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.
Thanks to Brickman’s disastrous but well-meaning intervention, the lives of Malone and his team of mexicans were now in jeopardy. All overground operatives risked death on a daily basis, but Karlstrom was not prepared to stand by and do nothing. The collective expertise, the sheer overground savvy of Malone’s team made them invaluable even in a training role. Every effort had to be made to rescue them. And despite his own mixed feelings, Brickman too.
With his distrust of ‘earth-magic’ and psionics – the Federation equivalent – Karlstrom would have preferred to dump both Steve and his kin-sister but Jefferson’s interest in this troublesome pair made that impossible. Even though the demise of Malone’s renegades had killed the plan to draw the Mutes onto the train, Karlstrom could not afford to abandon the overall objective – the total destruction of the Clan M’Call.
With a horde of Mutes in hot pursuit of Malone and his team-mates, a sky-hook – which would require putting at least two aircraft on the ground plus top cover – was a high-risk operation. Karlstrom was prepared to gamble but he preferred playing with a marked deck. Besides, there was a chance of saving his mexicans and saving the day. As McFadden had noted, Malone and Brickman proposed to draw their pursuers forward towards the planned rendezvous with the wagon-train in the hope of provoking the Mutes into making an all-out attack.
If Cadillac and Mr Snow – who had risen like Lazarus from the tomb – were still determined to rescue Clearwater then he, Karlstrom, was ready to oblige by offering them the bait. This time, at least, there would be no danger of a flash-flood. Brickman – via Malone – had reported that since the episode at the trading post, Mr Snow was a mere shadow of his former self. And although reports of his death had proved to be premature, it was because the summoner had exhibited every sign of being a dying man that he, Brickman, had been fooled into believing they were true.
Maybe a last attempt to use his earth-magic against the wagon-train might push the old bastard over the edge. It was a tempting scenario, but ‘maybe’ wasn’t a word that Karlstrom liked. That was why he did not propose to alter any of the precautionary measures he had taken in conjunction with CINC-TRAIN.
The problem now was to get the President-General’s approval for the fall-back plan without giving the impression that AMEXICO had lost its grip on the situation …
To many of those who were directly involved in fighting off the combined assault force of Mutes and renegades, the news that the turkey-shoot had been rained off was met with thinly disguised relief. Even though the containment plan had been carefully worked out to eliminate any possibility that the train could be overrun, the very idea of allowing any Mutes to set foot on Red River had been anathema to all concerned.
But orders were orders. Happily, they had been rescinded. The problem now was to help save the nuts of some guys whose overground operation had gone badly wrong.
What Karlstrom didn’t know, as he composed himself in the elevator on the way up to the Oval Office, was that the situation he was currently coming to terms with was entirely fictitious.
Malone, his six lieutenants, and the motley collection of renegades who had been tricked into following them had become an all-day feast for a growing flock of death-birds in Wyoming.
The bulk of the Clan M’Call, in an unprecedented series of night moves had made their way towards ‘Big Fork’ – the junction of the North and South Platte Rivers, arriving a full two days ahead of the wagon-train. And by an arrangement which would have been utterly unthinkable before the Battle of the Trading Post, the two She-Kargo and three small M’Waukee clans inhabiting the area had trekked westwards to fill the vacuum created by the M’Calls.
The main ‘battle-group’ at Big Fork was led by Cadillac and Blue-Thunder. Following in its tracks was a much smaller group, consisting of Awesome-Wells, Boston-Bruin, and four Bears selected for their physique and discretion. Apart from Blue-Thunder, they were the only members of the clan who knew that Mr Snow was still alive.
The continued deception was necessary because in spite of the occasional strong rally the old wordsmith’s hold on life remained precarious. Having won the clan’s confidence, Cadillac did not wish to undermine his position by revealing Mr Snow’s presence. If he were to do so, only to have Mr Snow die before the attack, the effects on the clan’s morale would be disastrous.
