Iron master, p.36
Iron Master, page 36
Toshiro edged round in his seat as far as his safety harness would allow and pulled the scarf clear of his mouth. ‘Have you thought about where you’re going to make the drop?’
Steve jabbed a finger over the side and shouted into the slipstream. ‘I thought the lake would be a good place. Give him something to think about on the way down.’
Toshiro nodded. ‘Nice touch! How are you going to do it?’
‘By rigging the safety harness! The lap straps are anchored to the floor by pins and the shoulder straps are fixed here – on the bulkhead behind your seat!’
‘Got it…’
‘I’ll fix the pins so they’ll come loose when I pull a wire, and before he knows what’s happening, I turn her over – ’ Steve rammed the stick against his right thigh, ‘– like this!’
Toshiro’s mouth flew open in alarm as the plane rolled onto its back. Up to now, the flight had been fairly sedate, and here he was, suddenly hanging upside down 3,000 feet above the ground, supported by four two-inch-wide straps.
‘And away he goes!’ Steve kept the glider inverted for a couple of minutes, and watched Toshiro’s head bob from side to side as he scrabbled around inside the cockpit for something to hold on to. It wouldn’t do him any harm to know how the Consul-General would feel in that gut-wrenching moment before he started treading air.
Steve pulled the nose down in a half-loop, then levelled out the right way up. His passenger sank down gratefully into his seat. ‘You see? Couldn’t be simpler!’
No response.
‘Are you okay?’
Toshiro nodded but didn’t look round. He had made the flight in order to pave the way for the Consul-General’s one-way trip, but this would also be his first and last ride on a flying-horse. Never again! Never!
When the final rocket had been fired and they were gliding back towards the field, Steve reached forward and nudged the Herald’s shoulder. ‘Can we talk?’
‘What about?’
‘I need that bundle of pink leaves.’
Toshiro gave him a sideways glance. ‘One thing at a time. I got you transferred to the Heron Pool, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, that’s right… Thanks a lot.’ I don’t believe it, thought Steve. Our lives are in this guy’s hands and he’s full of shit!
They landed smoothly on the twin bamboo skids. Wheels would have made things a lot easier, but the Iron Masters weren’t geared up to produce the kind they needed. It had been a major headache finding cartwheels small and light enough for the launch trollies.
‘Don’t stay away too long,’ said Steve, as the ashen-faced Herald made a shaky exit. ‘Things are starting to move pretty fast around here.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Toshiro, with feeling. ‘We’ll meet soon enough, you need have no fear of that.’
What an insolent swine this outlander was! He had endured Brickman’s boorish behaviour in order to secure the death of the Consul-General. It was an unsavoury alliance, but his wounded pride had been soothed by the prospect of exacting an exquisite revenge once the fat degenerate had been dispatched. But now the Shogun had decided that the long-dog should be allowed to escape with his two captives, and that made Brickman’s brash confidence doubly irksome.
It was almost as if someone had told the mexican that the veiled threats he, Toshiro, had uttered against him were not to be taken seriously. Was it possible that the Chamberlain’s office had become involved in this affair? Ieyasu’s spidery tentacles were rumoured to extend into the farthest corners of Ne-Issan. It was a chilling thought. The Herald prayed it was not so, and cursed himself for having taken the course he had. But there could be no turning back. Promises had been made, expectations raised. He would have to aid Brickman. It was his duty to do so. But he would keep the painted gutter-hound on tenterhooks for as long as possible.
Steve kept his eyes down as Toshiro squared his shoulders and swaggered back to his friends. It would be courting disaster to rely on any offers made by the Jap to aid their escape. Or to deliver Clearwater. She would have to get to the Heron Pool the same way she had secured his own transfer – by getting inside the Consul-General’s head.
