down far short of Wyoming.
Karlstrom checked his watch. If he was flying at the most economical cruising speed, Brickman would be making a dead-stick landing on unfamiliar terrain at around one o’clock in the morning. The reports from Ramp Security at San Antonio had established that the damage to his ankle would severely hamper any journey he attempted to make on foot. Come first light, he would not be too hard to find.…
‘Do you feel better now?’
Roz opened her eyes to find Clearwater sitting beside her bed of furs. She eased herself up into a sitting position and found she could not support herself on her left arm.
Clearwater saw her grimace. ‘Steve …?’
‘Yes…’ Roz touched the crown of her head, her left shoulder, ribs then pointed towards her left foot. ‘He is hurt in so many places. But he has escaped. I can feel it. He is much nearer than before.’ She closed her eyes and turned her thoughts inwards. ‘Two rivers running together.’
Cadillac poked his head through the door flap in time to hear this. ‘That is where we fought the battle with the Iron Snake! Is that where he is? Shall I gather a posse and go to meet him?’
Roz laid a hand on her swollen belly. ‘No. You are to wait here with me.’ She stretched out her right hand towards Clearwater. ‘Come closer. He wants to speak to you through me.’
Clearwater bent over her. Roz laid both hands on her forehead. They both remained motionless for a long moment, then Roz said: ‘Help me outside. I want to see the sun.’
Cadi
llac backed out and held the flap open. Clearwater wiped the tears from her face and helped Roz onto her hands and knees. Roz clutched her arm and whispered: ‘Get Mexi! It’s close. I feel it!’
Mexicali-Rose was the M’Kenzi midwife. Clearwater said: ‘But you still have another moon!’
Roz shook her head violently. ‘Get everything ready – and remember the lessons I gave you!’
Clearwater and Cadillac helped her from the tent into the morning sunshine. She knelt down by the deep metal pan – one of the prizes from their trip to Ne-Issan – and splashed water on her face to hide her own tears.
Steve blinked himself awake from a confused dream in which he had surmounted a series of ever increasingly difficult obstacles with a growing feeling of powerlessness, and found himself slumped down low in the cockpit of the downed Skyhawk.
The full moon had helped him pick out some reasonably flat terrain when the fuel ran out. Without a map, he had been obliged to guess the right course for Wyoming. He decided to head north-west, and had spotted the line of the North Platte river when the fuel ran out. Gliding down from his cruising altitude of four thousand feet he managed to add several more miles to his journey and, by a curious stroke of fate, had come down within a few hundred yards of the confluence of the North and South Platte – near to the spot where The Lady from Louisiana and the Clan M’Call had both been destroyed.
The site of his last great betrayal.…
With only one shot at a landing, he had done his best, but had ripped off the nose wheel and portside main wheel on landing – and no doubt had mangled the propeller. Not that it mattered. The semi-controlled crash hadn’t improved the condition of his left ankle or his cracked ribs. But he was still a lot closer to home. All he had to do was get out and start walking.
He hauled himself upright in the seat and took stock of his surroundings. Spread out in a line ahead of him, walking cautiously towards him were twelve, thirteen, no … fourteen Mute warriors. Half of them carried loaded cross-bows raised against the shoulder, ready to fire. The others had their knives out.
And 8902 Brickman, their Plainfolk brother was sitting in a Federation Skyhawk, dressed in the camouflage fatigues worn by the hated occupants of the iron snakes. No good relying on the nose-mounted Vulcan. The six barrels were buried in the dirt underneath the nose and in any case, since it fired on a fixed line, all they would have needed to do was step out of the way. The only gun on board, the pistol in the emergency survival kit, was in a special outside compartment behind the cockpit on the port side.
Earth-Thunder Page 48