The plan Cadillac and Steve had evolved was a good one. If all went well, they had a better than even chance of gaining control of the wagon-train without using earth-magic. If the Old One was able to help them with his earth-magic it would be an added bonus, but Cadillac knew they could call upon it once and once only.
He and Mr Snow were both aware that the act of summoning forth any powers greater than those held within the Second Ring would prove fatal. Mr Snow faced the prospect with a cheerful lack of concern. Having passed the baton to his pupil, he appeared not only willing but eager to die. But with only one shot left in his locker he had to conserve his energies until the critical moment.
That was why he had accepted the indignity of allowing himself to be carried into battle, and it was another reason for his secret journey. Apart from babes in arms, and comrades wounded in battle, there were no passengers among the Plainfolk. To be ‘legless’ meant you had reached the end of the line. The old and the infirm who were unable to walk or run never became a burden to their clanfolk. They swallowed a strong dose of dream-cap laced with a poisonous weed extract, or died from a self-inflicted knife-thrust to the heart.
Cadillac knew that Mr Snow, his beloved teacher, had chosen to make his exit in a different fashion. In his mind’s eye, he carried the unforgettable pictures he had drawn from the seeing-stone: the pictures of Mr Snow’s dying-place. And he remembered the sorrowful laughter with which his teacher had dismissed the news, preferring to rejoice in the beauty of their surroundings. Cadillac even remembered the exact spot where he had found the stone, on the almost flat expanse of ground south of the point where the two rivers ran side by side before finally merging for the slow journey eastwards across Nebraska to join the Missouri.
The stone lay directly in the path of the iron-snake, a path traced by those who controlled the destiny of the Plainfolk but which the beast itself had not yet followed; its arrival on the killing-ground still lay in the future.
The terror inspired by the vision of its monstrous shape looming over him still sent shivers down his spine, and in the two years that had elapsed since his first journey to that dreadful place with Mr Snow, the feeling of suffocation upon finding himself under the belly of the wagon-train had often caused him to wake with a pounding heart and a cry of fear on his lips.
But this was not the time for timorous reflection. The die was cast. He and Brickman had evolved an audacious plan which had the blessing of the Old One. A plan in which he, Cadillac, had secured the major role and the lion’s share of action. Everything hinged on split-second timing. What he needed to display now was the same boldness and resolution that he had – for far too long – envied in his rival.
Steve and his travelling companions, Night-Fever, Cat-Ballou and the small group of Mutes acting as stand-ins for Malone’s team of mexicans were still in Wyoming, following the line of the South Platte River as it made its slow descent eastwards towards the state line and its eventual link-up with its northern counterpart.
Using a captured radio, Steve fed terse but graphic accounts over the voice channel linking him with Wallis, aboard Red River. Those listening were tricked into believing that the fugitives had succeeded in staying ahead of their pursuers with the aid of some of the horses given to the renegades by Cadillac.
Unfortunately, in an effort to lay a false trail, Steve and ‘KYLE’ – one of the dead mexicans – had become temporarily separated from Malone and the other five but had received confirmation they were in the saddle and ‘walking tall’; a slang term meaning their heads were still attached to the rest of their bodies.
Although claiming to be running low on battery power, Steve obligingly kept the transmit button down long enough for Red River to get a fix on his present position. Wallis also confirmed that he had also received a couple of brief signals from Malone. They had been too brief to pin-point but the messages, garbled by static, suggested the two groups were fairly close together and heading in the right direction.
In reality, Cadillac’s imitation of Malone had been broadcast from a totally different location. Steve’s task was to maintain the fictional existence of the group and give the impression that the entire Clan M’Call was right behind them when, in fact, it was the other way around.
Steve had chosen Night-Fever, Cat-Ballou and the five other Mutes who had escorted him to the trading post because they had all taken turns to ride one of the horses on the way back. All of them – like Steve – were now dressed in the camouflaged fatigues and helmets acquired from the ill-fated SIG-INT decoys, adorned with four white strips of marker tape. They weren’t star pupils but they could stay in the saddle and that was all he required to maintain the illusion whenever a patrolling Skyhawk swooped low overhead and waggled its red wingtips in recognition.
