The Company of the Dead

by David Kowalski

  “We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose,” Webster purred.

  XVIII

  Operations stank of nicotine. Glowed twilight, radar-screen emerald and battle-alert red. Hummed with expectation. Silent running, darkened ship. Two of the walls to either side of the forwards view port were manned by an array of radio operators. A quorum of senior officers crowded the main radar screen observing the pastiche of readings gathered from advanced reconnaissance. A relief map to its left, layered in shades of sapphire and jade, displayed red circles indicating the last known positions of the two Japanese strats. Crosses marked enemy landing fields at the edge of the DMZ; crimson wedges for recent bandit sightings. The Patton was an isolated blue circle on the near edge of the map.

  A series of wedges, blue and white, were the scout rocket squadrons and their attendant fighter cover. Webster peered closer and realised that the raised swirls—curved across the map in streaks of cobalt and sky blue—represented the jet streams; shaded for altitude and velocity. There was a horrendous beauty to it all.

  He made his way forwards and was intercepted by one of his people.

  “Director.” The agent extended a slip of paper. “Recon scout’s back. He couldn’t get clearance to land but we got a message across.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Morse code, encrypted and flashed between the Eye and the scout.”

  “Good work.” He examined the note: “Alpha in flames. Two outgoing convoys. Smaller: eastbound, trucks. Larger: northbound, tanks, trucks, horses. German column due south and closing.”

  Why northbound? He’d ordered Kennedy’s men to be shipped west. Tanks meant someone’s long-range recon were involved. They were too far north for Germans, even if they were Brandenburgs. Steiner must have intervened. But how? He searched the deck, scanning for the German, without success. Horses?

  “Find Delegate Steiner. Ask him to meet me in my cabin.”

  Admiral Illingworth and Flight Director Paterson held court by the view port. Webster pressed his way towards them. There was motion across the starboard side wall. Chinese whispers along the console till the chief radio operator approached the radar array, addressed the flight director and said, “We’re go.”

  Paterson sought Illingworth’s consent before giving the order. He said, “Let’s hear it.”

  The operator relayed the command and the speakers sputtered to life.

  “Diving into the clouds for a closer look.”

  “Roger that, Red Fox 5.”

  “Wolf leader from Red Fox 4. Nothing out here but empty sky.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Illingworth bellowed across the room, “filter it. Squadron leaders only.”

  There was an agitated buzz among the officers. The speakers hissed and snapped.

  “Red Fox leader from Wolf leader. Thick as soup out here, no cloud-churn, no strat-sign. Take your scouts down to thirty k.”

  The officers focused on the radar composite with hopeful, willing eyes.

  Stillness stretched out; a low murmur of prayer and curses.

  “Wolf leader from Red Fox leader. Two jap strats sighted. No scout swarm, no fighter screen. Repeat, no fighter screen. Course and speed to follow.”

  A muted cheer echoed within the chamber.

  The coordinates came through. A crewman made the relevant adjustments on the skymap.

  “They’re on our doorstep,” Illingworth glowered. “They’re at thirty-five k and they’ll have fighters, so where the hell are they?”

  “Might be on a wide sweep, scouting ahead.” Paterson approached the console. “Have Knight and Bishop squadrons keep watch for returning flights.”

  “They could be aboard the strats, refuelling,” an air officer suggested.

  “We’re talking standard fighter cover. FS-Zs, not scouts, at that altitude,” Paterson replied gruffly.

  “They’re skimming real low for stratolites,” Illingworth said. “Probably looking to catch a stream.” He viewed the skymap and pointed at two of the darker blue curves. “There, or there, I’ll wager. They’re making for Phoenix.”

  “They want to hook up with the Mexicans,” Webster offered.

  Paterson nodded his agreement.

  “We need to find those jap fighters,” Illingworth said. “If they’re not out there flying escort, they’re incoming till proven otherwise.”

  “Then we should call general quarters,” Paterson replied. “I’ll put up a swarm.”

