“His chest is flailed,” Gebran said to the nurse, then turned to me. “We need to get him to the hospital right away. He’s got multiple broken ribs, almost certainly badly bruised lungs, and maybe heart damage. The breaks are bad enough, but there’s also the chance rib ends have already punctured internal tissues. An ambulance is waiting back at the roadblock. I’ll call it in if you’re sure the shooting has stopped, and we’ll get Millen fastened to a gurney and have the Lamoas carefully take him down the stairs. How the hell did he get this injury? It’s like some big weight fell on him, but I don’t see anything like that lying around.”
“Sonic gun,” I replied, pointing to the stubby, heavy weapon I’d retrieved from near Cherkoff’s body. “They’re not widely used because of the short range, so I don’t know why Cherkoff had one. They don’t make as much noise as the name suggests, and I didn’t hear anything, what with everything else going on.”
Gebran shook his head and returned to tending Millen. “I assume it’s best you don’t accompany us armed and tempt one of Cherkoff’s men to do something stupid.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, “but I’ll wait here to help get this shindig finished. I think these men’s interest in fighting has been replaced by a desire to get out of Dodge.”
It only me took a few seconds to realize why the doctor had an odd look. Millen’s influence had been more pervasive than I’d thought. “I’m just saying I can coordinate with Ashraf from here to ensure that Cherkoff’s men are focused on leaving Justice.”
After Gebran took Millen and the girl away, I needed another hour to be confident the two sides wouldn’t start shooting again. I placated Justice’s citizen factions by saying that revenge and trials weren’t worth risking more lives, and I convinced Chikalow they would be allowed to leave peacefully. When Cherkoff’s men moved to the largest garage, we did a thorough search of the main house and let Ostell and Felzoni collect digital and paper records. I also hand-picked individuals to man the heavy weapons and had Ashraf order home anyone he considered most likely not to abide by the truce. At that point, I finally considered it a 95 percent chance the fighting was truly over. However, 95 wasn’t 100, so I stayed to supervise moving Cherkoff’s men to a warehouse near the dirigible field. There, Bossev had arranged for the men to sleep and be fed until they left.
After I stopped at the hotel to drop off the ghillies, my Dynaplex suit, and Millen’s weapons, it was late afternoon when I got to the hospital. Dr. Gebran heard I was coming and met me at the front entrance.
“Millen’s stabilized. Wally Okita’s our best surgeon and is finishing operating on the rib cage. There were a couple of punctures, but nothing serious. What we’re worried about is serious bruising of both the heart and the right lung. Some of the tissue is dying, and he needs to be at the Oslo Cedars Hospital. They are the only place on Astrild with equipment to facilitate tissue regrowth. The problem is that the dirigible due tomorrow is headed for New London, with stops on the way. There’s no train connection to Oslo from New London, so it’d be another slow dirigible to Oslo—meaning four days to get Millen to Cedars Hospital.”
There was a hell of a lot I didn’t know about Astrild—a serious problem when you landed on a strange planet and got pushed right into a situation like the one at Justice.
“There’s no medical emergency service?” I asked. “Some kind of dirigible or aircraft ambulance?”
“Only in Oslo and the other major cities, and those vehicles are too short range to reach here.”
“What if we commandeer the dirigible that’s coming in and go straight to Oslo?”
Gebran shook his head. “There are no refueling stations on a direct route, so it’d have to take the usual route to refuel. Even without dealing with cargo and passengers, it’d still take too long.”
“Shit!”
There had to be a way. I wasn’t going to let Millen die. There was something about fighting together that cemented men and women who otherwise wouldn’t get along. Even as annoying as I’d found him at first, that feeling had faded into respect and, to my surprise, almost fondness.
“What about non-cargo dirigibles? Are there services that could be hired or prevailed upon to come here and take Millen to Oslo?”
“I think you’d have the same refueling problem with a direct flight, but I’m not sure. I know we’ve never had that done while I’ve been in Justice.”
“Well, double shit!”
