Cyborg 01 - Cyborg

by Martin Caidin

  He had a fleeting image of Jan Richards, somebody from a hundred years ago in a world a million miles away. He had the eerie sensation that no matter what happened this night, or in the hours to come, he was going through rebirth and that a new, a different Steve Austin was emerging from the figure plodding grimly through the Sinai. He knew, deep inside, that if he survived she must survive, and that afterward they would somehow never be apart.

  The sun’s impact staggered him. My God, how long have I been walking? I don’t even remember dawn, the sun . . . He felt the heat baking him, already starting its slow roasting of his exposed skin, no perspiration anywhere on his body. Not enough water left in him. But the sun . . . he must find shelter, get into shade. The sun could kill them both. He looked around, squinting his one eye in the painful glare, saw nothing to conceal their bodies from the heat mounting savagely with every moment. His tongue was swollen, protruding slightly from his lips, and he thought of the first-aid kit with the precious liquid. Balancing himself carefully with her body across his shoulders he removed the kit and brought it up to his face. Dry as a bone. He threw it from him, realized he must keep it, use it. He staggered after the kit, bent carefully, held it before him with one hand, fumbled for himself with the other. He was shocked to discover that urine now dripped involuntarily, that he had no control over his bladder, that he had been dripping away the last vestiges of body fluids during the night. For the second time in a few minutes he tossed away the container. He had to find shelter or Tamara would die even while she lay across his shoulders. He stood quietly, forcing himself to think, and rather than plod straight ahead into the blinding sun, he turned slowly to see if—

  Twisted metal.

  A long-barreled gun jutting against the sky.

  The wrecked armored column.

  He went ahead, a shambling run, the adrenalin going through his system. A few hundred yards away, up the side of a long slope. He went up it recklessly, throwing away his energy, clawing with his left hand at the ground for leverage and support, holding Tamara with his right. He made the top, moved into the shadow of a shattered, burned hulk of a weapons carrier, brought Tamara’s limp form painfully from his shoulders to the sand.

  He staggered back, unbalanced by the sudden change in pressure on his muscles. He stumbled into the vehicle, hoping to find a canteen. Nothing. Then to the next. Into a tank blazing with heat, to a jeep, another, and another, and nothing. He sat on the ground, numb, trying to curse and only a croaking sound coming out. The thought hit him suddenly that he was being a fool, that he wasn’t thinking. He lurched to a jeep standing upright, its tires shot away. Standing upright, the engine compartment untouched. He dropped to the ground, crawled under the front bumper, searched for the petcock. There. Frozen in place. He twisted, ignoring the pain. He couldn’t move it. If he had body water left he would have shed tears in frustration. Think, you bloody fool, his mind railed at him. He stared at his hand, the cut fingers that had failed him, the blood that barely oozed into sight. Use the other hand, the left hand . . .

  Steel-clawed fingers closed on the petcock, ripped it completely away. He shoved his body closer and an acrid flow of water from the radiator splashed on his face. He couldn’t believe the incredible sweetness of its touch. He scrambled about, tore off his left shoe, held it under what was now a trickle. He tried for some self-control, dabbed water against his lips, sucked in a mouthful, and worked it around his mouth and tongue. He managed a few swallows, felt better, startled with his well-being. He was thinking clearly now, and he went to a second vehicle, managed a cupful of the radiator water. Holding the precious fluid in his shoe he started back to where he had left Tamara.

  She was gone.

  CHAPTER 26

  He looked frantically around, calling her name from his swollen throat. The only answer was the sound of the wind, the gliding sound of sand between the shattered vehicles behind him. It was impossible . . . could they have been followed by an Arab patrol? This close to Israel? But he would have heard engines, he would have heard something. He forced himself to think, to look down. Then he saw it. What had happened. He saw their footprints, and the depression in the sand where he had placed her, his own prints leading away, coming back. But there was another trail, a ragged disturbance leading away to the left, moving down the slope up which he had carried her. He managed to hold the shoe with its precious contents balanced carefully, a dawning suspicion compelling him to move as quickly as he could without spilling a drop. Then he saw her and he understood what had happened.

