The Company of the Dead (65 page)

I crawl in the sand out there. I die out there.

“Major?”

“What is it, Tec?”

The medicine man’s eyes were hooded in shadow. “We can hold them.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Morgan woke with the taste of ash in his mouth. His world lurched vertiginously.

He rubbed at his eyes and temples and made out Lightholler’s outline amongst the shadows. He remembered where he was and fumbled for his watch. Quarter to two and the major hadn’t showed.

He needed to take a leak. His fatigues clung to him and chafed. Now that he was awake he might as well cough his way through another of Lightholler’s musty cigarettes. He staggered to the toilet and relieved himself. Ran the faucet, splashing cold brown water over his face and hands. He returned and reached for the packet by Lightholler’s side, slipped it into his shirt pocket. Lightholler didn’t stir.

Outside, his damp face tingled bitter cold. Exhaled vapour mocked his nicotine cravings. He groped for the packet in the dark. Three bent twigs remained of Lightholler’s supply. He puckered one and set out towards the distant glow of a sentry’s torch.

“Darren.” A voice called to him from a clutter of stacked crates beyond the prefabs.

Morgan squinted into the darkness, half-expecting Hardas’s ghost to slide out of the recesses. Kennedy was stooped on an overturned crate near the edge of the grounds.

“Major?”

Kennedy rose from his perch and began searching his pockets. He produced a butane lighter, slender and familiar. He flicked the wheel and its tip glowed bright and furious. Morgan leaned forwards and dipped his cigarette in the radiance, then stepped back, his eyes still on the lighter.

“It was his spare,” Kennedy said. “I took to carrying it around. Here, it’s yours.” He handed the lighter to Morgan.

“He would have been pleased with the way you’re turning out,” Kennedy added after a while. “Surprised as hell, but pleased.”

“He wasn’t so bad, Major.”

“The guy was a sour fuck, Darren, but I loved him all the same.”

Morgan curled the lighter in the palm of his hand and pocketed it. “Thanks.”

“I was about to check in on you.”

“We’re fine,” Lightholler said from the shadows. Wrapped in a blanket, he had emerged from the prefab, a couple more bundled under his good arm. “It just feels strange, sitting on our hands only an arm’s reach away from your... machine.” He dispensed the blankets and the three of them huddled like crones.

Morgan handed him a cigarette and the lighter.

“Navy issue,” Lightholler said. “Nice.” He lit up and handed the lighter back. “What’s happening out there?”

“There’s a Japanese force due west. We’re luring them south.” Kennedy’s look was oddly placid.

“You’ve got, what, maybe a hundred-and-fifty soldiers here, right?” Lightholler said.

“Closer to two hundred.”

“Casualties?”

“Acceptable so far. What are you smiling at, John?”

“I’m not smiling. You’ve got just on two companies staving off an army. I’m wondering at your definition of ‘acceptable’.”

“Those’re my boys out there.” Kennedy’s reply was a soft undertone.

“So what can we do to help?” Morgan asked earnestly.

“You can rest up.” He turned, smiling, to Morgan. “You can conserve your energy.”

“I’m not fond of having others fight my battles,” Lightholler grumbled.

“Me neither,” Morgan offered. Reading their glances, he continued, “Not any more.”

One of the ghost dancers was approaching. His shadow covered the ground swiftly. “We need you in the south tower, sir. Sacagawea’s platoon returned with sixty-three scalps.”

“
Scalps?
” Morgan mouthed.

“Figure of speech,” Kennedy said, unconvincingly. He turned back to the ghost dancer. “Go on.”

“We’ve rigged up another transmitter. Tecumseh’s taking it out now to the squads on the west ridge. We’re going to use Morse code, phonetic Sioux, to track and report jap movements.”

“Any news on those squads?”

“Don’t expect to hear from them for a while yet, sir. They got no wheels, no radio and they’re too close to the japs for smoke signals.”

“What about the crew from Alpha?”

“Nada.”

Kennedy nodded. “Okay, I’ll be there in two.”

The ghost dancer sprinted back into the night.

Lightholler asked, “Do they really believe their shirts will keep bullets away?”

Kennedy let the blanket slip away from his shoulders and undid the flaps of his jacket. Sometime during the night he’d managed to change into a fresh uniform. His shirt, sky blue and buttoned to the collar, was covered with the familiar symbols and talismans of his crew.

