‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘Let’s hope your best is good enough, because my orders are quite specific. If this individual goes out of control, then my task is to do everything in my power to protect the wagon-train. The squads on those two top decks will be my first line of defence. It will be up to you to get out of the line of fire. You understand what I’m saying? The lives of your colleagues on the task force and those two field-operatives are in your hands.’
‘Yessir …’
‘Good. But let’s assume for the moment that the targets are apprehended and deactivated.’ Fargo brought the pointer back into action. ‘The task force, plus HIGH-SIERRA’s group will pass along the top floor of wagon “B”, through the Flight Car and into the blood-wagon, where the targets will be given whatever sedation is necessar to ensure they are no danger to the train or its crew.
‘The squads on the top floors of wagons “A” and “B” will continue to hold the end stairwells then move down the adjoining stairs in the centre here, where the wagons are coupled together, to clear the middle and bottom floors – working back to back and moving out towards the ends so that no one will get caught in any cross-fire.’
Fargo’s pointer returned to the plan view of wagon ‘A’.
‘The men in these compartments will release red flares and smoke grenades onto the ramp floor to give the impression to anyone watching that a satisfying amount of internal destruction is taking place. The guns in the adjoining wagons will be swung and left pointing downwards or upwards to indicate the position has been overrun, and more smoke will be released through roof hatches.
‘While this is happening, seventy line-men, wearing the same white markers and badges as the Mute assault group, will emerge at various points along the roof and dance up and down in the way these apes do, and let off green flares. They will be joined, as soon as possible, by others displaying the severed heads of some of the Code One defaulters.’
Fargo saw his audience’s reaction. ‘Yes, I know. A rather gruesome touch but we think it will be the clincher. This, of course, is the signal that the main group of the M’Calls have been waiting for. So if everything has gone according to plan, we would rapidly find ourselves axle-deep in Mutes.
‘As they close on the train we will bring some, but not all of our guns into action and pipe steam for close-quarter protection. The ramp will be left down, but Lt. Commander Laird has arranged to by-pass the cut-out and has redirected the nozzles around the ramp to give any intruders a warm welcome.
‘We will not use all our firepower because our defence must not be too robust. The image we have to present is that of a badly-wounded opponent struggling to stay on his feet. We have to draw the M’Calls’ entire force into action and hold them on the killing ground until our back-up moves into position, cutting off all lines of retreat.’
Fargo laid the pointer on Roz’s table, parallel to its front edge but his eyes did not meet hers. ‘The result is a foregone conclusion, gentlemen, but it should nevertheless prove to be an interesting day. After the main body of Mutes has been dealt with, there will be the usual follow-up attack.’
He fixed his gaze on the two field commanders: Lt. Commander Jim Torrance and Captain Griff Lloyd. ‘I’ll leave you to organize that, Jim. CINC-TRAIN has asked for a clean sweep. That means every woman and child, regardless of age. And they want the heads.’
Torrance exchanged glances with his deputy then nodded. ‘Roger.’
‘Okay … The Code-Ones should be with us by tomorrow night. Fargo’s eyes connected with his Trail Boss. ‘Mr MacEvoy, you and I will need to have a word about arrangements for feeding and accommodation.’
‘Yessir!’
‘Well, thank you, gentlemen. For the moment I guess that’s it.’
Everyone leapt out of their chairs, came to attention and saluted. Fargo returned the compliment then made his exit, leaving Bill Gates, the deputy wagon-master in charge.
‘All ranks … Diss-MISS! You may return to your posts.’
Wallis approached Roz as she mingled with those heading aft. ‘If it comes to the crunch, d’you think you can handle it?’
‘You mean Mr Snow?’ Roz smiled. ‘Don’t worry. He’s not going to be a problem.’
‘I see … Is this report true then?’
Roz realized that Wallis was on a fishing expedition. ‘Of his death? Steve seems to think so.’
