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  Rising from the roof of the bunker was the circular watch-tower. Eighty feet high and thirty feet in diameter, it looked like an unfinished lighthouse perched on a rock being eaten away by the surrounding sea of red grass. The upper floor, where Deke Haywood sat and to which Colonel Anderssen now directed her steps, was known as the Tactical Command Centre. Like all external structures, the tower had ten-foot-thick walls lined with lead. There were no windows. External surveillance was via remote-controlled tv cameras and there were also a number of periscopic sights that could be uncovered in the event of a power-failure; an event regarded as both unlikely and unthinkable but against which elaborate precautions had been taken.

  Below ground-level, where the soil and bedrock afforded an extra layer of protection against the lethal radiation that still lingered in the air, the main walls were only half as thick and the lead lining – always in short supply – was dispensed with. Here, arranged on five floors, were the living quarters, mess halls, powerhouse, air filtration and ventilation plant, and all the other service and engineering facilities necessary to sustain life inside the way-station and to permit its progressive expansion.

  As in all way-stations, and other parts of the Federation, the overall level of technology was curiously uneven. The electronic equipment was highly sophisticated, in marked contrast to the accommodation and the life-style which was spartan and heavily work-oriented. The image it conjured up was that of a group of male and female Green Berets equipped with late-20th century weapons and communications equipment transported back in time to occupy a pre-Civil War army fort on the Mexican frontier. With one important difference; the sour belly pork and black-eyed beans had been replaced by processed soya-based ration packs.

  The door of the small tower lift slid open. Colonel Marie Anderssen stepped out followed by a junior aide and three VidCommTechs. Deke Haywood leaned on the table to help pull himself out of his chair and made a visible effort to take the curve out of his spine. Anderssen acknowledged the gesture with a nod and stepped up onto her high chair. Glen Wyler, Deke’s relief, and the other four Trackers who crewed the Tactical Command Centre came pounding up the stairway in their rubber-soled boots, threw their colonel a hurried salute and took their places.

  Anderssen laid her yellow long-peaked cap aside, ran both hands through her short, greying, wavy hair and studied the picture Deke had put up on her VDU. The unidentified craft was still heading directly for the watch-tower. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Deke. ‘Picked him up three miles out. He’s been heading straight for us losing altitude steadily ever since.’

  Anderssen turned to the junior aide. ‘Who’s duty officer today – Harmer?’

  ‘Yessir!’ snapped the aide. A real eager-beaver.

  Anderssen turned back to Deke. ‘Post-alert reaction?’

  Deke told her about the two squads that Harmer and the guard commander, Line-Sergeant Jake Nolan, were taking overground.

  ‘You’re voiced through on Channel Five.’

  One of the VidCommTechs now handling the North Side cameras spoke up. ‘Harmer just went up the ramp.’

  Deke put a lateral composite on Anderssen’s secondary screen showing both squads fanning out around the North and South flanks of the bunker, fingers on the triggers of their three-barrelled air rifles.

  Anderssen put on her light-weight headset and moved the slim mike arm into line with her mouth. ‘Blue One, this is Sunray. What is your PTR? Over.’

  PTR was verbal shorthand for Planned Tactical Response – Grand Centralese for what veteran Trail-Blazers in the shambolic heat of battle usually referred to as ‘Plan X’.

  Harmer’s voice came back over the speakers. ‘I’ve got the perimeter guns tracking him. Both squads have him in their sights. If he so much as sneezes, he’s gonna –’

  ‘Hey, Matt! Ease it down a little,’ said Anderssen amiably. ‘We may have to ship this one to Grand Central for interrogation.’

  ‘That’s what I figured, sir. I managed to rustle up four sky-hooks. If he comes in low enough we’re going to try and snag the wings as he goes past. But it could be tricky. This is the first time we’ve had an airborne PI.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Anderssen. ‘I don’t mind if you bend him a little. Just don’t bring him back looking like a diced meat dinner, okay?’

  ‘Blue One, Roger, Out,’ said Harmer.

  You stroppy bastard, thought Anderssen. One of these days I’m gonna roast your balls and feed ’em to you one slice at a time…

  The sky-hooks Harmer had referred to were grappling irons and lines that could be fired 250 feet into the air by compressed air rams that looked like small infantry mortars. They had been designed for scaling sheer rock faces but, apart from a few test firings, had not been put to any practical use. This, thought Harmer, could be the moment. And if it worked, it would be difficult for that grey-haired, hard-assed bitch in the watch-tower to avoid giving him full marks for ingenuity.