Lightholler smiled faintly. “You’re shitting me.”

Kennedy tapped his chest. There was a muted chime. Lightholler reached for the shirt and felt the bulky layer of material that lay beneath it. Kennedy lifted it to reveal a second thicker layer of moulded plastic and ceramics.

“They all remember what happened at Wounded Knee,” Morgan said. “This time they’re wearing armour.”

“I’ll make sure both of you are kept up to date.” Kennedy caught Morgan’s intense stare. “And I’ll let you know if we need you.” He handed Lightholler his blanket. “But the last thing I want to worry about is you two hobos running around my compound.” He eyed them firmly. “Get back inside. Get some rest.”

They stood in silence for a short moment before Kennedy added, “I
mean
it.”

Lightholler raised his eyebrows.

Morgan shrugged.

They exchanged a look and began the short walk back to the prefab. Morgan looked back from the doorway to find the major still standing there, but he didn’t appear to be watching them. His gaze was fixed on some distant object.

Kennedy stood outside the prisoners’ prefab, peering up at the night sky. Nothing remained of the recent turmoil save the fine drift of tumbling sand. He couldn’t shake the notion that the nuclear blast and the pulse it had spawned demonstrated a greater scheme at work.

The bouts of foreboding had faded to mere inklings of gloom, easily explained away by situation and circumstance, but he was still here, waiting to see Reid.

He’d detoured by his quarters and peered through the window, pleased to find Patricia curled up and sleeping in bed. He’d examined the forwards areas and spoken to the men who guarded the night. He’d checked each machine-gun post and surveyed the freshly laid minefield, pointing out where the charges might have been too obvious. He’d walked a mile out into the desert and sat under the stars, examining his base with an enemy’s eyes. Finally, he’d gone over the new plans with Tecumseh, yet some misgiving had drawn him here.

There was no further news on the men who’d left Alpha. Contact with the Japanese vanguard had been restricted to brief scuffles and short exchanges of rifle fire. The ghost dancers had carried out their pitiless tasks of assassination and sabotage, and left their traces in the night.

There was a vestige of smoke in the chill air. Dawn was less than four hours away, and more than likely it would bring enemy planes and armour and a resumption of the conventional face of war. Until then, the various sides would feint and probe in darkness.

He’d placed a work detail on the camouflage. What hadn’t been torn away in the storm hung in tattered nets, yet the sand had done its own part to obscure traces of their presence. They’d have to rely on the reduced visibility of the storm’s wash, along with whatever repairs might be effected between now and sun-up.

A sentry opened the door and told him that the prisoner was ready.

Reid was propped up in a chair in one of the hastily converted barracks rooms. He was unable to conceal his surprise at Kennedy’s entrance.

Kennedy pulled up a chair and turned it backwards. He sat down, leaned over the back rest, and said, “Who were you expecting?”

“Don’t know.” Reid rubbed at his wrists. “It’s 3 a.m., bud. Maybe your girlfriend.”

“Well, you get the bonus plan tonight.” Kennedy cracked his knuckles. “You get me.” He rocked his chair forwards, putting him closer to Reid’s face. “And I’ll be glad to extend that little love-tap Morgan gave you, ear to ear, just to see the expression on your face. Are we clear,
bud
?” He rested the chair back on its four legs.

Reid gingerly reached for his injured scalp in an almost unconscious gesture. “We’re clear.” He placed his hands on the table and sat stoically.

After a moment of silence, Kennedy spoke. “What was your assignment?”

“I was told to secure you at Hot Springs, holding you there until I received further instructions.”

“Who gave the order?”

Reid just stared.

“Why would Webster do that?” Kennedy asked. “You already had me in custody.”

Silence.

Kennedy thought it over, and said, “That wasn’t part of the original plan, was it?”

“No.” Reid shook his head. “But it was the first he knew of your capture. Malcolm was holding back on him. She said she was waiting on further evidence.”

“But you went ahead and contacted him anyway, didn’t you,” Kennedy said. “Even after she’d told you about the third camp.”

“No,” Reid said. “It was before that.”

“Before?”

Reid nodded.

