The Company of the Dead

by David Kowalski

  “What’s happening out there?” Morgan asked the dancer tentatively.

  The soldier made no reply but quickened his step. He led them past a block of buildings and through the motor pool where several trucks were lined up by a gas pump. The trucks, like everything else in the compound, lay under canvas and netting. Lightholler spied a small gathering of men by a storehouse, remote from the rest of the western façade.

  “That’s the armoury,” Morgan murmured.

  Kennedy was standing amongst a number of ghost dancers. He acknowledged Morgan and Lightholler with a weary nod. The dancers parted to give them space.

  Two of them climbed into a jeep parked near the building’s entrance. It spluttered to life and tore across the pebbled surface of the motor pool towards the desert. The others made their way to the trucks. More men emerged from the armoury bearing heavy-looking olive-coloured canisters between them. They began loading the equipment onto the vehicles.

  Lightholler said, “I thought nothing was working.”

  “We got a few of the trucks operational.” Kennedy turned his attention back to the dancers. He pointed to a growing pile of gear next to one of the trucks. “Less of those and more medi-kits,” he called out to one of the dancers.

  “Anything else?” Morgan queried.

  Kennedy gave him a blank look.

  “Anything else operational?”

  Kennedy shook his head. He was squinting against the rising sun and his expression was unreadable. He didn’t offer anything more.

  “You wanted to see us?” Lightholler prompted after a few moments.

  “Yeah.” Kennedy’s eyes fell on their uniforms. He saw the blue shirts beneath their jackets and a smile applied itself to his worn features, but his voice remained distant and removed. “You guys wanted to help out.”

  “That’s right.” Lightholler’s reply was guarded. “If we can.”

  “What’s going on, Major?” Morgan was looking out past the white caliche of the desert floor, his eyes drawn back to the column of smoke, which was now a tapering grey spiral in the distance.

  Kennedy reached out, gently grasping both men by the shoulder. “Come with me.”

  He walked them back towards the main cluster of buildings, halting at a smaller prefab. A body of ghost dancers, led by Tecumseh, were approaching across the grounds.

  Lightholler followed Kennedy’s gaze as it swept the compound and came to rest on the outlying formation of Red Rock itself. He experienced a moment of clarity and said, “Where are you going, Joseph?”

  Morgan’s puzzled gaze shifted between the two men.

  “Shine’s guiding a platoon of my men over from Alpha. They’re on horseback. Only a few miles away now.”

  “Shine’s coming here?” Morgan said, elated.

  “There’s another fifteen-hundred men held up at Indian Springs,” Kennedy continued. “They’ve got trucks, tanks, weapons. They were hit hard by the pulse.”

  “Where’s Indian Springs?” Lightholler asked.

  “About fifteen miles south of here, give or take.”

  “We’re going to Indian Springs?” Morgan asked.

  “No.”

  Tecumseh’s band was almost upon them. They halted at the edge of the grounds.

  “What’s in the trucks?” Lightholler asked.

  “Fuel, distributor caps, fuses, circuit-breakers, wiring, tape and a shitload of ammo.”

  Clarity sludged as Lightholler tried to recap last night’s events. Everything seemed a muddled footnote to his vision of the carapace. His initiation. “Eight hours,” he said. “That’s all Doc said we’d need.”

  “Doc wasn’t giving any guarantees, John.”

  “But we’re camouflaged,” Morgan said. “They’ll have a hard time finding us.”

  “No guarantees.”

  Lightholler composed his thoughts. “Your men have been drawing the Japanese south all night. There’s bound to be enemy units between here and Indian Springs. Can you guarantee that you’ll get there? That you’ll be able to lead those men back here in time?”

  “No, but I can assure you that I’ll be best able to put those men to good use.” There was a disturbing finality to his answer.

  Morgan wrung his hands with slow, deliberate movements. His return to form was vaguely unnerving. Tecumseh remained just out of earshot.

  “Darren,” Lightholler said, “could you excuse us for a moment?”