I had one last idea. “Where’re Millen’s clothes he came in? Take me to them.”
“They’re down in emergency receiving. Follow me.”
“How are the other casualties?” I asked as we hustled down the hallway.
“That gun on the hovercraft doesn’t leave many wounded. The dead were literally cut to pieces. However, Efton Hamdan lost a leg. Most of the other wounded we can handle here, except maybe Cella Abboud, the daughter of one of the lead ranchers. She caught a round that hit the left cheekbone and went out the right side, taking half a dozen teeth with it. She’ll need major reconstruction and Efton, a leg regrowth. Eventually, both of them will have to go to Oslo to the same hospital as Millen. That’s assuming the families can pay for the procedures. You’re probably accustomed to different systems on Earth, but there’s nothing like health insurance in the outlying parts of Astrild.”
We entered emergency receiving, and a staffer directed us to Millen’s things piled in a corner.
“Are the satellite links still up and running?” I asked Gebran.
“Yes. Since Ostell got access again.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll check on Millen later and then find Ashraf to make sure Cherkoff’s men are being watched.”
Gebran left, and I searched for Millen’s comm. I found it in a boot where a nurse had probably dropped it while undressing him. It was a different model from mine, but it took only a few seconds to bring up a list of addresses. I was sure there had to be a way to see only different recipients, but I settled on scrolling through them all. This meant I found myself listed hundreds of times, along with various people around Justice. I was about to be discouraged when a message with the recipient “W” caught my eye. I keyed in “connect.”
“Mr. Millen. I was wondering how things were going in Justice. I assume you have a report.”
“Yeah, I got a report, Mr. White,” I said. “First thing off, it’s Cole, not Millen.”
“Ah, Mr. Cole. Something of a surprise. Is there some reason you’re using Mr. Millen’s comm?”
“Millen’s badly injured. The doctors here say he might die unless we get him to a hospital in Oslo. The normal transportation routes will take too long.”
“Dear me, that’s a shame. I certainly hope Mr. Millen pulls through. Since you have his comm, and in lieu of Mr. Millen’s incapacitation, please update me on your mission.”
“No, we’re not going there until you tell me there’s a way to get some kind of aircraft here quick to transport Millen to Oslo. The doctor here said he has to get to the Cedars Hospital.”
Mr. White didn’t respond immediately. As the saying went, you could almost hear the gears turning in his head. I decided to provide a prod.
“If you can’t do anything on your end, maybe that magic card Millen used at the manufactory will let me hire, buy, or throw weight around to get something here?”
This time the response came a second later. “No need for that. I’ll see what I can do and get back to you as soon as I know something. As a matter of mission security, you shouldn’t use the card, except in defined circumstances of which you are probably not fully cognizant. Injudicious utilization will raise your and my profiles to undesirable levels, which could have future negative consequences.”
I wondered whether this guy spoke this way all the time, or if he had training in sounding officious. Wherever he’d learned it, I liked the direction of our conversation, so I threw him a bone, accompanied by a sour lemon. If he wanted the steak the bone was attached to, he’d have to su
ck on the lemon.
“I’ll be waiting to hear. Oh, and there are also two seriously wounded citizens of Justice who need significant reconstruction and regrowth medical care. I’m told the same hospital Millen needs to get to can also do their work.”
I would have liked to leave my implied demand like that, but my curiosity didn’t trump my wanting to get help for Efton Hamdan and Cella Boutros. One thing ingrained from my FSES time was that you cared for your team members. As far as I was concerned, everyone who’d stood up with us against Cherkoff was a team member.
I added, “The two injured are family members of important leaders of different factions here in Justice. Getting them sophisticated medical help will aid the mission now that we’re so close to success.”
“And just how close are you?”
White’s voice might have had a tinge of amusement.
“I need to get back to other matters right now,” I said, “but I’ll give you full details when I hear back from you.”