  Harmer had positioned his two pairs of sky-hooks to the east and west of the way-station bunker. If the ragged blue sky-ship kept on the same course, he had to pass on one side or the other. That would be the time to nail him. Two sky-hooks placed twenty feet apart would be fired towards the ship as it approached, would pass over its wings then, as the ship flew on and the line ran out, the hooks would bite and then – el cruncho.

  The airborne intruder driftly steadily lower, circled the perimeter defences at five hundred feet then, seemingly undisturbed by the eight six-barrelled gun turrets that were tracking him, dived down towards the north face of the watch-tower. As he neared the crouching linemen, he came lower still, putting him within range of the skyhooks.

  Lieutenant Harmer could see the pilot quite clearly. His ship might be homemade but he was dressed in the standard red, brown and black camouflaged fatigues worn by all Trail-Blazers on overground sorties – like those of Harmer and the linemen around him. The blue-winged craft veered to the west of the tower. Keep coming sucker, thought Harmer exultantly. This is where you get yours! He used his helmet radio to alert the two linemen manning the skyhooks on that side of the bunker. They aimed the slim mortar barrels holding the grappling irons up at the oncoming plane and fired within a split second of each other. There was an explosive whoosh as the barbed hooks soared skywards then an angry whipping sound as their lines, arranged alongside in open containers, uncoiled with the speed of striking cobras.

  The intruder took immediate evasive action. As the two lines snaked upwards on parallel courses, he stood his craft on its right wingtip, side-slipped neatly between them and banked tightly round the watch-tower.

  Harmer bellowed into his chin mike. ‘Brennan! Powers! Aim your lines to cross over! Take him as he comes around your side!’

  Once again, the intruder evaded the soaring lines. He pulled up into a stall, dropped a wing to turn back on his tail then flew a tight circle around the ropes at the narrowest point of the “X”.’

  Despite his anger at being outfaced, Harmer was impressed. It was a great piece of flying – especially without a motor. ‘Okay, you flashy sonofabitch,’ he muttered grudgingly to himself. ‘So far so good. But the wind’s dyin’, and the sun’s going down – which means that soon, there’ll be nothing keeping you up there. So enjoy it while you can, friend, cos I’m gonna be there when you touch down and I swear you are gonna get the shit kicked out of your ass all the way back to Pueblo.’

  The intruder banked around the watch-tower. He was now down to about a hundred feet. Harmer saw that the dark visor of the red and white wingman’s helmet had been raised revealing a tanned face. He was unable to discern its individual features or whether it displayed any aggressive intent. The owner of the face waved to the armed men spread out in pairs below, then pulled something out of his breast pocket and threw it out to his right.

  Two smallish dark objects tied closely together and attached to a fluttering blue streamer curved out of the sky and plummeted ear
thwards.

  Harmer’s trigger finger itched unbearably as the blue-winged ship passed silently overhead. He swore under his breath then barked into the mike mounted inside the chin guard of his helmet. ‘Hold your fire! Hold your fire!’

  The intruder passed overhead and circled the tower again, his face turned towards the remote controlled tv cameras mounted on its roof.

  Inside the Tactical Command Centre, Colonel Anderssen watched the same manoeuvre on the big screens mounted around the walls like windows; saw the pilot wave again as he flew past.

  Anderssen spoke into her radio mike. ‘Sunray to Blue One. What did he drop?’

  Harmer’s voice came back in her ear, and over the speakers. ‘Nolan’s retrieving it now.’

  One of the smaller telephoto lensed cameras was already onto Nolan. Deke Heywood switched the picture through onto Anderssen’s console.

  Nolan came on the air. ‘It’s a flat rock, a piece of wood and a strip of blue solar-cell fabric from a Skyhawk. Hold on – there’s something carved on here – “8902 Brickman, S.R” – ’ Nolan turned the small roughly hewn piece of wood over. ‘… Don’t shoot.’

  Deke turned to face Anderssen. ‘There was a wing-man called Brickman on The Lady from Louisiana. I met with him a couple of times when they made that supply run back in the spring. The reason I remember is because my guard-mother is also from Roosevelt Field and –’ He waved away further explanation. ‘What I’m trying to say is – if it’s the same guy, he’s kin to the Provost-Marshal of New Mexico.’

