Alternities (26 page)

Now the moment was at hand, the signal bare minutes from sounding. Xhumo and his men were concealed on the bank near a small fishing dock, a few yards from the water’s edge. The
Witbank
stood four hundred yards away around the curve of the harbor, pale tendrils of steam still curling up from its single raked stack, its bridge ablaze with light.

Xhumo centered the sight on a spot at the waterline, one third of the way back from the bow. “Be ready,” he said to the young soldier who had carried the three extra rockets, each weighing more than thirty pounds, the four miles from where they had left the truck.

“I am ready,” the youth said, but his voice betrayed nervousness.

I understand, Xhumo thought. To commit to fight is not the same as to agree to die. The slender-barreled gun turret on the
Witbank
’s foredeck was far more imposing than the pipelike launcher in Xhumo’s hands, and the patrol boat boasted several machine guns as well. But Xhumo knew the power he held, and he was not afraid.

“We are the people’s courage,” Xhumo said. “Be proud.”

Just then, the bell in the Dutch Reformed Church began to chime—the signal to the scattered raiders. Xhumo steadied himself, fixed his bearing on the target, and squeezed the trigger.

The rocket leaped from the launcher with a pop and a crackling roar. Showing a bright yellow-white eye to the FN soldiers, the Buzzsaw raced in a shallow arc across the tranquil harbor waters. A fraction of a second later, the rocket struck the
Witbank
’s hull midway between the deck railing and the waterline, blossoming into an orange flower in the night.

There were shouts of alarm from the
Witbank
’s lookouts and from sailors on the quay. But there was no fire aboard, no secondary explosion to rock the steel hull from within, only a rain of casing fragments in the water beside the ship.

Xhumo shook himself, his face suddenly grim. “Load,” he barked, and the young soldier hastened to comply. The sounds of explosions and gunfire drifted down from the town, confirming that the other FN teams were at their tasks.

As though prompted by those distant sounds, the two riflemen with Xhumo began to spray bullets wildly in the direction of the ship. A klaxon sounded aboard the
Witbank
and its deck and bridge lights went dark. Sailors, silhouetted against the still-blazing lights on the quay, ran in hunched stances for their gun stations as Xhumo sighted on the shadowy superstructure forward of the stack.

“Load!” he screamed as the second Buzzsaw hurtled toward the ship.

Again, the projectile found its target. Again, there was the blossoming flower, the ringing hammerblow. This time, there were screams as hot, razor-edged shrapnel sprayed the deck and found soft targets crouching in hiding. But the
Witbank
herself remained unharmed.

Xhumo roared in frustration and rage. Sighting on the bridge, now a pale red band across a black tower, he squeezed the firing grip. A moment later he cried out in delight as the rocket knifed through the bridge’s shielding and exploded inside, shattering windows and bulging steel plates. Flames and black smoke then owned the bridge.

Sailors ran, abandoning gun positions they had just reached on and near the superstructure. But there were other gunners near the tail, and the fiery trails of the Buzzsaws had shown them their targets. Machine-gun bullets peppered the water in front of Xhumo and his men, then danced up the bank to where they crouched, almost unprotected.

Recklessly, one of the FN guerrillas stood and raised his French-made weapon to his shoulder. An instant later he fell, screaming and clutching at the bloody cavity in his chest. The young soldier who had been loading for Xhumo stared, frozen by the horrible sounds, until a bullet tore through his belly and knocked him backward.

The fourth and final rocket dropped from the young soldier’s grasp, rolled beyond Xhumo’s reach, and then tumbled down the slope toward the water. Xhumo looked to his right and saw his other rifleman lying on his back, his body jerking in a death dance. All had fallen. All but he who had led them there.

Rage filled Xhumo, and he stood, weaponless, screaming defiance. A hundred guns seemed to be firing on them now, and yet it seemed an eternity until the bullet tunneled through his throat and warm blood filled his mouth. A cry of surprise became a wet choking cough, and he dropped to his knees, then toppled to his side.

Lying there, numbly waiting for the light to fade, Xhumo heard a deep-throated
krumph
from across the harbor, and wondered what it meant. But he could not muster the will or strength to raise his head to see.