‘Does that mean you’re finding it easier to get through?’
‘It’s better than it was …’
‘Good. How does he think it’s going?’
‘Don, I get pictures, sensations, not written reports.’
‘I meant in general.’
‘He’s very optimistic. He and Malone have –’ Roz stopped, then closed her eyes and stroked her temples with her fingertips. ‘They’re on the move,’ she murmured. ‘Malone’s renegades and the Clan M’Call are heading towards Nebraska!’
Wallis gripped her shoulder. ‘Atta-girl! Keep me posted. Boy! Are these lumps in for a surprise. What d’you think of this plan we’ve worked out with Fargo? Isn’t it terrific?’
‘Can’t fail,’ said Roz. Her mind was already grappling with another question: how was she going to communicate the details of Fargo’s plan to Steve? He and the M’Calls had to be forewarned of the trap that had been laid for them, but as she had just pointed out to Wallis, the mind-bridge was not built to carry that kind of information you would expect to find in a video-gram.
What came across were sensations linked to visual images, but these were not the highly detailed pictures registered by a video-camera. Most had the character of surreal dreamscapes where the structure and arrangement of the elements was not necessarily logical and not every object was in sharp focus.
When Roz had shared the experience of Steve’s first overground flight, she ‘saw’ what Steve saw, but the images were filtered through his mind, altered by his perception. On a more mundane level, she experienced soaring high above the earth but she was not conscious of being inside the cockpit of a Mark One Skyhawk. Her inner eye did not register the read-out on the altimeter, or the speedo or compass-bearing.
Similarly, when Karlstrom sought her help to discover Steve’s whereabouts on his journey to the Heron Pool, she did not know the names of the places he was passing through. She did not, in fact, even look at the map. In the effort to reach Steve’s mind, she had gone into a deep trance and it was her fingers, searching blindly across the map that had ‘felt’ his presence.
The rescue of Steve and Cadillac from the wheel-boat had been mounted with the aid of the same kind of “ballpark” imagery. Roz had been alerted by Steve’s mental May-Day – a sensation of deadly, imminent danger. This was linked to the image of a wheel-boat moving towards a setting sun across an inland sea, and to another of Steve and Cadillac trapped in a dark confined space below water level.
Woven around these images had been an urgent appeal to be rescued and this had been followed by pictures of flying shapes swooping out of the darkness, of fire – a towering wall of flames mirrored on the water and on the periphery of this mental canvas, the image of Clearwater amid a host of armed expectant Mutes.
It was only when Karlstrom had placed a map in front of her that she was able to link what she had seen to a specific area. Pin-point navigation and the nose-mounted radar on the mother-ship had done the rest.
But, as always, the link had been triggered by Steve’s emotional state. His mind only seemed to open up when faced with extremes of danger or joy. It needed an emotional high or a stressful situation – such as when he had been wounded – to jolt his brain into action.
From the age of twelve, he had tried to shut her out and, to a large extent, he had succeeded – until he had emerged onto the overground. The emotional impact of that experience had blown away the barriers Steve had placed upon the mind-bridge. But not fully. For most of the time, the communication was one way. He could reach her but she couldn’t reach him.
The door to her mind was always wide open whereas the door to Steve’s was closed or barely ajar. He only opened up when it suited him.
To Roz, it seemed as if she had been appointed to be his protector, and although he was two years older and had always played the part of the dominant elder brother, she sensed that she was, in many ways, stronger and wiser.
Since he left Flight Academy to ship out on The Lady from Louisiana, she had only managed to get through to him twice: once to warn him they were being watched, when he was being shuttled back to Grand Central for questioning after escaping from the M’Calls, and then a year later when he was on his way to Long Point and agonizing over whether to return to the Federation or remain with the Mutes.
She had told him to stay because by that time she had become aware of being transformed, mentally and physically. Just as a magnet attracts a pin, an invisible force was drawing her towards the overground. And whoever was exerting that force had given her the power to manipulate the minds of those around her to enable her to break free of the Federation.