  Anderssen knew enough about the realities of life within the Federation to know that it was not wise to make irreparable errors of judgement when dealing with the kin of State Provost-Marshals. She spoke into the bar mike of her headset. ‘Sunray to Blue One. Matt, tell your men to lay down their guns and wave him in.’

  In response to their signals, the airborne intruder unhitched his legs from the rear harness straps, swooped down over the heads of Harmer’s men, turned steeply and landed on his feet facing them. Using his helmet radio Harmer ordered the two squads to pick up their weapons. Holding his own rifle at the ready, he adopted a grim expression and doubled towards the blue-winged rig.

  The flyer was holding it up by means of the control bar while he undid the straps around his chest and he was either unable to see Harmer’s forbidding countenance behind the plexiglass face plate of his helmet, or was totally unfazed by it. He grinned broadly as Harmer approached and thrust out his hand. ‘Hi, how’re you doing? Is this Pueblo?’

  Harmer halted one pace from the outstretched hand, restrained the urgent impulse to sink the butt of his rifle into the grinning face and replied with a silent nod.

  The flyer stepped clear of the blue-winged craft, punched the air vigorously and loosed a raucous rebel yell. ‘Yeee-hahHH – I made it!!’ The exultant gesture lifted his feet off the ground. As he bounced back down he asked, ‘What day is it today?’

  ‘Thursday, November 14th,’ replied Harmer, before he could stop himself. Enjoy it, he thought. It could be your last.

  Line-Sergeant Nolan moved in to stand alongside Harmer. Nolan was a grizzled block-buster – a name given to Tracker pioneers who break ground and do the initial excavations for a way-station. At thirty-eight, he was ten years older than the lieutenant. He laid his rifle back over his shoulder but kept his fingers curled round the pistol butt and trigger. In his left hand he held the small stone-weighted slab of wood with its blue streamer. He ran his eyes over the flyer. His camouflaged fatigues were as patched and as clumsily sewn as the wings of his ship. ‘Our friend here looks happy…’

  ‘Yeah,’ growled Harmer. ‘His brain must have gone gammy.’ He spoke over his helmet radio to the linemen who now surrounded the motorless sky-ship. ‘Okay move this thing inside. Use the freight ramp.’

  The flyer called out to the linemen as they took hold of the ragged, fabric-covered wings. ‘Hey, fellas, go easy with that, okay? The White House may want to put it in the museum at Grand Central.’

  Harmer gripped his rifle so hard he almost squeezed the barrels out of shape. He found himself wishing he hadn’t acknowledged Mary-Ann’s instruction not to ‘damage’ their visitor. ‘Shee, jack me,’ he breathed to Nolan. ‘This guy’s got some nerve, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He’s still treading air,’ replied Nolan. He addressed the flyer, his voice coming through the small external speaker grille on his helmet. ‘Okay, mister, we seem to have an identity problem here. You’ve got FAZZETTI written on your bone-dome and it says BRICKMAN on this piece of wood. Which one are you?’

  The flyer pulled off his red and white helmet and snapped to attention. ‘8902 Brickman, SAHH! Posted wingman aboard The Lady from Louisiana April 20th, shot down while on active duty north east of Cheyenne June 12th, and now reporting for reassignment!’ Freed from his helmet, the young man’s wavy golden hair slowly unwound and fell about his neck and shoulders.

  Lieutenant Harmer stared at the the seven thin rat-tail plaits tied off with blue ribbon – three over one ear and four over the other – then exchanged a disbelieving glance with Nolan. Never, in all the years since he donned his first uniform at the age of three had Harmer been confronted by such an incongruous sight. ‘Columbus wept! Look at that hair! He’s decked out like a fucking Mute!’

  Nolan handed Harmer the weighted piece of wood, eased the rifle off his shoulder and aimed it at Brickman’s chest. ‘Okay, mister, unstrap that knife you’ve got around your leg and drop it on the ground in front of you.’

  Brickman went down on one knee and began to unbuckle the straps that went through loops around his right trouser leg.

  Harmer looked at the carved legend on the wood then lobbed it into the hands of nearest lineman. ‘Kotcheff! Run that in to the Colonel!’