  She had regained consciousness after he put her on the ground. Somehow a final spark of clear thought. She knew the desert, had lived with its menace most of her life. She knew Steve could not survive with her as a burden. Regaining consciousness, alone on the sand, she had seen him off in the distance. This was her chance. She crawled on her stomach, dragging herself down the slope by her hands and elbows, seeking some depression in which she might conceal herself. Anything that would hide her from him, leave him free to move on by himself.

  He found her face down in drifted sand, her hands outstretched, clawlike, to drag her still farther. Panic grabbed him as he thought she might have suffocated with her face buried in the sand. He placed the shoe carefully by his side, knelt down to turn her over and hold her in his arms. He stared at her. Tamara’s face had become blackened by the terrible dehydration of her body. Her skin had tightened her lips and gums until they pulled back to give her a death’s head pallor. Against the darker mask of skin her teeth had become a vivid white. He was stunned to notice that even her nose had shrunk, her eyelids had shriveled so badly that her eyeballs seemed protruding, marblelike. His right hand felt the parchment surface of what had been lovely skin. He reached to his right, moved the shoe closer, dipped his fingers into the water. He remembered to be careful, to touch her lips with only drops. He tilted her head back, let water drop from his fingers into her mouth, sucked instantly into her body. He kept transferring water to her until the shoe was dry. Thank God it was having its effect. Her tongue moved and she moaned, a rasping sound.

  He lowered her gently to the sand. He knew he needed more water himself, more water for her. There was only the brackish, metallic liquid he had found in the vehicles. But there were others, and he stumbled and ran back to the scattered remains of the convoy. He looked for a better container, jerked a gasoline can from the rear of a tank, unscrewed the cap. Bone dry. It would do. He went from truck to jeep to tank, to every piece of metal, tearing open radiators, searching for water. He had emptied the radiators of at least half a dozen jeeps and trucks when he found it. A five-gallon water can lying in the sand, the cap sealed. He picked it up, shook it. It was perhaps a quarter full.

  He returned to where she lay on the sand, her eyes staring vacantly. Again he knelt by her side and opened the water can, transferring the liquid to his shoe. He continued to apply water to her mouth and tongue. Perhaps fifteen minutes later she made her first feeble swallowing motions. He continued to wet her lips and drip water into her mouth. Swallowing at this point could produce a violent reaction. As the water took its effect, he opened the gasoline can, poured the brackish water into his other shoe, and began rubbing the liquid against her face, massaging firmly but gently.

  Before another hour had passed she was fully conscious, though not yet coherent. He had carried her to the side of a truck and spread the makeshift cape for shade. He remembered that it’s always cooler several feet above the desert floor than on the floor itself—cooler by twenty to thirty degrees. He tied the cape to a jeep windshield post and placed her carefully in the vehicle, where he resumed his water treatment. She swallowed slowly, with decreasing pain. He waited for the inevitable rejection. It came violently, her system rejecting the water. It would be better now. She managed to keep down another two cups.

  The continued massaging had worked wonders as her skin softened from the water and began to soak in the liquid, just as rawhide softens when exposed t
o rain. Finally she slept, and he turned his attention to himself, drinking slowly and deeply. He thought about the mirror in his pocket and withdrew it to study himself. For a long moment he remained frozen where he stood, staring at the skull face that reflected back at him. He rubbed his face, massaging steadily, drank again. He shook Tamara gently, forced her to drink again, then drank another cup himself. The survival school had imprinted a warning in his mind. Never save water in the desert when your body suffers from dehydration. Replace the water at every opportunity you have. The cardinal law. You’re liable to lose what you’re carrying around. Have your body soak up every available drop. But for the moment neither Tamara nor himself could absorb more. He climbed into the jeep to cradle her in his arms, and fell fast asleep.