  Morgan’s pale eyes blinked slowly. He backed away, shifting to where the dancers were loading the last of the trucks.

  Lightholler turned to Kennedy. “Alright, Joseph,” he said. “what’s going on?”

  “The journal’s in my office, along with my files,” Kennedy said. “Over there.” He pointed to the smaller prefab just ahead of them. “Tecumseh will run the base’s defence. I have complete faith in him. And Morgan will be alright—he knows what he has to do. Shine will want to go out on patrol. Don’t let him leave the base. You’re going to need him later on.”

  “For Wells?”

  “For Wells.”

  Lightholler nodded slowly. “What makes you think you won’t be here?”

  “Nothing that I can explain to you right now.”

  “We still have secrets?” He didn’t try to disguise the irony in his voice.

  “Just the one.”

  “Fair enough, but tell me, Joseph, why do I have the sneaking suspicion that you’re leaving me in charge?”

  “Think of it as holding the fort.” Kennedy flashed him the slightest smile. “Doc will have you and the rest of the crew primed for launch.”

  “Does he know that he’s Gershon?” Lightholler asked softly.

  Kennedy appeared only mildly surprised. “That’s not entirely accurate, John.”

  “Does he know that he’s our Gershon?” Lightholler probed evenly.

  “He found out last year.”

  “I bet he was pleased as punch.” Lightholler pressed it home. “I just wanted to be sure I knew how big a bastard you are.”

  “I think you’ve got the general idea.” Kennedy cleared his throat. “I brought you all together. Shine, Doc, Morgan and you.”

  “And Hardas.”

  “And Hardas. The others have all the information you need to see this through.”

  “Of course they do.” A part of Lightholler had suspected that it was always going to end this way. Even back in New York, in his hotel room, he’d had some sense of the burdens he’d be shouldering. He smoothed the bitterness from his face and asked, “Have you told Malcolm?”

  Kennedy bit at his lower lip. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “Now that would be a first.”

  Kennedy chuckled hollowly.

  “Is she coming with us?”

  “I’d be happier if she did.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thanks, John. It’s been ... interesting.” Kennedy offered his hand.

  Lightholler let it hang there for a moment as he framed the thought. “Why me?” he asked.

  Kennedy turned the palm of his hand so that the gesture became one of entreaty. “Because if the worst happens, you’ll have the best chance of doing what’s right.”

  “How do you reckon that?”

  “Explosive charges have been placed all around the carapace. You’ve spent the least time here. You’ll find it easiest to do what’s necessary.”

  “Is that the way it works?”

  Kennedy gave him a look. “So it would seem.”

  “It won’t come to that.” Lightholler reached for Kennedy’s hand and gripped it with a surge of melancholy. “Be seeing you soon, Joseph. Okay?”

  “Sure.” Kennedy squeezed back.

  Tecumseh’s band had recommenced their approach. The medicine man came to within a short distance of them before stopping. He dropped to one knee and selected a granule of sand from the dust at his feet. He resumed his stance and examined the particle. “More’s the pity that you don’t get to s
ee our dance.”

  Kennedy placed a hand on his chest. “I’ll know it here.”

  Tecumseh inclined his head forwards slightly and began the ritual of leave-taking.

  XIV

  Kennedy’s convoy departed before dawn. Five trucks, a personnel carrier and two jeeps. The rest of the compound’s vehicles had been scavenged for parts that might facilitate repairs at Indian Springs. Three had been spared for Tecumseh’s use.

  The transfer of command had been seamless but held an unreal quality. Tecumseh kept Lightholler appraised of the morning’s events, more as a matter of politeness than policy. Hayes came by the office to report that progress was being made, and even Doc made an appearance. Every illusion was in place to suggest that the carapace’s successful departure was a fait accompli.

  Lightholler browsed the files.

  The final team would include Doc, Morgan, Shine and Lightholler. Hardas’s seat would be offered to Malcolm. Kennedy’s would be saved in anticipation of his return.