The M’Calls spent the day hiding amongst trees in the culverts and gullies on the northern bank of Big Fork then, when the last glimmer of light had faded from the sky, Cadillac led them across the two shallow rivers onto the killing-ground.
The mass of warriors and She-Wolves had already been divided into posses numbering five hands and placed under the command of a group-leader. Followed by these new appointees, Cadillac paced out the approximate area that the wagon-train would occupy. When this had been delineated, it was divided into sections for which the group leaders then became responsible. Before long, the posses were hard at work with primitive stone digging implements and a prized collection of Iron Master picks and shovels.
Leaving Blue-Thunder in charge of the proceedings, Cadillac mounted his horse and rode westwards along the river to where Mr Snow lay hidden with his escort. ‘How goes it, Old One?’
Mr Snow gave a tired smile. ‘Well enough …’ With the moon’s sepulchral glow bathing his sunken features and white hair, he looked like a visitor from the spirit world he was soon to inhabit. ‘Help me up.’
Cadillac gave him a helping hand. Mr Snow then pushed him away and tottered towards a tree some ten yards away. Cadillac hastened after him but was waved off. Mr Snow circled the tree twice before leaning against it. ‘There!’ he gasped. ‘These idiots keep telling me I’m too weak to stand!’
‘Let me help you back.’ Cadillac offered his hand as Awesome-Wells approached clucking with disapproval like an agitated hen rounding up a wayward chick.
Mr Snow withdrew his elbows from their grasping hands and waved them both aside. ‘Keep away! I now propose to take a dip.’
‘At this time of night? Are you crazy?’ demanded Awesome. ‘What for?!’
‘To get rid of the cramps, the pins and needles. I’ve been lying in that bed too long. I need some exercise!’
‘Sure,’ said Boston-Bruin. ‘But you’re not a fish!’
‘Look! I know about these things! In the Old Time people swam for pleasure not just to stay afloat. It was medically recognized as an excellent way of exercising every muscle in your body.’
‘It also sounds like a good way of tearing them apart,’ huffed Awesome. ‘Especially someone of your age.’
‘On top of which you’ll catch your death of cold.’
Mr Snow turned to Cadillac. ‘Oh, come now. We both know how I’m going to die and it’s not by drowning in this river.’ He patted his successor on the arm. ‘Make yourself useful. Light me a fire.’
To the rational mind, it seems incredible that Cadillac could possess the ability to draw images of the past and future from a ‘seeing-stone’, and equally incredible that such objects existed. But to the Plainfolk, who believed that The Path was already drawn, the past and future were merely different stretches of the great River of Time which carried the world towards the Sea of Eternity.
Past and future co-existed – like the beginning and end of all river – real or imaginary
And since in their cosmology, the natural world in its infinite variety was an ageless, sentient being in which nothing – not even the densest rock – was totally inanimate, then it was not difficult for them to accept that the earth and sky contained the knowledge of things past and things to come.
The hills, the rocks, the earth, trees and grass were silent witnesses; nothing escaped the golden glare of the sun or the pale white moon and the countless starry eyes in Mo-Town’s cloak. The earth revealed those secrets to those gifted with far-sight, and to those whose inner ear was attuned to the Sky Voices that rode the wind.
The rational mind might find such notions diverting but would brush them aside. And yet, and yet … the map reference to which the wagon-train had now been directed – a location which, with its several approaches, had been carefully reconnoitered from the air – was the very same spot where Cadillac had found the seeing-stone with its blood-soaked images. Two years before CINC-TRAIN chose it as the killing-ground …
In some way which defied rational explanation, the earth had stored the images of the train and the carnage caused by its arrival and through the medium of the stone had passed its secrets backwards in time into Cadillac’s mind.
Such was the magic and the power of prophecy.