“So you were never really assigned to me. You were watchdogging Malcolm.”

“Something like that,” Reid replied. “Look, I was pulled away from duty at Bravo camp. Webster seemed to think Malcolm could draw you out.”

Reid studied Kennedy’s face and realisation dawned in his expression. “Christ, she
wasn’t
on your payroll, was she?”

“Now why in the world would you think something like that?”

“Her prints were on the gun we retrieved from Osakatown... Your gun.”

Kennedy patted the Mauser at his side. “This gun here?”

Reid shook his head, as if trying to jostle his thoughts into order. “
Damn
,” he swore softly. “What a fuck-up.”

“Sounds like you backed the wrong horse.”

Kennedy rose, scraping the chair away from him, and made for the door.

Reid looked up at him, his face a mixture of emotions, and said, “You’ve got a bunch of redskin extremists. You’ve got the director shitting himself. What the hell’s going on here?”

“You tell me.”

“I’ve been doing a little research. Hughes Aeronautics hasn’t made a dime in two years. And five of your top physicists are AWOL. Propulsion experts. So tell me, what the hell are you building out here?”

Kennedy glanced over at the sentry and said, “Make sure he and the others get a decent meal, cigarettes. Whatever they need.”

“Hey,” Reid called out. “
Hey
.”

Kennedy was at the exit. “What is it?”

“You better get your boys praying to their sky spirit or whatever hooey they got going. Once the director finds this place, we’re
all
gonna be toast.”

“And how’s he going to do that?”

“He’s been a step right behind you the whole way,” Reid said, “and now you’ve stopped moving. Don’t worry. He’ll find you.”

“I’ve got one more place to go,” Kennedy replied, “and he
sure
as hell ain’t going to find me there.”

Outside the building, Kennedy stood on trembling legs. He felt his body’s revolt against the long hours of wakefulness and deprivation and willed his worn limbs to give him just a few more hours. Meaning to check out the progress at the motor pool, he found himself strolling back across the grounds, instinctively scanning the area.

From his position, the entrance to the carapace was lost in the Rock’s misshapen silhouette. Then he saw it. A flicker of movement; a shift of shadows. He froze and made out a solitary figure hunched near the base of the formation. He strode towards it with a measure of renewed vigour.

“Hey,” he said.

Doc rose from his haunches with a groan.

Kennedy’s enquiring glance posed the question without words.

“We’re getting there,” Doc said, his voice strained. “But we’ve got a ways to go. I’m taking a breather.”

“Out here?”

Doc shrugged. He looked uncomfortable.

Kennedy gazed past him, at the unmarked grave. Ninety years ago Wells had buried his friend Gershon here.

He asked, “What do you think
he’d
have wanted?”

Doc selected a pebble from the desert floor. He ran his thumb across the smooth edge before laying it before the grave’s marker. “What he’s got, I guess,” he muttered. “Peace.”

Something came together then for Kennedy. A connection forming between Reid’s stale offerings and the night’s events. He understood what he had to do.

He returned to the makeshift lockup and gathered the prisoners in a group. They stared at him suspiciously, but their expressions turned to astonishment when he spoke.

“I’ve got a job for you,” he said.

“You hear that?” Lightholler nudged Morgan.

Morgan shifted and moaned.

Lightholler strained his ears for the sound, then rolled over and looked at his watch. He’d slept for two hours. Knotted muscles, cold and strained, protested as he performed a series of stretches. His arm ached dully. He gave the wound a quick inspection and went to wash his face. When he returned, Morgan was pulling on his boots. Looking up he said, “What is it now?”

“I thought I heard a plane.” Lightholler crossed the room and opened the door slowly.

A blush of soft rosy light suffused the camp, an unreal, pre-dawn glimmer of hideous splendour. The horizon was a tawny haze. The base seemed smaller in this half-light. A horseshoe of squat buildings hunkered under patches of cowled netting and a blanket of crimson grit. Where they curved around the opposite edge of the grounds, they blended readily with the rolling mounds of sand and stony outcroppings.

There were no ghost dancers in sight, but recent experience had taught him that he couldn’t trust his eyes where they were concerned. He peered out to the distant mountain ranges that ringed the installation and realised that even now his instincts cried out for some form of escape. He let out a short, contemptuous laugh.