The Company of the Dead (58 page)

He caught the tail end of a joke, followed by a harsh cackle of amusement. The speaker drew his eye. He was hatchet-faced under a mop of unruly thick hair. The butt of his pistol swung loosely in his shoulder holster.

“Alright, alright, alright. What do you call a coon in a limo?”

“The chauffeur?” someone ventured across the table.

“Nah.” He guffawed loudly and slapped his thigh. “A thief.”

Shine slowed his steps. He felt his father grab his shirt-sleeve.

“You eyeballing me, boy?”

“Don’t...” his father murmured

“Be the last thing you’ll ever do.”

His father propelled him through the kitchen door. There were seven other people in the room. Three leather-faced indians, stooped by age and injury, worked over a large vat that bubbled and oozed a warm savoury scent. A tactical agent sat in a corner of the room. His eyes flicked briefly across Shine and his companions before being drawn back to the steaming stew.

“We’ll get started on the vegetables.” Shine’s father moved slowly towards a rack of shelves where bowls of tomatoes and potatoes had been laid out.

There was a large window set in the wall beyond the shelving. It faced the north end of the compound where the land began to rise up into the low mountains that surrounded distant Groom Lake. Somewhere out there, beyond the pale purple hills, the major was working his way towards Red Rock. His father had told him so.

Tecumseh, the medicine man of the ghost dancers, had contacted them from the
other place
to announce that his arrival was at hand, that he was bringing the culmination of all their prayers for a world’s restitution.

While Bravo camp had its mixture of indians and negroes, its faithful and its atheists, most of the men who’d trained at Alpha were ghost dancers, members of a religion that had been outlawed by the United States over a hundred years ago. The major had never discouraged their ideology. In fact, it could be argued that he’d promoted its practice. Shine had overheard their whispered conjectures in the barracks that afternoon and, listening to their words, he’d begun to appreciate the harvest sown by Kennedy’s tolerance.

One of the prisoners had claimed to have visited the
other place
, saying that it lay in the heart of the Demilitarised Zone between the Japanese and Confederate factions.

Another said that the place was in the Arctic Circle and contained a weapon that shrivelled man and machine alike, that reduced atomics to dust.

One of the elders, a companion of Tecumseh who’d led a company at Mazatlan, described a spirit-dream he’d entered, just the previous night. He’d seen the major and Tecumseh crossing the Central Plains at the head of an army of all the indian dead. None of the others spoke after this pronouncement.

It had occurred to Shine that, occasionally, a man may become something more than a man. He may become the vessel for the aspirations of many. And under such circumstances, what boundaries or limitations could hold him back?

He stared out into the deepening shadows and held his hand against the glass. He heard his father’s voice calling him back and stood blinking for a moment as he regained his bearings. He saw his father struggling to peel the jacket of a potato with a bread knife and asked, “Where are the regular knives?”

The tac agent chuckled. “Like we’re going to leave knives around a bunch of redskins.” His laughter grew with appreciation of his own joke and then ceased with a sudden spluttering cough.

“Hush, now.” One of the old indians was standing close by him and something flashed, bright and cruel, at his fingertips.

A shallow red line appeared across the pale cords of the agent’s neck.

Other men crossed the floor with a swiftness that belied their age. Their fingertips formed dazzling patinas, courtesy of the razored metal shards they extruded from callused pads.

The agent stared at Shine in astonishment.

Shine’s father replaced the half-peeled potato on the shelving. He approached the agent with a broad smile. The agent made the slightest movement towards his gun holster, then thought better of it. He’d opened his mouth to speak when a sputtering sound burst from his belt radio.

“Go on,” Shine’s father said. “Answer it.”

The agent gingerly reached for the receiver and brought it to his ear. He made a strange sound in his throat and said, “It’s for you.”

Shine’s father took the receiver and listened for a few moments. He placed it on his own belt and held out his hand. The agent handed over his Dillinger.

He transferred the pistol to Shine and said, “We’re to wait here a spell.”

“Want me to do anything?” Shine asked.

“Maybe later.”