  The lineman doubled away towards the bunker. Brickman stood up and dropped the knife and its scabbard at Nolan’s feet. Harmer covered him while Nolan picked it up and read off the name stamped on the hilt. ‘Naylor’s knife and Fazzetti’s helmet. What else have you picked up on your travels?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Nolan slipped the knife into a side pocket on his trousers and jabbed the barrel of his rifle at Brickman. ‘Okay. Both hands on the back of your neck, fingers linked together.’

  Brickman raised his hands level with his shoulders then hesitated. ‘Don’t you want to know what happened to me?’

  Line-Sergeant Nolan waved the barrel of his rifle towards the bunker. ‘Just shut your mouth, and and do like I said, mister.’

  The procedures for dealing with renegades had been made clear to everybody at Pueblo. Defaulters were not permitted to converse with the arresting party. Once the defaulter’s identity had been established, he was to be addressed only with clear, concise orders. When captured the defaulter was to be searched, chained and hooded, and held in solitary confinement until he could be brought before the senior officer of the arresting unit. If the defaulter could not be so confined a temporary speech restraint was to be applied; he was, in other words, to be gagged. If the orders given to a defaulter were not promptly obeyed he was to be ‘physically admonished’. If the defaulter became violent, or attempted to escape from custody, he was to be subjected to ‘prejudicial constraint’ – i.e. shot; another example of Grand Centralese.

  Brickman raised his hands a little higher. ‘Hey, guys, listen – let’s get one thing clear. I’m not a ren –’ he broke off and tried to turn away as Harmer lunged forward, his rifle a moving blur.

  The hard rubber butt of the lieutenant’s rifle slammed into Brickman’s right arm, just below the shoulder muscle hitting the nerve centre a paralysing blow. The force of the blow was calculated to cause the maximum pain without breaking any bones. Harmer followed through with the barrel, bringing it down hard on the left side of neck where it joined the shoulder – another nerve centre. As Brickman arched his back under the blow, Harmer swung the rifle butt in for a kidney punch and stomped his heel down hard on the calf muscle
of Brickman’s right leg.

  ‘Easy, Lieutenant,’ muttered Nolan. ‘The Colonel wants this one for questioning.’

  Brickman sank slowly to his knees, clutching his right arm. He gasped for breath, his face contorted with pain. Nolan had to hand it to him. A lot of guys would have been squealing by now. Harmer kicked him in the stomach, knocking him sideways. Brickman rolled onto his back. Harmer straddled him, stuck the rifle butt against his throat and pinned his head to the ground. ‘Okay, mister, it’s your turn to get something clear. Nobody of junior rank addresses officers and seniors noncoms at Pueblo as “Hey, guys”. Secondly, I don’t appreciate flying pieces of lumpshit like you from that fancy Academy trying to make my boys look like a bunch of assholes. And thirdly,’ – Harmer dug the butt harder into Brickman’s throat – ‘I don’t like soldiers with ribbons in their hair. Do we understand one another?’

  ‘Loud and clear, sirr!’ gasped Brickman. He lay there tense but unresisting, trying to master the pain hammering through his body, his eyes fixed on Harmer.

  Harmer knew that look; knew what it meant. He’d seen it often enough in the mirror. It came from hard-asses who didn’t know when to quit. He lifted the butt of his rifle clear of Brickman’s throat hoping he might say something. Anything that might provide the excuse to put a few dents in that pretty-boy face.

  Mary-Ann’s voice sounded quietly in his ear. ‘Sunray to Blue One. Okay, Matt, you’ve made your point. Just stand him up and walk him in. And make sure he doesn’t trip up on his way down the ramp.’

  The first interview with the airborne intruder was held in Mary-Ann’s underground office, a sparsely furnished room in the section known as Central HQ. Colonel Marie Anderssen sat behind her desk flanked by her two senior battalion officers, Major Roscoe and Major Hiller. The piece of wood bearing Brickman’s name, with its stone and blue streamer, lay in front of her, laid parallel to the standard issue combat knife he’d been carrying. The third item that had been placed on the desk for her to look at was the red wingman’s helmet with the broad white lightning flash on either side. On the front, above the closed dark bronze plexiglass visor, was the name ‘FAZZETTI’ and above that, the red, white and blue star and bar insignia of the Federation. There was no blotter, scratchpad or document tray. Trackers didn’t write things on paper. They typed on keyboards and read tv screens. Set at an angle on the left hand side of the desk was Anderssen’s personal monitor and keyboard; the indispensable link with the rest of the Pueblo way-station, and Grand Central.