  “Not good enough.” Illingworth shook his head. “Unless you find me those jap fighters, we’re taking her up.”

  “Give me five minutes, Peter.”

  “You’ve got three.” Illingworth disengaged himself from the flight director and summoned his first officer. He inclined his head skywards and said, “Make ready for ascent.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Webster studied the flash of Paterson’s glare. The officer who’d escorted him earlier leaned in and whispered, “Supposed to be Paterson’s show while we’re in combat.”

  Webster nodded.

  “Paterson wants more planes in the sky,” the officer continued. “Wants to be able to exploit any initial attack with a second wave. The admiral wants us high and clear. Moment we hit those strats they’ll open up their active radar. We’ll light up like a Christmas tree.”

  “We’re out of their line of sight,” Webster said, glancing at the skymap.

  “Depends on who’s looking at us.”

  All eyes were on the radar screen. All ears strained to catch the next burst of radio transmissions.

  “Wolf leader to White Rabbit. We’re in position.”

  “I’ll show you those jap fighters, Admiral.” Paterson cleared his throat. “Divisions two, four and six hit the Hiryu. One, three, five, hit the Soryu. Bishop, Knight, Castle squadrons escort odds. Rest take evens. Stay in tight.”

  The chief keyed the orders. Webster hunched forwards. His companion was staring at the dull unblinking screen of the radar display. The skymap was running on a five-minute lag and the radar was motionless. It hadn’t been updated since their arrival. The officer said, “Keep your eyes on the screen, sir. Any minute now we’ll have active data coming in from the scouts.”

  Webster’s hands were balled fists in his pockets. He fumbled for the pill container, rolling it back and forth, flicking the top open and shut. Data trickled in mumbles from the radio operators, in the low-key murmurs among the senior officers, the consternation etched on Paterson’s brow. Illingworth and his first officer held a silent discourse of deliberate glances.

  “Jesus, switch to manual controls.”

  “Red Fox leader to cubs, disable auto-release.”

  “Wolf leader to White Rabbit. We got a proximity glitch with the strats. Half our ordnance’s gone.”

  “She’s turning into the wind.”

  A chorus of angered dismay swept the chamber.

  “What just happened?” Webster cast an eye on the screen. He tried to form some connection between the disembodied voices and the frozen display. The radar lit up.

  “Rocket guidance must have been on auto-fire.” His companion scanned the update. “This is all fucked up.”

  Paterson was at the starboard console, huddled with his men. He made his appraisal and snarled a string of directives to the chief.

  “The Soryu’s launching her scouts.”

  “Hound leader, 020 bandits twelve o’clock.”

  “Knight leader, 015 bandits three o’clock.”

  An airman shot Paterson a fretful look. “Pull them out?”

  Paterson ignored him. “Identify aircraft and maintain contact,” he barked. “Bring up the fighter escort.” He turned to Illingworth. “Happy?”

  “Don’t sweat it,” the admiral replied. “We’re holding position.”

  Paterson seized the chief’s microphone. “Wolf squadron, back off. Draw their fire. Hound, take out those flight decks. Red Fox target the ballonets.”

  The radar was a
kaleidoscope of emerald and lime. Flashes of specks swirled mercurial around the two outsized jade markers. They seemed too small to be of any consequence, too trivial to bring any harm to the massive Japanese strats, each a minor city in its own right.

  Scraps of radio broadcasts broke in on the fragments of heated discussion. Webster sorted through the babble, attempting to impose order on the rapid flow of information.

  Knight squadron: fifteen pilots downed to a man.

  A wing of jap fighters, sweeping wide as predicted by Paterson, mauled by Confederate interceptors.

  Nearly a fifth of the rocket launches misfired due to computer error.

  The Soryu’s central ballonet array in shreds.

  A flight officer, close by, was giving Paterson his own evaluation. “Maybe fifty bandits all up—they managed to launch a squadron of scouts apiece. Our interceptors are all over them. Looks like we still managed to catch them napping.”

