按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
slug into the ankle。 He heard a bellowing cry of pain； and the curse directed at him。 The target vanished from sight。 Moresby's gaze came back to the empty shoes and helmet liner beyond the shell hole。 He decided to move…knew he had to move now to prevent that mortar from ing in on him。
He fired again at the stumps to keep the mortarman down； then sprinted for the ruptured hole in the fence where the bodies of the two aggressors lay。 He fell on his belly； fired another round and then jumped on all fours against the nearest body； burrowing down behind it as a shield against the mortarman。 The raging wind blew over the hole。
Moresby plucked at the bandit's shirt； tearing away the armband and bringing it up to his eyes for a careful inspection。
It was no more than a strip of yellow cotton cloth cut from a bolt of goods； and bearing a crude black cross in India ink。 There was no word； slogan； or other point of identification to establish a fealty。 Black cross on yellow field。 Moresby prodded his memory； wanting to fit that symbol into some known civilian niche。 It had to fit into a neat little slot somewhere。 His orderly mind picked and worried at the unfamiliar term： ram jet。
Nothing。 Neither sign nor name were known prior to the launch； prior to 1978。
He rolled the stiffening body over on its back the better to see the face； and knew jarring shock。 The black and bloodied face was still twisted in the agony of death。 Two or more slugs had torn into the man's midsection； while another had ripped away his throat and showered his face with his own blood； it had not been instantaneous death。 He had died in screaming misery alongside the man next to him； vainly attempting to break through the fence and take the defenders up the slope。
Major Moresby was long used to death in the field； the manner of this man's dying didn't upset him…but the close scrutiny of his enemy jolted him as he'd not been jolted before。 He suddenly understood the crude black cross etched on the yellow field； even though he'd not seen it before today。 This was a civilian rebellion… organ。zed insurrection。
Ramjets were Negro guerrillas。
The mortar coughed down the slope and Major Moresby burrowed in behind the body。 He waited impatiently for the round to drop somewhere behind him； above him； and then by God he'd take that mortar。
The time was twenty minutes after six in the morning； 4 July 1999。 The rising sun burned the horizon。
A ramjet mortarman with a shattered ankle peered warily over a tree stump； and counted himself the victor。
Lieutenant mander Arthur Saltus
23 November 2000
Yesterday this day's madness did prepare；
Tomorrow's silence； triumph； or despair：
Drink！ for you know not whence you came； nor why；
Drink！ for you know not why you go； nor where。
… Omar Khayyam
THIRTEEN
Saltus was prepared to celebrate。
The red light blinked out。 He reached up to unlock the hatch and throw it open。 The green light went dark。 Saltus grasped the two handrails and pulled himself to a sitting position with his head and shoulders protruding through the hatchway。 He was alone in the room as he expected to be； but he noted with mild surprise that some of the ceiling lights had burned out。 Sloppy housekeeping。 The air was chill and smelled of ozone。 He struggled out of the hatch and climbed over the side； the step stool was missing and he slid down the hull to the floor。 Saltus reached up to slam shut the hatch； then turned to the locker for his clothing。
Another suit belonging to Chaney hung there in its paper sheath waiting to be claimed。 He noted the locker had collected a heavy amount of dust and a fine film of it had even crept inside。 Wretched housekeeping。 When Saltus was dressed in the civvies he had elected to wear； he took out a pint of good bourbon from its place of concealment in the locker and surreptitiously slipped the bottle into a jacket pocket。
He thought he was adequately prepared for the future。
Arthur Saltus checked his watch： 11：02。 He sought out the electric calendar and clock on the wall to verify the date and time： 23 Nov 00。 The clock read 10：55。 Temperature was a cold 13 degrees。 Saltus guessed his watch was wrong； it had been wrong before。 He left the room without a glance at the cameras； secretively holding his hand against the bottle to mask the pocket bulge。 He didn't think the engineers would approve of his intentions。