*
When the VIPs had been bowed out of the compound, Cadillac told Steve what had been decided. The conversion of the twelve existing and semi-completed airframes into dual-control two-seaters was to be given top priority. Twenty-four samurai would be sent to the Heron Pool for flight-aptitude tests. The twelve best candidates were to be given gliding instruction. After going solo, the top six pupils from this group were to be given advanced training on the rocket-powered version. When they had reached the required level of competence, they would display their flying skills before the domain-lords Min-Orota and Yama-Shita, the chief members of their households and – it was hoped – the Shogun himself.
‘Did they give you a date?’
‘Yes. A month from now. If they leave it any later, the Shogun won’t be around. He spends the summer on a big island off the coast of Ro-diren, then moves south during the Yellowing.’
Steve nodded thoughtfully. Cadillac’s use of the Mute term for autumn prompted memories of his brief spell with the M’Calls – and the fact that time was passing. ‘The three of you are going to have your work cut out.’
‘Yeah, it’s all your fault. Mine too in a way. We outsmarted ourselves. The reason the Shogun’s Herald went up with you was because he wanted to check you out. He told Min-Orota’s people that if I could teach a grass-monkey to fly like that in a week, then their samurai ought to be able to grow wings of their own in four.’
Steve bit back a smile. ‘Do you want me to help?’
‘As an instructor?’ Cadillac shook his head. ‘They’d never wear it. They didn’t mind me using you as the fall-guy during the trials, but they couldn’t cope with a Mute telling them what to do. It goes against everything they’ve been taught to believe in.’
‘That figures, but… like you said, Trackers are slaves too. How are you and the other guys going to put the message across?’
‘With difficulty,’ sighed Cadillac. ‘But they’ve managed to rationalise the situation with the aid of some very convoluted thinking. As outlanders, they regard us as non-persons, but they’re prepared to acknowledge the fact that Jodi, Dave and myself possess certain high-grade skills they don’t have. While they are acquiring those skills they’re prepared to defer to us in those specific areas. But once we’re out of the cockpit, away from the flying field or outside the workshops, they expect to see our noses in the dirt.’
‘What a bunch of stiff-necked assholes.’
‘Yeah, well… that’s the way it goes.’
‘It’s a pity I couldn’t get cleaned up and re-registered as a Tracker… ’ Steve let the suggestion hang in the air.
‘Well… I’ve got some soap-leaves–’
‘You have?’
‘Yes, a whole bunch of them. Got a set of body-paints too. Clearwater and I both brought a set – just in case.’
‘Good thinking,’ mused Steve. ‘Yeah… I’m glad you told me.’
‘But there’s no way I could get you a set of papers.’
‘Then fake ‘em. You can write. Make a copy of Kelso’s.’
‘It’s not as easy as that. Everyone’s papers are held in the Records Office. I just can’t walk in there. It’s not my territory. But even if I could, what about the arm tag? They’re stamped out of metal. I don’t see how we can fake one of those.’
‘Yeah.’ Steve grimaced reflectively. It looked as if they’d have to rely on the Herald after all. With his connections, Hase-Whoever should be able to come up with everything they needed, including a route-map and a compass. ‘You’re right. Forget it.’ He mulled things over, then cocked a finger at Cadillac. ‘There is one way we can speed things along. You, Jodi and Kelso concentrate on training these dinks and I’ll, uhh–’
‘Flight-test the planes as they come off the line…?’
Steve spread his hands. ‘You got there ahead of me.’ Soft-soaping this guy really paid off. ‘And I’ll also see what can be done to improve the performance of those rockets. I’m sure we can boost the power and duration without a significant increase in weight. What d’you say?’
Cadillac thought it over. ‘Yeah, okay. Good idea.’
Are you kidding? It’s not just a good idea, amigo, it’s a stroke of pure fucking genius…
*
Steve stayed with Cadillac in the study, poring over the constructional drawings of the glider, trying to decide how they could strengthen the airframe to cope with the added stresses of powered flight. Along with Jodi and Kelso, they had both found the vibration slightly unnerving, and what they were looking for was some way of dampening it down without getting into a major rebuild.