  Paterson signalled the radio chief. He handed back the phones. “Have them concentrate on the Soryu.”

  “Close in Hound 7, follow me.”

  “I’ve got a clean shot.”

  “Look at that jap bastard climb.”

  “They’re making a run for it,” Webster’s escort enthused.

  Webster found the radar display unfathomable now. Scouts and fighters flickered back and forth, lost to contact or blown from the skies. From what he could see, the two strats were being driven apart. A wedge of scouts soared among them.

  “The one to port’s making rapid ascent,” his escort continued. “Fuck knows what the other one’s doing. There’s another wave of jap interceptors coming in from the south. They’ll have to get through our fighters first.”

  “Think we nailed her.”

  “Scratch one strat. We got them cold.”

  “Bishop leader to White Rabbit. Confirming previous report. The Hiryu’s on fire. She’s going down.”

  This time the cheer filled the room. Paterson was smiling now, nodding. He collared one of his men. “Let the fighters chase her down. I want all rocket squadrons on the Soryu.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Illingworth interjected. “We bring the Hiryu down and I want all your crews making for those abandoned strips east of Vegas.”

  “My boys need refuelling. Some have taken hits.”

  “We can’t launch and receive at the same time, and I don’t want any fresh trails leading back to the Patton. We’ll recover our boys soon enough.”

  A com officer approached the view port. “I have President Clancy on line one.”

  Paterson said, “He’ll want a second strike.”

  “Let’s finish the first one, shall we,” Illingworth replied.

  Paterson grinned.

  Illingworth said. “I’ll bring the Patton up to fifty-five. There’s a juicy nor’westerly that can take us closer to the DMZ.”

  “Patch the President through on line four. I’ll take it over here.” Paterson cupped the mouthpiece and added to Illingworth, “Any chance of sending supply scouts with extra fuel to rendezvous at those strips?”

  Illingworth relayed the command to his first officer.

  Webster found the glut of information intoxicating. It would take a while to process. One strat was down, the other seemed ripe pickings. What was he missing?

  He eyed the sullen dark of the view port. He envisioned the gnat-like scouts flittering among the stars. He tried to imagine how it felt aboard the Soryu, stalked by puny, venomous marauders.

  There was a sudden bright tinge on the horizon’s edge. Impossibly white, and just as soon spent, supplanted by a faint ochre glow. He had the impression of a ripple that snapped across the twilight’s canvas.

  “What the hell?” Paterson’s voice rang out.

  Webster swung back on the radar display. The screen was a green smudge.

  The lights flickered.

  Radio operators pulled back from their headsets clutching their ears, then checked their phones. The radar shimmered and died. The lights died. Voices cried out, shocked, fearful and angry.

  The emergency lights kicked in, suffusing the chamber blood-red. He felt a slight shudder sweep across the deck.

  Illingworth called general quarters and the order resounded through the speaker system. “All hands, man your battle stations.”

  Klaxons whined and sirens answered dimly from adjacent chambers. Technicians huddled around the radar display. Operators, back at their posts, worked their equipment furiously.

  Webster’s eye was drawn back to the view port. Strands of purple and teal snaked from the orange cloud perched on the world’s edge. It brought to mind burning celluloid projected upon a screen. He thought the glass would be hot to touch, but didn’t dare test his theory.

  Illingworth was at his side.

  “I suggest you run a damage report,” Webster said quietly.

  “I just did.” Illingworth’s reply was strained and feeble.

  “Are all the electrics down?”

  “Just the sensitives. We’ll drift until the auxiliaries take effect. The radar array will take a while. We lost one of our recon scouts. It might have been fifteen miles closer to the blast than us.” He found his voice. “Think it was deliberate?”

  Webster shook his head. “Sacrifice two stratolites to take down our scouts and fighters? Hardly. That nuke was meant for Phoenix. Perhaps a target further east. Somewhere close by, though, otherwise they wouldn’t have it armed.”