Saltus walked down the corridor in eerie silence to the shelter； dust on the floor muffled his footfalls and he wondered if William had found that same dust sixteen months earlier。 The old boy would have been annoyed。 The shelter door was pushed open and the overhead lights went on in automatic response…but again； some of them were burned out。 Somebody rated a gig for poor maintenance。 Saltus stopped just inside the door； pulled the bottle from his pocket and ripped away the seal from the cap。
A shout rattled the empty room。
〃Happy birthday！〃
For a little while； he was fifty years old。
Saltus swallowed the bourbon； liking its taste； and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand； he stared around the shelter with growing curiosity。 Somebody had been at the ship's stores…somebody had helped himself to the provisions set by for him and then had carelessly left the debris behind for him to find。 The place was overrun with privateers and sloppy housekeepers。
He discovered a gasoline lantern on the floor near his feet and reached down quickly to determine if it was warm。 It was not； but a jostling shake told him there was fuel remaining in the tank。 Many boxes of rations had been cut open…emptied of their contents…and the cartons stacked in a disorderly pile along the wall near the door。 A few water containers rested beside the cartons and Saltus grabbed up the nearest to shake it； test it for use。 The can was empty。 He took another long pull from his birthday bottle and roamed around the room； making a more detailed inspection of the stores。 They weren't in the ship…shape order he remembered from his last inspection。
A sealed bag of clothing had been torn open； a bag holding several heavy coats and parkas for winter wear。 He could not guess how many had been taken from the container。
A pair of boots…no； two or three pair…were missing from a rack holding several similar pairs。 Another bundle of warm lined mittens appeared to have been disturbed； but it was impossible to determine how many were gone。 Somebody had visited the stores in winter。 That somebody should not have been the Major…he was scheduled for the Fourth of July； unless that gyroscope went crazy and threw him off by half a year。 Saltus turned again to count the used ration boxes and the water cans： not enough of them had been emptied to support a big man like William for the past sixteen months…not unless he was living outside most of the time and supporting himself from the land。 The used…up stores might have carried him through a single winter； supplementing game from outside。 It seemed an unlikely possibility。
Saltus worked his way around the room to the bench。 It was littered with trash。
Three yellow cartons rested on the bench top； cartons he'd not seen there on previous visits。 The first one was empty； but he tore away the lid flaps of the next to discover a bullet…proof vest made of an unfamiliar nylon weave。 He did not hesitate。 The garment looked flimsy and unreliable buf because Katrina always knew what she was doing； he put on the protective vest beneath his civilian jacket。 Saltus sipped at his bourbon and eyed the mess on the bench。 It wasn't like William to leave things untidy…well； not this untidy。 Some of it was his work。
A tape recorder and another gasoline lantern were on the bench。 A moment later he discovered empty boxes which had contained rifle cartridges； another box for the tape now in the recorder； an opened map； and the insignia removed from the Major's dress uniform。 Saltus thought he knew what that meant。 He touched the lantern first but found it cold although the fuel tank was full； and then leaned over the bench to examine the recorder。 Only a few minutes of tape had been spun off。
Saltus depressed the voice button； said： 〃Mark；〃 and rewound the tape to its starting point。
Another push and the tape rolled forward。
Voice： 〃Moresby here。 Four July 1999。 Time of arrival 10：05 on my watch； 4：10 by the clock。 Six hours and five minutes discrepancy。 Dust everywhere； stool missing from operations room； shelter unoccupied and stores intact； but the water is stale。 Am preparing for the target。〃
Brief period of miscellaneous sounds。
Arthur Saltus had another drink while he waited。 He stared again at William's discarded military insignia。
Voice： 〃。 。 。 moving around the northwest corner in a southerly direction…moving toward you。 Estimated strength； twelve to fifteen men。 Watch them； Corporal； they're packing mortars。 Over。〃 The sound of gunfire was loud behind the voice。
Voice： 〃Roger。 We've got a hole in the fence at the northwest…some bastard tried to put a truck through。 It's still burning； maybe tha