  He awoke stiff and cramped. The sun had dropped to fifteen or twenty degrees above the horizon. This would be the final night, he knew. He had already made up his mind what had to be done. There might be pursuers. It didn’t matter any more. Now was the time to gamble. First, he brought water to her lips. She swallowed with relative ease, following his movements with her eyes. Her skin had regained some of its resiliency although she still remained in terrible physical condition. More massaging, more drinking for himself. The water was gone.

  He went quickly to work. He had never used the homing beacon from his right foot, out of fear of detection by the Russians or the Arabs. Now, closer to the Israeli border—how close he didn’t know; it could be anywhere from twenty to fifty miles; they could have wandered around in wide circles—he would risk everything. He withdrew the emergency homer, extended the slim wire antenna from its case and stretched it between two of the wrecked trucks. He snapped the switch. The battery should operate for from four to six hours, broadcasting on 121.5 and 243 megahertz, the international distress frequencies. It was VHF transmission, which meant its surface range was limited, but it could be picked up in direct line of sight for fifty miles or more by something in the air—if somebody were listening to either or both frequencies.

  The water had revived him, brought him unexpected strength, but he knew it would not last much longer. He climbed into a tank, kicked open the driver’s viewing slit for better light, and used his knife to cut free whatever webbing harness he could find. He returned to Tamara, adjusted the harness about her. She seemed to be in shock.

  Back to the vehicles. He tore pieces of wreckage loose, walked a dozen yards to the side of the convoy and laid down the metal in the form of a huge arrow that pointed due east. At the vehicles again, a wrecking bar in his hand taken from a truck, lugging the empty cans. He went from one vehicle to the next, pounding holes in fuel tanks until one can was full. With the can resting against what seemed to be the least damaged truck, he drained oil systems until the other can was half-filled with the sluggish fluid. He poured the gasoline and oil over the tires and inside the engine of the truck, stepped back a safe distance. He removed a flare bomb from his wrist, twisted the fuse, and threw it against the fuel-saturated tires. He had barely enough time to turn his eyes away from the ignition flash. He watched the flames lick through the engine, around the tires, and along the truck bed. The tires were what counted. If they could be made to burn they would throw off a tremendous pall of smoke, and that would bring someone in a hurry. Maybe, he warned himself. Better count only on yourself, Austin. He was already tiring from his exertions, and he knew the water had revived him for only a limited time. He hurried back to Tamara, helped her to her feet.

  “I’m going to carry you with these straps,” he told her.

  She nodded dumbly, then shook her head and tried to push him away, beating her fists against his chest with the force of a child. He held her wrists, spoke quietly to her until she subsided. He went to his knees, urging her to climb onto his shoulders, her arms hanging forward, her body fully supported in the webbing. Slowly he stood up, adjusting her weight with the webbing about his own body. Black smoke rolled heavily into the air, but it was too late; the sun was now below the horizon, and night swept in with the familiar swiftness of the desert. Someone would see that smoke only if they saw it by moonlight. He checked the compass and started walking. He was still muscle sore and stiff from sleeping in the jeep, from the unaccustomed exertions, and he could already feel his body demanding additional liquid.

  Well, there isn’t any, he told himself. And there isn’t going to be any. So let’s see just how good you really are . . .

  He was committed now. His heels jarred into the sandy slope as he worked his way down from the height, stumbling in the sudden darkness, wishing the moon were higher. Several times he adjusted Tamara’s weight on his back until his shoulder muscles accepted the burden and moved with the unexpected pressure. He had no time to set a leisurely pace. He would keep walking until all movement ceased in his body. Simple as that. Ten or thirty or fifty miles. It didn’t matter. If someone picked up the homing transmitter signal they would send helicopters to the scene. No question what they would find there. Smoke pouring into the sky. The arrow on the ground pointing along his direction of travel.

  The temperature had already fallen and he was grateful for a cool breeze. He needed that and all the help he could get. He knew his internal systems were wearing out, that only medical attention, rest, and vast quantities of liquid pouring through his system would bring his body—and Tamara’s—back to health.