I shut the connection. White’s responses told me three things. Millen’s card was important, but the “powers that be” didn’t want its presence widely known. Second, somehow Millen had known or guessed that the contact we had at the manufactory when we arrived would keep the card confidential. And third, our handler’s quick acquiescence to my demands told me that Millen—and, by inference, me—had more authority than I’d first thought. Otherwise, White could have simply ordered me to give a report and would have blown off my pushing for emergency transport and medical care.
I checked on Millen—not that there was much to see with him encased in some kind of cocoon. A nurse tried to explain what it was for, but I felt satisfied he was being watched over. Then, a short visit to the wounded, ours and Cherkoff’s. To those of ours in shape for talking, I praised their commitment and tried to sound encouraging about their injuries. I was interested in the wounded Cherkoff men only to be sure they weren’t going anywhere we didn’t know about. Ashraf had left two armed guards.
The next stop was the dirigible field to check on our new guests. Bossev had arranged cots, blankets, food, and water. The man was definitely a dervish for organization. Neither Bossev nor Ashraf was enthused about my going into the warehouse alone, but when I stated that I was going, both men accompanied me . . . reluctantly and on their own without my urging.
The de facto leader in the warehouse was named Vonda, the man referenced when I’d overheard Cherkoff’s men talking on their comms during the raid on Justice. He was evidently the number three or four man working for Cherkoff.
“What happened to Chikalow?” I asked Vonda.
“He was injured more seriously than was thought and died about the time of the cease-fire.”
I didn’t follow up, but I suspected fragging. Chikalow might have planned the cease-fire to be a ruse to surprise us, but Vonda or the other men had shot him. I didn’t care.
When I checked the warehouse, there was a clear demarcation between the armed men and the unarmed, the latter of whom included all the families. I was tempted to separate them into different buildings but decided they wouldn’t be there that long. Once satisfied, I left to talk with Ashraf, who was among forty or so armed men and women a hundred meters from the warehouse.
“Ashraf, I want to disarm the Cherkoff men before they leave. I don’t think they’ll try anything, but best to be sure. One of the men inside is probably the hovercraft driver. Tomorrow morning, pull him out and go back to the ranch. Get the hovercraft here. When you return, we’ll set it near the warehouse and make it look like it’s being manned. Let’s also gather a few more men and station them where they can be seen by Cherkoff’s men.
“I’ll wait until tomorrow morning to tell Vonda that the dirigible pilot and company won’t allow armed passengers, and we’ll have to take all their weapons before they board. I expect he and some of the men will bitch, but when they see themselves surrounded by us and the heavy weapons, I suspect they’ll cooperate. The easiest path will be for them to go along with my assurances that they’ll be let go peacefully, as long as they don’t cause any problems.”
Ashraf nodded and walked away, shouting at several men to join him. Millen’s comm buzzed.
“Cole, it’s White. A VTOL will be there tomorrow. That’s the fastest I could arrange anything, so the doctors there will have to keep Millen going until then. It’ll be cramped inside, but I’m told it’ll hold your three injured and one medical personnel. The trip back will take four hours and will go straight to the Cedars Hospital, so tell the doctors in Justice the injured have to last the flight.”
I wanted to query White about how he’d appropriated a vertical-takeoff-and-landing craft so quickly, but that could wait.
“Thanks, White. I appreciate the quick results. I’ll see about having everyone ready to go.”
“Now, Mr. Cole, you said something about a report?”
“Yep. Cherkoff is dead. His surviving men and those whose wounds aren’t serious will be on a dirigible leaving Justice tomorrow. Am I to consider our mission here complete?”
“Essentially, Mr. Cole, but Mr. Millen’s instructions were also to make some minimal effort to see if the citizenry are on the path to re-establishing local authority. Since Mr. Millen is incapacitated, see what you can do. Take a couple of days, then report back.”
“All right. I’m not a community organizer, but I’ll get a sense of how the citizens of Justice feel about being out from under Cherkoff. However, you didn’t answer my question. Am I to infer that with Millen headed to Oslo and you saying I should stay a few days to work on things here, the mission to Justice is winding down?”