Their search for a quick fix went on till after dark. Some of the drawings they needed to look at had been left in the assembly workshop, and when Cadillac broke for supper he sent Steve over to fetch them.
As Steve left the workshop with the drawings and came back up the almost pitch-black alley he heard someone humming a familiar tune.
‘Dah-dee da-da-dahh… down Mexico way… dah-dee dah-dee dee-dee dah-dee dee-dee… she knelt to pray…’
A bulky figure eased itself off the wall ahead of him. It was Kelso. ‘Hi.’
Steve stopped just beyond the reach of the big Tracker. Kelso had treated him with grudging camaraderie ever since his hop over the wall, but Jodi had been with them. Now that they were on their own there was no telling which way it might go. ‘Haven’t heard anyone sing that song in a long time,’ he said.
Kelso responded with a dry laugh. ‘Not many people know it. Trouble is, I keep forgetting the words.’ He hummed a few bars. ‘How does the last bit go?’
‘The mission bells told me, I couldn’t stay –’
Kelso chimed in, ‘South of the border, down Mexico way… Yeah, that’s it.’
The song, and the exchange of half-remembered lines was one of the secret signals AMEXICO operatives employed to announce their presence to any fellow mexicans who happened to be around. Steve fingered the back of his ear, pressing on the tiny, implanted transceiver but there was no response to his Morse-coded call-sign. There was always the possibility that Kelso had heard the routine at one time or another but even so…
Watch your step, Stevie…
Kelso, his arms folded, moved closer to Steve and laid his right shoulder against the wall. ‘I hear you’re not planning on staying long either…’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Kaz.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Yeah. I’ve been reading you wrong, Brickman. I had you figured for a lump-sucker, but you’re all right. You did well today.’
‘It wasn’t any big deal. Any True Blue could’ve done it.’
‘Don’t bullshit me, Brickman. Modesty doesn’t become you.’
Steve let it pass.
‘These crates we’re building. If a guy knew which way to head, he could go a long way in one of those things.’
‘Depends on where he was aiming for…’
‘Yeah, well, the first thing is to get the hell out of here – then work out the rest later.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Steve. ‘Just how much did Jodi tell you?’
‘Just how much does she know?’
‘Come on, Dave. You can do better than that.’
‘She told me someone was leaning on your kin-sister, that you been sent to pick up a couple of badhats, and… that she’s going back in with you.’
‘And how d’you feel about that?’
‘Life in the Big Open ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. This deal you promised her. D’you really think you can swing that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure I can. She’s already saved my life once. You helped her, remember? That’s why you’re both here.’
‘Don’t worry. I hadn’t forgotten.’ Kelso hesitated, then said: ‘Could you get the same deal for me?’
Steve found it hard to read the Tracker’s face in the darkness. ‘Don’t see why not. But are you sure that’s what you want?’
‘Listen. If Kaz is happy to throw in with you, then I’d like to come along too.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Steve wasn’t at all sure whether he could really trust Kelso but – as a long-gone American President once said when challenged for giving a troublesome opponent a plum post in the White House – it was better to have him inside the tent pissing out, than have him on the outside, pissing in.
He offered his hand to the renegade. ‘Welcome aboard.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As the month neared its end, Cadillac had every reason to feel satisfied. The Tracker workforce, assisted by a newly drafted batch of Vietnamese craftsmen, had put in long hours to convert and complete the first twelve aircraft. Four had sustained varying degrees of damage during the initial training period, but these had been quickly repaired and put back into service.
Of the twelve samurai selected as potential pilots, eight were judged to possess the necessary aptitude to complete the intensive four-week training course that was to culminate in rocket-powered formation aerobatics. By the end of the third week, it became clear that only five of the eight had the degree of co-ordination required to perform as a team. The other three had reached a satisfactory level of competence but lacked that indefinable extra something which, in another age, had been called ‘the right stuff’. Thanks to the efforts of Kazan and Kelso, his co-instructors, the five top students had reached a remarkably high standard and were now rehearsing the exhibition routine that he and Steve had worked out.