  He glanced at his wristwatch. He had been walking for hours and his shoulder muscles were cramped into numbness from her weight. He leaned forward, taking more of her weight across his back. Several times, crossing a low area strewn with rocks, he stumbled badly, once collapsing to his knees, his hands outthrust to absorb the shock of striking the ground. A sharp pain knifed through his right hand as it stabbed into a jagged rock edge. He eased himself to his knees, gasping for breath, afraid to lower his body all the way to the ground, aware that he would never be able to force himself back to his feet. In the dim light of the waxing moon he looked at his hand. He had gashed it badly and for a moment he wondered why there was so little blood. His skin was leathery. No matter that the cut was deep. The water he had absorbed was already mostly consumed by his expenditure of body energy, and he had taken in only a fraction of what his system demanded. His blood had thickened. It was now sluggish, unable to flow easily. It crawled, oozed as a thick, viscous mass, to the surface of the deep gash, welling up slowly, drying even as he looked. Well, at least he could cut himself and he wouldn’t bleed to death. Blood is mostly water and he was back again to cruel dehydration. He pushed himself to his feet, stood quietly, taking in deep shuddering breaths. He forced himself to think. Left foot forward. That was all he needed. No more than that fleeting thought. No forced straining of muscles, the wild effort of moving a limb leaden with exhaustion, the muscles cramped, the tendons taut, the arteries and veins and capillaries sluggish and drowning in their own viscous substance.

  Not these legs. Just tickle ’em with a little ol’ thought and whammo! Off we go, into the wild, blue yonder . . . His right leg jerked on him, a spasmodic twitch that sent him reeling to the side.

  “Whoa! You summbitch, whoa there!” He heard the croak of his voice, brought his hand to his mouth, felt the now shapeless tongue that rested against his teeth. He pushed the tongue back into his mouth, forcing his teeth closed. Wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all to have ol’ tongue hangin’ out like that, now, would it?

  He wondered why he had reeled so severely to the side. It wasn’t the leg. He knew that. Finest you could buy in the supermarket. Comes wrapped in plastic, right? All shiny and neat and the ol’ motors whirring away like crazy in there. It’s your head, Austin, he scolded himself. Ol’ head is fulla cotton and sand and squirrel shit, that’s what. Gotta think. Gotta think if gonna walk . . . Walk, you son of a bitch, Austin, WALK!

  You do it like the manual says for the new cadets. Tha’s how. Move your left foot. Now, before it stops, move the right foot, and then the left, and that’s it, boys, Hup hup hut harrup
threep fourp, dress it up in those ranks, chest out, get that gut in, your left, your right, your left, your right . . . and the long-forgotten voice of a drill sergeant hammered at his ears, and he started out, left foot, right foot, slowly starting to lean once again into his walk, and he heard the brass of the band and the big drums booming through his mind, sending out the commands, the shooting trickles of electricity coursing through his system, electrochemical nerve processes becoming electrical signals in wires, the nuclear generators working the articulated joints, and he marched, stumbling and lurching across the desert, hour after hour, but by God, he marched.

  He got into the rhythm of it, and once started he was like the pendulum of a clock. His subconscious seemed to take over, and he kept walking, moving when he should have been dead hours before, huddled on the sand or amidst the rocks, but the legs, needing only that whispering urge from his brain, propelled him on and on and on. Time fled, there was no time, and his body worked for him, and he knew that Tamara was a ghostly figure strapped to his back, and he could not stop, he must not stop . . .

  Even then, even the massive numbness of body and mind could not disguise the horizon bouncing crazily up and down because . . .

  Because he was running.

  And how long he had been running he didn’t know, the webbing straps around Tamara cinched tightly so she wouldn’t be hammered by his pounding, thrusting motion, and he felt her arms slapping against his chest and against his arms. He knew he should not be able to walk but he was running, by God, he was running. His breath sounded like a barking, gasping cough. No matter. The fire in his lungs didn’t matter either.