At first light, the Clan M’Call ceased their earth-works and retired to the hiding places established beneath the trees in the culverts and gullies on the far bank of the Big Fork. Some of the warriors had been allowed to sleep through the night; these were now despatched into the nearby hills in groups of three to keep watch for the wagon-train, and two posses containing the best hunters in the clan were sent northwards in search of the nearest large herd of buffalo.
Cadillac watched anxiously as they ran off to execute their part in the plan. It was a good plan, as he kept assuring himself, but there was no fail-safe factor. It was the kind of plan that depended on the successful execution of each phase. Everything had to work perfectly, there was absolutely no margin for error. And it was absolutely nerve-racking. He looked up and watched the dawn light flood rapidly across the sky, melting the rose-tinted night clouds with its warmth. One more day, another night of preparation and then, perhaps, the fatal dawn. He settled down to wait, and when his turn came, he tried to sleep.
Roz, aboard Red River, was conscious of the gathering storm. The wall-mounted video-screens which relayed announcements and instructions throughout the wagon-train notified the crew that the train was now moving into a battle zone. An attack by a large force of Mutes could be expected at any time. As of 0900 hours, the train would go to a Level One Red Alert – the highest state of combat readiness.
At this level, all gun positions were constantly manned by shifts of gunners during daylight hours, the video-screens linked to the external surveillance cameras were individually monitored, and a three-plane standing air-patrol was put up to circle around the train as it moved forward.
All personnel were required to stay at their assigned work-stations or on immediate call. This meant that Roz could not go up onto the flight-deck even in her off-duty moments. Apart from knowing they were in Nebraska, she had no access to any maps and, as a consequence, had no idea of where the train was. Moreover, since the train was a sealed environment, and no pictures of the overground were screened in the blood-wagon, she had no way of knowing where they were coming from or going to. The vision slits which would have allowed her a glimpse of the surrounding terrain were closed and locked. They could only be opened in certain emergency situations such as a power failure when the external cover plates were automatically released and could be wound back from the inside.
As a doctor attached to the medical team, Roz was expected to take part in the normal preparations that any mobile field hospital makes prior to a major engagement. The crew on board the train were in little danger; the casualties the medical staff had to be prepared to deal with would only occur if line-men were commited to a ground action.
As the CMO explained in the standard briefing she gave on these occasions, the type of injuries they expected to deal with were relatively simple puncture wounds made by knives and crossbow bolts, plus skull and bone fractures caused by stone hammers and flails. That was the plus side of fighting a primitive enemy. The only time surgeons got a chance to deal with explosive wounding was when a line-man was accidentally shot either in a fire-fight or through the faulty handling of weapons or ordnance.
Saving Clearwater had been a real test of their medical skills which, under normal circumstances were confined to industrial type accidents and the run of injuries that occur whenever ham-fisted goons install, move, operate or try to repair heavy, hard-edged pieces of military equipment.
After Roz had given an up-date on Clearwater, the ward-sister reviewed the few cases occupying beds in the sick-bay. Decisions on who could be discharged and transferred to the daily sick-parade were quickly reached. The object was to empty as many beds as possible and to that end, the White House task-force had been prevailed upon to vacate the ward they’d been using as their base. Bunks had been found for them elsewhere, and the black boxes which gave them a secure line of communications with AMEXICO were now installed in a large, walk-in cargo skip on the hangar deck of the rear flight-car.
As the staff meeting broke up, Michelle French, the CMO tapped Roz. ‘Your friend Wallis wants to see you …’
Jake Nevill vacated his chair inside the eight-by-ten grey-green metal compartment and motioned Roz to take his place. Wallis, seated opposite her, unfolded a map and spread it out between them.
‘We need your help,’ he explained. ‘The Director needs urgent confirmation of your kin-brother’s present position. Can you handle that?’
Roz hesitated and issued a silent call for help. ‘I can try.’
‘Good. Y’see, we still haven’t been able to get a proper fix on Malone and –’
‘I can’t tune in on him. It only works with Steve.’