May the heart of Pretoria bleed, he thought fiercely. Then he began to pray—not that he would live, but that he would die before anyone from the South African garrison reached him. Not because he feared their revenge or longed for a quiet death. Only so that he could die free.

Rayne Wallace dropped the canvas tray heaped full of mail on the countertop with a thump. “Mission accomplished,” he said. “Any reason I shouldn’t go back to the apartment?”

The dispatcher hoisted the tray and moved it to a cart standing behind him. “Pull your assignment card from the rack and you’ll know,” he grunted in reply.

Wallace wandered away in the direction of the assignment rack, which hung on a wall outside Donn Frederick’s office. Several of the slots were empty, and most of the others held blue assignment cards. But Wallace’s slot held a pale pink card which read: “AEO transit to Home for 48-hour family furlough.”

Though it was nearly 10:00 p.m., the light was on in Frederick’s office. Wallace knocked and pushed the door open. “Sir?”

Frederick was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by paperwork. His folded tie was tucked into the pocket of his shirt, his collar unbuttoned to bare his stubble-shadowed neck. Glancing up briefly, Frederick waved Wallace wordlessly inside.

“Mr. Frederick. I found a pink card in my slot—”

“You’re Wallace?”

“Yes.”

“Pickup go all right?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Wallace flashed the card at shoulder height. “This was—”

“Oh, yes, the pink card. No mistake. It’s time for you to cycle home.”

“I’d rather stay on the job, if that’s possible.” Give me any shit assignment you want, just don’t make me go home—

“You don’t want the furlough?”

Hell, no. Would you? “I don’t feel any need at this point. Besides, I understood we’d be here five weeks at a stretch.”

“You will be, eventually,” Frederick said shifting a page from one pile to another. “God knows there’s enough for us all to do.”

“Then you’ll tear up the card?” Wallace said hopefully.

“Can’t and won’t,” Frederick said with a shake of the head. “Section insists that the new class be cycled home for a visit before they pass out to operations. I bent the rule to send you out on that pickup, but I needed a body. What’s the problem, Wallace? Don’t you want to see the family?”

“I want to contribute here—”

“You will, Wallace, you will. Take your forty-eight and make the most of it. You’ll be hopping when you get back.”

“Yes, sir.” Wallace hesitated. “Can I at least wait until I’ve gotten some sleep?”

Frederick considered. “That’s fine. The gate’s probably scheduled solid right up to the midnight lock-out, anyway.” he said, crumpling a sheet of paper and tossing it aside. “Give gate control a call before you go home and ask for the first open slot in the morning.”

“Okay.”

But Frederick, head down in his paperwork, had already forgotten he was there. Wearing his unhappiness on his face, Wallace withdrew from the room. Forty-eight hours, he thought. If only I could spend them with Katie and not have to see Ruthann at all—

Wallace and his roommates had settled on the simplest possible system for allocating the sleeping space of the apartment: The last to turn in got the couch. When all three of them were there, most often that meant Fowler turning in early and Wallace ceding the rest of the big bed to Arens later on.

But all three were rarely there. Even when Arens was in town, he was as likely as not to pay an overnight visit to his girlfriend, leaving the apartment and the queen-sized bed to the newcomers. Wallace himself had spent a night away while tracking Barbara Haggerty, and doubtless he would miss more in the weeks ahead.

The only constant was Fowler: home by seven, a meal in front of the television (paroled from its hiding place their second day there), and in bed by ten. He did not go out except to walk to the small grocery three blocks south of the river, a ritual he performed every Monday and Thursday after dinner. Fowler had a fetish for order, and its manifestations had quickly become a source of wink-and-snicker humor for the other two.

It was nearly eleven when Wallace’s key penetrated the lock, and so it was no surprise that Fowler was in bed. The surprise was Arens, sitting crosslegged on the couch with a long-necked beer bottle dangling loosely from the fingers of one hand. The television was murmuring words of passionate endearment.

“You’re back,” Wallace said.

“Chicago paid Indianapolis to take me back,” Arens said, looking up from the screen. “I hear you’ve been on the road yourself.”

“That about describes it. I spent eight hours in the car and maybe forty-five minutes in St. Louis.”

“Pickups are like that. Everything go okay?”

“Yeah,” Wallace said, settling in a chair. “At least the business end of it.”