Dozens of gardeners aided by gangs of Mutes were busy tidying up the landscape. A brand-new access road now linked the highway to the eastern side of the flying field where a hundred Korean craftsmen were building a wooden grandstand with boxes at the front for the two domain-lords and the other top VIPs and several tiers of benches for those of inferior rank.
The euphoria generated by the achievements of all concerned and the preparations for what was obviously going to be a major spectacle – of which he was the principal architect – swept away Cadillac’s doubts about his future prospects. If all went well, it could signal the beginning of a new, and even more glorious, stage in his career. Looking back on what had been accomplished in the last few weeks made the notion that his services might be dispensed with seem totally absurd. He should never have revealed his temporary feelings of insecurity. But had he not done so, the fair-haired Tracker would not have been so forthcoming about his plans to escape. Yes. Only one cloud marred an otherwise dazzling horizon: Brickman.
What the stones had foretold was coming true. Sooner or later Brickman would carry Clearwater away to the dark world beneath the deserts of the south. And many would die. Cadillac did not fear for his own life. Mr Snow, who spoke with the Sky Voices, had assured him that he and Clearwater would both live. For he was to be the sword and she the shield of Talisman.
The meaning of Mr Snow’s words was unclear, but in any case it referred to some future event. What concerned Cadillac was the here and now. The cloud warrior’s presence had disinterred the crushing sense of guilt he had tried so hard to bury. His betrayal of Mr Snow’s trust, his indifference to Clearwater’s present fate and the abandonment of his duty towards the clan M’Call were the main reasons why he sought nightly oblivion with the aid of sake.
Yes, guilt was one element of his present unease but the root cause was envy – generated by his own reaction at having to measure up to and work with his rival. A rival who did not even bother to compete; whose sense of superiority was so crushing he cheerfully accepted the demeaning role of a Mute slave, tackling the menial tasks he was given with the same enthusiasm he brought to solving a knotty problem of aerodynamics. What made it worse was knowing that he could not have got this far without Brickman’s shrewd counsel and unflagging co-operation.
The realisation that he was still not the equal of the cloud warrior increased Cadillac’s smouldering resentment. But it was worse than that. He needed Brickman. His presence acted as a spur; made him sharper, helped his own brain to function better. But to be dependent on someone you could not trust was both foolish and dangerous. Cadillac cursed himself for not denouncing Brickman at the very beginning. It was now too late, and he doubted whether he could ever have done it. He already had too many betrayals on his conscience. No… escape was the answer. Let him take Clearwater. Provided the manner of their departure did not jeopardise his own situation, he would be happy to be rid of both of them.
He had meant what he had said to Brickman about there being nothing for him to go back to. The will of Talisman might one day bring Clearwater back into his life, but for the foreseeable future he had lost her. The hopes he had nurtured about patching up their relationship had vanished with Brickman’s arrival in Ne-Issan. If he went back to the clan, he would be obliged to resume his role as Mr Snow’s apprentice; his obedient shadow. He would only acquire proper standing in the eyes of the clan after Mr Snow’s death. But the stones had shown him that after the old wordsmith went to the High Ground the M’Calls would cease to exist. So what was the point of returning? He might be without friends here, but without Mr Snow and Clearwater he had no real friends anywhere. His association with the cloud warrior was something else entirely. There were many things they had in common, but it was not friendship that bound them together. It was destiny.
*
Steve had been busy too. Eight pilots flying several rocket-propelled sorties a day, seven days a week, consumed a lot of black powder. Once used, the rocket tubes and launch boosters could be refilled, but the whole operation had to be geared up to meet the demand. At Steve’s suggestion, Cadillac put in a call for reinforcements and a mixed bag of Thais and Vietnamese women duly arrived from the local fireworks factory to help out in the packing department.