‘I know,’ said Wallis soothingly. ‘We’re assuming from what we’ve heard that they’re pretty close to one another. Just give it your best shot. The Director tells me you’re pretty hot stuff. If you manage to pick up your kin-brother maybe Malone will come into the picture.’
Roz nodded and closed her eyes as she mentally debated whether to sink into a deep trance state or fake it. She knew Malone was dead but she had no idea where Steve was supposed to be. And contrary to Karlstrom’s fears, her psionic powers did not yet include the ability to read people’s minds like a video-screen.
This could be a test. Wallis and Karlstrom might already know where Steve was. If they had any suspicions about what he was up to, her failure to find him would make it look as if they were working together to deceive the Federation. She was trapped. She had to make a genuine effort to find him and hope that he had foreseen this possibility.
Steve had. The knowledge that her mental map-reading powers might be put to the test was precisely why Steve had elected to stay behind and broadcast intermittent progress reports on his efforts to evade the M’Calls. Since Long Point, his telepathic powers had increased or – to be more accurate – had regained some of their original sensitivity.
There was no internal bell or buzzer that went off when Roz’s mind reached out towards his, but he was aware of her presence. It was like a cool breeze wafting through his brain which, during the moment of connection, seemed to contain the infinity of space and then – although it was all in the mind – a delicious physical sensation as her whole being merged with his.
It came now, as he cantered up a forested slope close to the state line between Wyoming and Nebraska. He welcomed her, and through her reached out towards Clearwater. There were no barriers between them now.
Wallis and Nevill watched with growing mystification as Roz’s fingers searched blindly across the plasfilm map then gradually zeroed in on Steve’s position. For a while, she sat slumped in the chair, eyes closed, chin on her chest then she raised her head. Nevill glimpsed the upturned whites of her eyes through the partly open lids as her head sagged over towards her left shoulder. Her lips moved wordlessly then in a slurred voice she said: ‘Here … somewhere here …’
Wallis used a black wax marker to draw a circle round Roz’s forefinger.
‘A hill, with trees … animals … running. He’s …’
‘Riding a horse?’ ventured Wallis.
‘Yes, fast. I can feel the wind on my face. He sees … Malone. More riders …’
‘Where?’
‘On …’ Roz made a scooping motion with her right hand. ‘A valley. On the other side of a valley … horsemen.’
Her eyes fluttered open. Wallis and Nevill saw her look around in an effort to get her bearings. When her eyes met theirs it was if she had never seen them before then a moment later, her senses returned in full measure. ‘Did I …?’
Wallis nodded. ‘Yeah, it looks very encouraging. You even picked up Malone. And it wasn’t too hard, was it?’
Darryl Oates poked his head round the entrance to the skip. ‘We just picked up another sit-rep from Brickman. He has visual contact with Malone plus five. Looks like we lost one. Hope it’s no one I know.’
‘Did you get a fix?’ demanded Wallis.
‘Yeah, lemme show you.’ Coates advanced towards the map. ‘He’s just west of navref Lagrange on a bend in the Bear River. Close to the state line.’
‘In that circle somewhere?’
Coates checked. ‘Yeah, look – right in the middle. There y’are, see? Lagrange. About a hundred sixty, seventy miles from the rendezvous point.’
‘Thanks, Dee …’
As Coates made his exit, Nevill looked over Wallis’s shoulder at the circled location. ‘Now that, is fucking ay-mazing …’
‘Yes …’ Wallis sneaked a sideways glance at Roz. ‘I just hope we didn’t imagine this.’
Roz looked puzzled. ‘Imagine what?’
‘Never mind. Well done.’ Wallis edged between Nevill and the table. ‘I’ll pass this through to Mother.’ He gave Roz’s shoulder a nervous pat on the way out.
Towards sunset, a runner despatched by the scouts on the high ground to the south-east, returned with news that an iron-snake had been sighted heading in the general direction of Big Fork. As instructed, the scouts were falling back ahead of the train and would send further word of its progress.