There was an explosion of noise in the commissary. The sound of tables being turned and shattering glass. Three pistol shots rang out and echoed and then there were just the low moans of the injured. Distant gunfire sounded like the crackle of cheap fireworks.

The door swung open. Two ghost dancers stood at the entrance. Behind them lay broken furniture, cracked plates and three agents sprawled in a communal spatter of dark blood.

The remaining agents, unarmed, were on their knees. Shine’s father led their prisoner in and dropped him on the floor by his comrades. One of the agents, his hatchet face now pale and blood-streaked, met Shine’s eyes in abject fear.

“Tell me,” Shine asked. “What do you call a coon with a gun?”

“Sir.”

Webster barely glanced up. He’d set up office at one of the spare consoles in the communications room. His needs were immediate and the rate-limiting step in his intelligence gathering was the journey from communications to his cabin five decks below. That was too long.

“This just in for you.”

He accepted the post from the com officer with a curt nod. It was an encrypted dispatch from CINTEX. He ran it through the decoder. It was sketchy; shoddy work someone would have to answer for. He decided that somewhere out there, a village yearned for its lost idiot. He made a note of the person’s name and read on, filling in the blanks.

Malcolm’s Raptor had refuelled at Barksdale air force base, Louisiana, prior to its final flight. Evidence Response personnel were still working the crash site but Webster was willing to bet his last dollar that no trace of Kennedy or his crew would ever be found. Two abandoned parachutes had been retrieved ten miles from the wreck.

The parachutes were bait and Webster wasn’t biting.

He took a shot in the dark, rifled through the files on his desk, and pulled the notes on Hughes Aeronautics. Thirty flights in the Louisiana region, and three had departed Barksdale within half an hour of the Raptor. One bound for Houston, one for Nevada, and one that accompanied the Raptor over the Louisiana wetlands. Promising.

He penned a belated order grounding all Hughes Aeronautics planes pending further review.

He requested a trace on the three out-going flights. It returned within minutes, and confirmed his suspicions. There was no word on the Houston or Louisiana flights, but the Nevada-bound plane had crashed near a town called Alamo. He ran a scenario through his head and tacked an addendum to his order: “Check for other plane crashes—nationwide—in the last twenty-four hours. Check for survivors. Dispatch three tac squads to Alamo.”

He summoned the com officer and sent the revised order off to Dallas.

He skimmed though the intelligence reports. Local recon placed at least twelve patrols—friend and foe—between Alamo and Alpha.
Is that where Kennedy’s headed?
Perhaps he was making for the Demilitarised Zone and the Japanese border beyond. San Francisco or Fresno.
But if he wanted to join up with the Japanese, why not just stay in New York?
Unless, of course, he’d had prior knowledge of the German assault.

The permutations were staggering; they fucked his weary brain.

Illingworth had called an emergency briefing for 1500 hours, which left him just under an hour.

Webster poured himself a coffee and sorted through arriving reports, separating data from detritus. Apparently the German delegates were making good on their assurances from the morning’s summit, in the form of panzers and planes. It sounded like the Germans had committed more forces to the region than anyone had hitherto expected. Why was that?

The information he’d requested came back within twenty minutes. There had been four crashes all told. One light aircraft lost in the Mississippi Delta, two transport planes brought down by Japanese fighters over New Mexico, and the Hughes at Alamo.

Alamo... Four to six survivors, whisked away by paramedics whose arrival on the scene—as described by one eyewitness—was almost prescient. And they were surprisingly well organised for a bunch of coloureds.

Obvious.
Careless.

Webster allowed himself a grim chuckle. He had to wonder, what would Kennedy run out of first—planes or pilots? Had to wonder what the
hell
had drawn him back to Nevada.

He glanced at his watch and prepared a final order, this one to send to Alpha: “Ship Kennedy’s men west without delay and torch the camp.”

He left it with the courier and made his way to the operations deck. Arriving early for the briefing, he took a seat near the back of the room and let his eye fall casually on the crowd of officers as they filed into the large chamber. All the services were represented, including flight, security, military police and repair teams. Thirty men had seated themselves by the time Illingworth made his entrance. Four of Webster’s own covert agents, all senior officers aboard the stratolite, arranged themselves in chairs close by and did nothing to acknowledge him.