“That’s a reasonable assumption, but let’s talk about it later.”
At mid-morning the next day, the scheduled dirigible moored at Justice. While it was unloading and loading cargo and passengers, we disarmed Cherkoff’s men and bid them adios at mid-afternoon. Each of them had his picture taken and was told he would be shot on sight if he returned to Justice.
More than three hundred people showed up to see the dirigible off. I suspected many needed to experience with their own eyes the unarmed Cherkoff men being sent packing by armed fellow citizens. The mood was jubilant, and an impromptu street party was in the works. Then Manuel Ormega, from the transport depot, came running out of the field headquarters to find Mayor Bossev, who happened to be standing with me and several others of the original resistance group.
“Mayor! I was following the dirigible that just left by radar, but there’s another one coming from the direction of Oslo! Nothing else is scheduled for today. And Oslo? How could it come from Oslo? The distance is too far, and there’s no refueling station in a direct line.”
Bossev, Chang, and I looked at one another. We knew what it meant, if not the means.
“The men Cherkoff was waiting for,” said Bossev.
“Must be,” I said, “but Ormega is right. I also thought there were no direct flights between Oslo and Justice.”
“I’ve never heard of one since I’ve lived in Justice,” said Bossev, “but who can tell? I don’t know about every dirigible on Astrild, or maybe someone added extra fuel tanks.”
“How doesn’t make any difference,” I said. “Ormega, how long until it gets here?”
“Maybe thirty minutes.”
“But then it has to be moored, doesn’t it?” I referred to the four-story tower to which incoming ships attached at the nose. Once tethered, the attachment was lowered via an elevator until the main cabin was five meters off the ground, upon which time the rear of the cabin was attached to a heavy, mobile anchoring vehicle. Passenger and cargo transfers commenced after the ship was secured.
“Well, yes,” said Ormega. “That usually takes about twenty minutes once the ship is in place.”
“All right, I’m afraid you’re going to have mechanical problems with the mast tower. You’re working on it as fast as you can, but the problem won’t be known until the dirigible is ready to mo
or. Fixing the problem will take at least an hour.”
Ormega looked confused for a moment, then a light went on. “Oh. You mean that problem. Just occurs sporadically. We can’t figure out what it is. Usually only lasts about . . . how long did you say?”
“About an hour.”
“Right. Lasts about an hour and then works fine. I’ll go radio the bad news.” Ormega ran back toward the field building.
“I’m not familiar with dirigibles,” I said, “but is there any way for people to disembark without going through the normal mooring procedure?”
Bossev shrugged, but Chang looked thoughtful. “I suppose they could rappel down, but that would take time. They’d also need the equipment and have to know how to do it without killing themselves. I also doubt they brought parachutes for all their men.”
“All right. Let’s figure a minimum thirty minutes to get here, fifteen minutes to get into position, then let’s say fifteen minutes to delay before men try to rappel down. Most likely, they’ll wait for the mechanism to start working, so we’ll figure we have a minimum of an hour to get everyone possible here, especially those armed. I’ll comm Ashraf to get his ass here pronto and remain with the hovercraft. Chang, you move the two machine-guns and the railgun to cover where the new dirigible will moor.
“Mayor, you get Ostell to send out a call. Chang and I will position people as they show up. Most of the people who came to see Cherkoff’s men off are still hanging around, along with the guards on those men, so we’ll start with those.”
Thirty-three minutes later, a dirigible crossed the hills north of Justice two kilometers away.
“Damn,” said Bossev. “Never seen that model before. It’s certainly not like one of those big VLK transports and is obviously for passengers only—the undercarriage is too small for significant cargo. But it’s bigger than any passenger ship I’ve ever seen. Looks brand new, and if I’m any judge, the engines look big even for a cargo ship.”
I motioned to the mayor. “Bossev, send someone to Ormega. Once the dirigible is secure, we need him to be at the door to say he needs to talk to the pilot. He’s to find out anything he can about this ship.”
A Tangled Road to Justice Page 29