  Lightholler conducted a quick inventory of their equipment, which included three contemporary White Star Line officer uniforms. There were Mausers and weapons of more antique and dubious quality; identification papers and carry belts adorned with gold. Doc briefed him on a number of scenarios Kennedy had devised for their mission; they ran the gamut from a subtle snatch-and-grab to seizing control of the Titanic.

  Lightholler found himself staring at the scientist. Doctor Dean Gershon, Kennedy’s trump card. The physician-physicist who’d mastered control of the carapace. He’d pilot the machine through a series of insertions back to 1911, there to bear witness to Wells’ capture in the desert, or play avatar to Kennedy’s final mind-fuck aboard the Titanic.

  Either way, it was going to be entertaining.

  Morgan and Shine were sitting outside the office. Lightholler could hear their murmurings through the door. Any joy at their reunion had been tempered by the major’s sudden abdication. Yet neither of them seemed surprised—or dismayed—at Lightholler’s sudden promotion. Token gesture or not, he wondered who could envy the burden of his particular station.

  He called them in.

  Shine was wearing a ghost dancer uniform, his blue shirt open so that the darker material of body armour showed at his throat. He and Morgan drew chairs away from the walls and joined him at the desk.

  “Sorry to keep you,” Lightholler began. He felt faintly ridiculous. “I’ve just been going over Tecumseh’s report.”

  “They get the decoy up, Captain?” Shine asked.

  The fifty ghost dancers who’d accompanied Shine had been assigned to help with the rapid construction of a counterfeit base, five miles south of the Rock. Stripping the unused prefabs that ringed the grounds, they’d been shipping the parts to the new site all morning.

  “It’s almost operational,” Lightholler replied. “Tecumseh asked me if I wanted to ride down and inspect the site but the notion struck me as unnecessary.”

  “The major had his reasons for leaving you with the reins.”

  “Did he say anything else to you when you saw him? Did he give you any indication...” Lightholler let the question fade away to nothing. Behind the cool veneer of his expression, he craved an answer. What the hell does he expect me to do?

  “He wanted to know how many ghost dancers were marching up from Indian Springs,” Shine replied. “He told us to go on ahead. He said that you now spoke for him.”

  “Damn. He lets the prisoners go—no one here knows the why or wherefore—and then he goes running off on some fool mission to rally a motorised column that has no wheels.”

  Morgan averted his eyes, making a show of inspecting the walls of the office. “How much more time do we need?” he asked.

  “Doc says six to seven hours.”

  “Was eight hours at dawn. At this rate we won’t be moving out till sundown.”

  “Have you found Malcolm?”

  “She’s over by the prison, sifting through the stuff that Reid and the others left behind. Looking for answers, I guess.”

  “Aren’t we all? She coming with us?”

  “She told me she’d let the major know her answer.”

  Shine seemed heartened by the avowal, but Morgan’s face told the whole sorry story. No one really thought Kennedy would get through to the column, much less return in time for their departure.

  “So what do you want us to do?” Morgan asked.

  It was the same question Lightholler had thrown at Kennedy and, for his sins, he’d been given command of yet another doomed ship. Now, though, he felt as if some answer was finally due.

  “I’d like you to keep an eye on Malcolm. See if you can help her. We find out why those prisoners are gone and we might get a handle on what the major is up to.”

  Morgan seemed satisfied with that. Shine gazed at Lightholler expectantly.

  “You’ve been on the go all night. You could probably do with a break,” Lightholler said.

  “I’m fine, Captain.”

  Lightholler nodded. “Perhaps you could join Doc down in the cavern, then, and see if he needs a hand. He had to send his engineers to assist with the decoy.”

  “I have other skills, you know.”

  “You have other duties too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Morgan lingered by the door. “You okay with this, Captain?”

  Lightholler felt a tiny twitch in his eyelid. Any sign of weakness now would be the ultimate betrayal. He said, “I’m almost enjoying myself.”

  “Just wanted to say, I’m glad you came aboard with us.”