Not long afterwards, more encouraging news arrived. The hunting posses had encircled a big herd of buffalo and were shepherding it towards the twin rivers.
As the sky cooled, and the Mute’s anticipation grew to fever-pitch, they sighted three high-flying cloud-warriors. Flashing silver-bright like fish in a blue rock-pool as they were touched by the rays of the setting sun, they wheeled tirelessly back and forth across the heavens until the first grey-blue veil that lined Mo-Town’s velvet cloak turned their shining bodies into dark bat-like silhouettes with red-eyes that blinked in time to their beating hearts.
Bunched close together like geese on the wing, they flew off on a descending curve towards the south-east then later, when the second, darker veil had been drawn across the sky, the iron-snake appeared in the distance, its head studded with glowing eyes and rows of lights along its flanks like a giant fiery caterpillar.
The feverish anticipation, which had always been grim rather than delirious, became somewhat fearful as the train’s massive bulk bearing down upon its wheels caused the ground beneath to tremble. And now, to this mind-numbing vision of their possible nemesis was added the chilling dimension of sound. The drumming roar of its engines and the thunderous rush of exhaust gases exploding through the roof vents of the power cars.
The hungry, belly-rumbling, hunting growl of the iron-snake as it crawled towards its terrified prey.
The M’Calls had heard these sounds before but only in the distance. When they had attacked The Lady from Louisiana, she had been trapped silent and helpless in the flood debris of the Now and Then River. Not so helpless as it turned out but by the time the engines had been revved up for the roll-out the clan had withdrawn to lick its wounds.
The sound that was burned into the memory of the M’Calls was the gut-shrivelling scream that erupted as the iron-snake tore its attackers apart with its fiery white breath. Now, in the fading light of a June evening almost two years to the day since that bloody confrontation, another iron snake was heading towards them, filling the sky with its voice and causing the ground to shake in fear at its coming.
Cadillac, who had only ever seen a real wagon-train at a distance and in pitch darkness stared aghast at its proportions. Even though he had paced its length out on the ground, its sheer bulk was absolutely staggering. It was even bigger than the shadowy monster in the visions drawn from the stone! It dwarfed everything in sight! A few scattered trees which might have been considered to be quite large shrank into insignificance and were brushed aside or flattened and pulped beneath the huge wheels.
How could he and Brickman have been so foolish to think they could storm this armoured giant with the aid of a dying summoner?! They must have been insane!
Cadillac willed his pounding heart to slow down and tried to radiate assurance to the warriors who lay hidden on either side of him. ‘Courage! The sand-burrowers hide in the belly of the iron-snake because they fear the Plainfolk! They cannot triumph against the will of Talisman! When the time comes let each one of you display the courage for which the M’Calls are renowned and remember – the spirit of the Old One will guard and guide us!’
Easy to say, thought Cadillac. He at least was one of the select few who knew that Mr Snow was still alive and gearing himself up to deliver one last stupendous burst of earth-magic. The rest of the clan, who did not share that comforting piece of knowledge, were probably wishing the old wizard had passed on the Seven Rings of Power to his apprentice instead of the gift of the gab.
Parting the feathered reeds on the bank in front of him, Cadillac saw the wagon-train roll to a stop with its nose pointing towards the river. It was parked in a straight line, more or less at right-angles to the bank on a north-south axis. The forward command car was about a hundred paces from where he lay. On its flanks, the nearest scrub was some two hundred paces away while behind its tail, the long line of white-trunked larches which formed the ragged edge of a wood was more distant still.
The wagon-train, with its gun-turrets mounted high above the ground had a virtually uninterrupted circular field of fire and the cameras mounted on the roof could see clear across both rivers and westwards towards the rising ground and the hills beyond from where Brickman was due to appear.