Arens reached forward and turned down the volume on the tiny television. “Meaning?”

“It’s nothing,” Wallace demurred.

“Shit, that’s a queeb’s game—drop a teaser and then clam up,” Arens said with obvious irritation.

“Look, I didn’t mean——”

“You got more friends than you need? That’s all right by me.”

“It’s just a little silly, that’s all. I was listening to the radio in the car, going crazy because I didn’t know any of the songs. Finally they played ‘If I Loved You’ from Carousel and I just about jumped out of my seat, I was so happy to hear something familiar.”

“Nothing silly there. I know the feeling. Except with me it’s books. I walk into a bookstore and I feel like Rip Van Winkle.”

Wallace nodded eagerly. “One station ran an hour-long biography of this fiver combo named Fresh Air—interviews with the members, a discography, the whole treatment. You could tell they’ve been as important to music here as the Howlers were back home. But I didn’t know any of the members’ names, or any of their songs, or any of the other bands they’d played with, or any of their songs.”

“Some people just don’t have any culture,” Arens said with a crooked grin.

“I guess that’s my problem,” Wallace said with an exaggerated sigh. “Anything in the refrigerator that’s not a fungal mutant?”

“Try the Chinese stew. Gary made it today.”

Nodding, Wallace hauled himself up from the chair.

“Going home?” Arens called after him.

“Hm?”

“The pink card. In your pocket.”

. “Oh. Yeah. They’re making me take a furlough. Tomorrow morning.

“Interesting choice of verbs,” Arens drawled, stretching. “But then you haven’t said much about your family, have you. What is there to go back and visit?”

“I’m married,” Wallace said from the depths of the refrigerator. “With a daughter. The kid is prime, the marriage isn’t.”

“Don’t overwhelm me with rich emotional detail, now.”

Wallace peered at Arens over the edge of the refrigerator door. “I don’t want to get into it, all right?”

Shrugging, Arens reached for the volume control on the television. “Suit yourself,” he said without offense, returning his attention to the screen.

Wallace wished he could have given some other reply, wished he thought there was a reason to talk about it. But what was there to say except that he was trapped in a mistake with a Ute of its own?

There was nothing Arens could teach him, no answers which talking could reveal. No answers for the man locked in the room without windows except “Be patient. Maybe it won’t seem so bad after a few years.” No answers at all to why it just didn’t work anymore, or to where the love had gone.

The wind blowing through the park was cold enough to turn Katie’s breaths to foggy white puffs as she scuffed through the dead leaves. Sitting crosslegged on a nearby bench, Ruthann watched with a mixture of envy and vicarious joy as her daughter discovered the perennial fall pleasures.

“Katie! Time to go in, sweetheart,” she called reluctantly, standing. She shivered as the change in circulation awakened parts of her body that had become numbed to the cold.

After three more kicks delivered to a particularly tempting pile of leaves, Katie came running, cheeks and nose bright red. “Do we have to?”

“We have to,” Ruthann said, squatting so she could brush bits of leaf and stem from the child’s coat.

“Why?”

“Because I have to start dinner.”

Katie wore an exaggerated frown as she reflected on that. “You can do that, and I can play outside,” she pronounced at last.

That’s how it should be, sweetheart—a backyard with swings for you and a kitchen with a window over the sink for me. A dream for a place you don’t even remember. “It’s not safe for you to be out here alone, sweetie.”

“I’ll be careful—”

“We need to go in,” Ruthann said firmly, taking her daughter’s hand and standing.

Katie pouted, but allowed herself to be led across the outfield grass of the Softball diamond toward the entrance to the housing center. Suddenly her eyes lit up, and she pulled at Ruthann’s hand like a dog straining at a leash. “Daddy’s coming,” she said excitedly.

“No, darling,” Ruthann said with a sigh. “Daddy’s still traveling.”

“Daddy’s coming!” Katie repeated insistently, pulling away and running ahead.

“Katie—” she began, then looking on past her daughter to the man crossing their path at right angles a hundred feet ahead, moving briskly toward the center entrance on the main walkway. Rayne—She stopped and watched as her husband heard Katie’s call, caught sight of her, and changed direction to meet her and sweep her up in his arms.