  Paterson joined them. His cheeks were wet beneath blood-shot eyes. His voice was steel. “What are we looking at?”

  “Depends on which strat detonated. Depends on altitude and distance. I’ll have to work the figures.”

  “My boys...” Paterson’s voice trailed into nothing.

  Illingworth said, “I’ll clear operations and re-establish contact with the President.”

  Paterson nodded numbly.

  Webster said, “You better send more recon scouts. Find out what really happened out there.” He turned to Illingworth and added, “Now might be a good time to make for higher ground.”

  He held their stares and tried to put some emotion into his expression. He crinkled the folds of skin around his eye and made the edges of his mouth curl down at the sides. They shuffled away from him and began dispatching their commands. Long moments passed and behind him he sensed the beginnings of stability. He corrected himself. It was more a passing semblance, but the voices were hushed now, the communications more ordered. A few of the radiomen had their stations operative and the routine lighting resumed with a warm and steady glow.

  He reached out to touch the pane of the view port and it was as cold as ice.

  Pre-dawn, and the Patton was a lifeless husk pitched on uncaring seas. Suspended out over the Nevada–Arizona border, derelict and insensate, billions of dollars worth of steel and high–grade plastic listed within a swarm of bi-winged gnats.

  Pinked to the gills, Webster lay face up on his bunk while renegade dreams buffeted him along narrow corridors, down, down, always down, towards that infinitely sharp barb that awaited the soft pulpy orb of his right eye.

  A GAME OF CHESS VI

  End Game

  ... Only

  There is shadow under this red rock,

  (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

  And I will show you something different from either

  Your shadow at morning striding behind you

  Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

  I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

  I

  April 28, 2012

  Indian Springs, Nevada

  They’d been navigating by torchlight. When they struck a stretch of the old highway, the horsemen would lead at a rapid gallop. Where the 93 had crumbled to mortar and rock, they picked their way forwards carefully, looking to Shine for further guidance. He sat in the lead truck, squeezed between his father and the driver.

  They were slowing down. The driver pu
mped the accelerator and crunched the gears savagely as they rolled to a halt. The headlights failed. Shine had a strange glimpse of his surroundings, highlighted by an unearthly illumination. The truck shook violently and settled.

  Thunder rumbled, a sudden single crack, and the world became a cloud of roiling sand.

  The face of a horseman loomed wildly into view, lit with a sickly amber hue that was promptly swallowed by the swirl. Shine clambered past his father and burst from the truck’s cab.

  The sand was thick. It filled his eyes, his mouth, his lungs. His body was racked by a violent spasm of coughing. He spat gobs of red paste. The heavens howled, rent by the cries of distressed horses. They fought their riders and pounded the earth.

  A hand reached out and forced something into his grasp. He fumbled with the goggles, slipped them on, and pulled his shirt up over his mouth. The wind dropped abruptly, now keening with a sorrowful moan. The sand hung sluggishly in the air, drifting slow.

  He reached out to the nearest man and shouted, “Where the hell did that come from?”

  The ghost dancer grabbed his shoulder and turned him roughly to one side.

  Shine stared in disbelief at the horizon.

  Another figure emerged from the sand. He leaned forwards, bracing his palms on his haunches, and forced out a vigorous, hacking cough. He turned to Shine and said, “Are we too late, son?”

  Shine gazed at the fireball that seethed and churned the night, and replied, “I don’t know.”

  II

  April 28, 2012

  Naquinta Springs, Nevada

  Ten miles out of Red Rock

  The red dust was falling. It eddied and whirled with the occasional gust and dropped in a fine coating that gilded the trucks, the trail and the meagre outcroppings of sagebrush with an even layer of amber.

  Morgan peered over the landscape, staring between interlaced fingers.

  No one moved.

  This was the way it would be forever; the trucks and the bodies, huddled under the protective rise of the bluff, preserved for all eternity. A snow globe of red flakes trembling beneath the malevolent glow of a new sun.