Illingworth began with aerial photographs and an outline of the recent troop dispositions. The subject rapidly turned to the two Japanese stratolites, targets too sweet to be ignored. Their presence, in addition to the two army divisions advancing across the desert, represented a significant effort. He outlined their various options. These ranged from an all-out attack, coordinated and led by the
Patton
, to a strategic withdrawal to the Arizona state border. He played his cards close to his chest.

Right here, over Alpha and close to Kennedy, was where Webster wanted to be. He skimmed his notes and decided to divorce himself early from the thrust of his own intentions. He leaned forwards and tapped Paterson—the flight director—on the shoulder and murmured in his ear that observation posts were best suited for observation, so perhaps a withdrawal
was
in order. He made sure he was overheard, and was pleased to find his view received with respectful evasion.

The German delegates were present for the briefing, and as more facts came to light the discussion burgeoned into a full-blown war council. Before long, calls were made and President Clancy and Kaiser Wilhelm were patched through via secured shortwave link-ups.

The German delegates recommended that they maintain a conservative approach till more of their forces could arrive. A dispute over authority threatened to bog down the talks in a mire of bureaucracy. Webster had his opportunity, he just needed a mouthpiece.

He spied his three-star acquaintance from the other day, General Boyfucker, on the other side of the room. Quietly leaving his seat, he approached the man and took him aside. Before long the general’s look of apprehension transformed into one of appreciation.

They returned to the proceedings and, when given the opportunity to speak, the general echoed Webster’s words with an unexpected eloquence that singled him out for future use. With an obtuse reference to the intelligence at hand, he stated that—in view of Japanese military conduct in the Union north—he strongly suggested a strong defensive stance.

“Perhaps they never had any intention of risking unreliable Union forces against the South,” he announced. “Perhaps they were merely conducting a holding action, tying up German–Allied forces around New York. Perhaps the push is happening right here. Right now.”

Little argument was offered.

The German delegates confirmed that their panzers had crossed the state line as promised and were digging in west of Las Vegas. Three squadrons of Luftwaffe fighter-bombers and two more of Confederate scouts were en route. Additional regiments of Texan Rangers and standard Confederate units could be rapidly mustered.

Clancy took his cue. After Berlin, he said, no Japanese airship—stratolite or otherwise—would see the outer reaches of
any
Allied settlement. He stated, in sonorous tones, that it was better to decide the Confederacy’s fate
here
than on the outskirts of Dallas. He thanked the Kaiser for placing German forces at the Confederacy’s disposal at this key juncture.

It was a
fait accompli
. The Kaiser acquiesced; Webster smiled. The
Patton
was going to war.

Command of the mission was handed over to Admiral Illingworth. He summoned his squadron leaders, arranging a squadron briefing to be held at the flight director’s station.

The meeting ended and the deck cleared. It was almost five o’clock and Webster hadn’t eaten since dawn. The attack wouldn’t be launched for another few hours. That gave him ample time to peruse any new reports. He’d suck down a cigar and have a meal brought to him.

Out in the passageway, Steiner—the Abwehr’s envoy to the German delegation—stood waiting by Webster’s motorcart. He struck a casual pose but his expression was guarded.

“Do you have a moment, Director Webster?”

Webster’s bodyguards, invariable in their presence, subtle in their distribution, were mixing with some of the bridge crew. A senior agent lurked further down the passage. There were others present whom Webster didn’t recognise; possibly crew, more likely German operatives. There were probably more covert agents than soldiers in the immediate vicinity. It was a vaguely amusing notion.

“I’m on my way to communications, Mr Steiner,” Webster replied.

“That suits me.”

Webster gestured towards the passenger seat with a sweep of his arm and took the wheel. Steiner climbed in. There was a faint scuffle in the background as the various operatives clambered into adjacent vehicles and the unlikely motorcade made its way along the conduit.