Only it was not as easy as she first thought. In the indelible moment of discovery that she and Steve had shared upon learning they were Mutes, he had warned her against acting too openly. And she understood why. She had to do her utmost to ensure that the attack by the M’Calls upon Red River succeeded without anyone knowing she had intervened.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Even if she managed to escape from the wagon-train she would still not be free while Steve remained in the hands of the Federation. Karlstrom, the head of AMEXICO, had pressured him into carrying out the First Family’s wishes by threats against her life. The reverse was also true: the Family could bring her to heel by threatening to kill him …
A strangled cry and an alarmed whinny from one of the horsess jerked Malone into wakefulness. His first instinct was to reach for the gun under his pillow but before he could move he was seized by several pairs of hands. An instant later, he found himself spread-eagled, pinioned by the wrists and ankles and with a knife at his throat – held by a grinning Mute warrior sitting astride his chest.
Glancing sideways past his five captors, he saw that the camp-site had been overrun by Mutes. The guards must have all been killed without making a sound.
Shit. How come? Mutes didn’t operate at night!
By the light of torches now being held aloft, Malone saw the horses being led away. More torches were being lit from the glowing remains of the camp-fire, bathing the ground in their wavering orange glow. A lot of his men were lying on the ground where they had gone to sleep wrapped in their blankets. They’d never had a chance to defend themselves. A Grade A surprise attack. The light from one of the torches washed over someone close by. Phil Robson, one of the six mexicans who acted as his lieutenants. Robson’s head was growing out of his blood-drenched chest.
Not good news. Not good at all…
Malone studied the Mute sitting on his chest. His ugly mug looked vaguely familiar. Trouble was, all these apes looked alike. The six golden feathers in his pebble-decked leather helmet were easier to recognize. Unbelievable. They’d been jumped by their partners in crime – the M’Calls. The suckers they’d been planning to make mincemeat of.
Malone swore through his teeth. What the hell had gone wrong? He had handled his part of the operation in his usual methodical way, applying his considerable skill and experience to cover every angle. It had looked like a sweet deal. What had happened to sour it? Sensing he might not have long to live, he racked his brains for an answer. Had he made a false move? Underestimated the guile of the opposition? Or had that painted lump-sucker Brickman sold the Federation down the river?
The answer to all three questions was ‘Yes’, but Malone was left to draw his own conclusions. Nobody bothered to give him a gloating exposition of the master plan and the mistakes he’d made. His captors rolled him onto his face and quickly lashed his wrists together. He expected the same thing to happen to his feet but instead he found himself gagging into his pillow in an effort to stifle the searing pain as the Mute with the knife sliced through the tendons at the back of his knees.
Yep, my friend, it doesn’t look as if you’ll be travelling far tonight…
A hand reached in and pulled the long three-barrelled air pistol from under his pillow then, as his captors hauled him onto his feet he found himself facing Steve Brickman. Malone watched him check the magazine then ease off the safety. His left knee buckled. The Mute on that side jerked him upright.
Malone could feel the blood from the knife-cuts running down the backs of his calves. Biting back the pain, he said: ‘Seem to be havin’ a little leg trouble.’
‘Just as well,’ said Steve. ‘I’ve seen what those boots of yours can do.’ He placed the three-barrelled pistol against the mexican’s throat and thumbed the catch onto full auto.
Malone looked at him without the slightest trace of fear. The eyes said it all. ‘Hope this is nothin’ personal.’
‘No,’ said Steve. ‘This one’s for Baz.’
He moved the pistol up under Malone’s jaw, forcing his head backwards, and held the trigger down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alerted by the intermittent tone, Commander-General Karlstrom hit the ACCEPT CALL button. The Amtrak logo was replaced by his deputy’s face. ‘What is it, Tom?’