But before then, there was much to be done. Despite his unshakeable belief in his abilities as a seer, Cadillac was astounded to see that the wagon-train had stopped exactly on the spot he had chosen – right in the middle of a random pattern of shallow trenches of varying lengths, none of them more than two feet deep. The apparent aimlessness with which these trenches had been dug gave no clue as to what they might be for, and their shallowness posed no obstacle to the wheels of the wagon-train – each one of which was twelve feet wide and twelve feet high.
From his hiding place, Cadillac had a good view of the right flank of the train. A ramp had been lowered from the belly of one of the wagons aft of the flight car. He aimed the monocular viewer at the ramp and brought it into sharp focus as a couple of dozen armed Trail-Blazers emerged, their helmet visors lowered, and fanned out to inspect the ground on either side of the wagon-train.
As Cadillac expected, they spent some time studying the large number of shallow trenches and from their gestures appeared to have no idea what they were for. The M’Calls had left other items for them to find: post-holes, the charred remains of cooking fires – the kind built by migrating Mutes – animal bones, some crushed, some raw, the rotting entrails of a buffalo and several bog-holes containing human feces.
Operating the zoom on the viewer, Cadillac framed the top half of the nearest Trail-Blazer. As he turned, Cadillac caught sight of his shoulder badge – a grinning Mute skull speared by a sloping red stake. The insignia of Red River, popularly known as Big Red One. Brickman had told him what to look for. He re-focused on the wagon-train, panned left along its length to the forward command car and found three large white letters emblazoned on the side – RVR, the abbreviated code and call-sign for Red River.
On the sloping nose was a large version of the shoulder-badge. This was it. He counted the wagons … sixteen. One of them held Clearwater and Brickman’s kin-sister. If Brickman was right, they would be found in the wagon immediately aft of the flight car and ahead of where the ramp had been lowered.
Cadillac sent out a silent message of encouragement to his one-time soul-mate in the hope that she might pick up his thoughts and gain some comfort from the presence of her clanfolk. He did not expect a response but that did not stop him being disappointed. And once again he regretted she could not be at his side to observe the new Cadillac Mark Two, the brave, resourceful leader of his people.
Just for once, he would have liked to evoke a cry of admiration instead of exasperation – and her magic would have come in handy too …
Commander James Fargo and Don Wallis reviewed the findings of the line-men who had inspected the site.
‘The general consensus is that the trenches were sleeping holes. If I remember my pre-history correctly, the dog-soldiers in the Old Time used something similar.’ Fargo searched for the word. ‘Foxholes – only they were deeper than these. But the principle’s the same. Digging down gives you a measure of wind-cover and you’re able to utilize the earth’s internal heat to keep warm.’
The wagon-master who knew nothing about Wallis apart from the fact that he worked in the White House didn’t realize that he was speaking to someone who’d got his hands dirty and his ass bitten over several years of overground assignments.
And Wallis was not about to tell him. ‘Yeh … it’s just that a collection like this has never featured in any FINTEL report that I ever read.’
‘Me neither. But it’s definitely an abandoned campsite.’
‘Yeah, absolutely. Question is – should we move ’em off it?’
Fargo grinned. He was a big man but his teeth were small and narrow and there seemed to be too many of them. Wallis didn’t like being smiled at by teeth like that.
‘I think the train should stay right where it is. You know what these lumps are like. They have what they call ‘sacred places’ – like for instance where they put their dead. Maybe this site has some kinda special significance.’ The wagon-master gave a throaty chuckle. ‘If our guys stay sitting right on top of it, there’s a chance we might make a whole big bunch of them eye-poppin’, foot-stompin’ mad. And when they get mad, they keep on comin’.’
Fargo treated Wallis to another of his predatory grins. ‘I tell you, good buddy, when you’re behind a six-pack, belted up an’ ready to let the hammer down, there ain’t no better sight in the whole fuggin’ blue-sky world!’
‘Okay,’ said Wallis. ‘We’ll let it ride. But tell ’em to keep their eyes peeled. If Malone and the others make it through the night, they should arrive just after dawn tomorrow.’