  “Well, I’m glad one of us is.” Lightholler folded away the files and followed them out of the room.

  XV

  The plane was small, with wide, slender wings. Morgan peered up at it through the fine slit of the camouflage. It seemed to hover, slow and careless over the base.

  “Scout plane,” one of the ghost dancers muttered. He dropped the binoculars and returned his attention to the transmitter, his movements becoming feverish. All he produced, however, was a series of high-pitched whines.

  “Doesn’t look like a scout,” Morgan offered.

  The ghost dancer glanced sideways at him. “It ain’t one of ours.”

  “Getting anything?” his companion asked.

  “Nope.”

  They all looked up. The plane had completed a turn and was winging its way back westwards.

  The radio operator delivered a sharp clout to the side of the transmitter. He made a final attempt to locate the plane’s frequency before shutting the machine off with a shower of curses.

  “Think they made us?” Morgan asked.

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Besides a few rounds of artillery fire, discharged earlier that morning, this was the first real sign of interest from the outside world.

  Word was that another patrol of Japanese recon had been ambushed, out by the decoy site. Tecumseh’s men had waited long enough for the patrol to sight the buildings and send out a report, before putting the hapless soldiers into the ground.

  The radio operator turned to Morgan. “We’re due at the west tower. Did the captain want you coming out that far?”

  The truth was that Morgan had no idea what Lightholler wanted. He’d joined Malcolm at the prisoner barracks, as requested, only to be told to stay out of her damned way as she combed the rooms. After an hour of watching her stare at furniture arrangements and sift through ashtrays, he’d made his excuses and left.

  He’d wandered for a while until he was co-opted into a labour team, refreshing the camo over the skeletonised remnants of the south barracks. It was there that he’d happened upon the two ghost dancers. They’d all huddled down at the first sound of the approaching aircraft.

  The labour team, their work completed, were heading back to the armoury.

  Idle hands do the devil’s work, bud.

  Morgan responded to the voice inside his head, saying, “He didn’t tell me not to.”
<
br />   The radio operator shot him an odd look. “What’s that?”

  “I’ll help you with the shortwave.”

  The ghost dancers took it for an answer. He slung the transmitter over his shoulder and followed them away from the concealment. He stumbled across the pitted remains of the grounds. Dug up overnight, they would present an uneven plain to eyes in the sky.

  At the west tower he let the transmitter ease to the floor with a sigh of relief, and listened as the men gave their report. He felt like slinking away. He wanted a drink, badly. He wanted to wheedle a cigarette. His ears pricked up at the news that the decoy had come under further attack. Lightholler was somewhere out there.

  Watching him, a ghost dancer said, “Didn’t think you could turn any whiter, man.”

  “Leave him be, Everett,” the radio operator said.

  “Don’t you worry ’bout him, Frost,” the dancer said. He turned on Morgan. “Soon you’ll be on your merry way.” His laughter was brief.

  Morgan had an idea of the incongruous image he struck. His recent wounds were a mantle, and word had already circulated about his role in the escape from Hot Springs. Now Hardas kicked in, wresting Morgan’s tenuous control.

  “What have you got for me?” he demanded.

  “I’m headed out to relieve the watch on the ridge. Thought you might want to see what we trying to hide from.”

  “Ain’t nothing he needs to see,” the operator said. “Thanks for the assist, Mr Morgan. Now you better go on back to the office and wait it out.”

  “I’d like to take a look, if that’s alright.”

  The radio operator addressed Everett directly, saying, “You don’t bring him back, you don’t bother coming back yourself.” He stared at Morgan again, bleakly, and added, “Shit, I better tag along.”

  White sand lapped at bare knuckles of broken rock. Sunlight glanced off the low ridge that braced the western horizon. Morgan glanced back at the culvert. The radio operator put his binoculars to his face and did a rapid scan. He gave the all clear and they stepped out onto the sands, then began to work their way from dune to dune. He instructed Morgan to stick close to their trail.

  “Minefields,” he offered, by way of explanation.