‘I’m afraid the shit has hit the fan, sir. There’s more stuff coming in but I thought you ought to know soonest.’
Karlstrom sank back in his chair, put his thumbs under his chin and steepled his fingers against his nose. ‘Okay, let’s have it…’
‘Malone came through to Wallis on the open channel with a May-Day. Brickman found the explosive that sonofabitch Cadillac had purloined from the SIG-INT set-up – just as Malone suspected.’
‘Go on …’
‘Brickman loaded it onto one of the horses the M’Calls have got and was on his way over to Malone when he ran into a hunting posse. He managed to give them the slip but they raised the alarm and now the whole fucking clan has come after them with their knives out.’
‘Hell’s teeth!’
‘Yeah, it’s bad. Hold on – I just got a second decode up on the screen here.’ McFadden moved off-camera briefly then returned. ‘Well, it’s not a total disaster. According to this, Malone’s team and Brickman managed to shoot their way out. For the moment they’ve got no one on their tail but it may not stay that way. They’re going to try to make it to Red River. Malone wants to know if we can provide air cover if they hit trouble.’
‘No problem,’ said Karlstrom. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Malone figures if they can make it to the train ahead of the M’Calls, there’s a good chance the lumps might come in after them. So we may get a shot at the clan after all.’
‘Yes … but that won’t give us Cadillac.’
‘I know. But it may give us the next best thing – his head on a plate.’
I’m surrounded by idiots, thought Karlstrom. ‘The idea was to capture him alive, Tom. Never mind. Keep me posted. Put everything up on my screens as it comes in.’
‘Yes, sir …’
Karlstrom noted the tell-tale moment of hesitation. ‘Are you saving the bad news till last?’
‘That’s for you to decide,’ said McFadden. ‘It wasn’t just the explosives that Brickman discovered. Those crafty heaps of lumpshit were hiding something else.’
It wasn’t hard to guess what. Karlstrom died a little inside. ‘Mr Snow?’
‘Yeah! He’s alive!’
‘And out of control! Like the rest of this operation!’ This time, Karlstrom’s anger was for real. ‘Why the hell couldn’t Brickman keep his sticky little fingers out this?!’
McFadden looked dismayed. ‘B-But you … asked Malone to find it. And he –’
‘And he fucked up, didn’t he?! Too fucking zealous by half! We go to all the trouble of unpicking those requisitions and now he goes and fucking well blows everything wide open by blabbing over an open
line to Wallis! What is he – out of his fucking mind?!’
McFadden said nothing. Apart from the uncharacteristic stream of expletives, he had rarely seen his director so angry – or react so unreasonably. In the search for the missing explosives Karlstrom had ordered him to leave no stone unturned. And now Malone and Brickman were in deep shit because they’d turned over the wrong one.
He waited.
Finally, when Karlstrom regained his usual icy composure, he said: ‘Sanitize those messages from Wallis. And make sure he understands this. He is not to reveal the existence of these explosives to anyone on board that wagon-train or make any further reference to them in any further communication with this department. Code it “EYES ONLY”. You got that?’
‘I’ll attend to it immediately.’
‘And, Tom –’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Make sure that signal self-destructs.’
‘Of course.’ His deputy’s face was wiped from the screen.
Karlstrom, the head of AMEXICO, was a man used to dealing with complex operations but he could not remember a time when he had so many strikes against him.
The quiet revolution of the wagon-masters and their execs had seriously damaged his organization’s credibility in the eyes of the President-General, along with that of the other, visible security organizations like the Provost-Marshals.
After his deputy’s latest on-screen appearance, Karlstrom felt like a man hanging over a cliff on the end of a slowly-fraying rope. All it needed was a couple more strands to unwind and …
Normally a shrewd, unflappable man, Karlstrom found himself becoming increasingly short-tempered and venomous with his staff, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that he managed to conceal his mental disarray during his daily Oval Office meetings with Jefferson the 31st.
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