《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》11

Hartmann drew the ends of his mustache in towards his mouth and
weighed his reply.  'Not yet.  I think we ought to wait until the
weather improves."

The F.O.O. got the message.  So did everyone else.

'Tell Kazan and her two wingmen to circle the edge of the cloud cover
and report any movement of hostiles,' continued Hartmann.  'I have a
hunch that someone may be planning to pay us a visit."

Buck McDonnell, the square-shouldered Trail-Boss straightened up
expectantly as Hartmann swung round in his chair.

'Batten down the hatches, Mister McDonnell.  I want everyone in battle
order, all weapons cocked and ready.  Put ten rounds through each
barrel."

McDonnell swept his gold-topped stick under his left arm and saluted.

'Yes, sir."

Hartmarm ordered The Lady forward at a cautious five miles an hour then
turned on the exec charged with the organising of the close-quarter
defence of the train.  'Pipe steam, Mister Ford."

The exec activated the system that blasted the invisible jets of
super-heated steam out of the nozzles in the outer skin of the wagon
train then checked each car, triggering a five-second burst.  The
lethal shafts shot out some fifteen feet before materialising as a
searingly hot cloud that merged quickly with the clinging mist.

Throughout the night, Cadillac had sat with Mr Snow while the old man
prepared himself mentally for the moment when he would attempt to
summon up the earth-forces.  In the eerie light of pre-dawn when the
watching eyes that studded Mo-town's dark cloak began to fade, Cadillac
had been amazed to see the mist gather around the iron snake, and the
layer of grey cloud from overhead.

No chilling sound had issued from Mr Snow's throat as it had from
Clearwater.  He had simply squatted crosslegged as he often did, hands
resting on his knees, face turned to the sky, his sight turned
inwards.

Now and then his breath came in gasps.  The sinews of his wiry body
tightened and he clenched his jaw and fists as if trying to contain
some inner force that caused his whole body to judder violently.

Around dawn, he was shaken by a particularly violent spasm that caused
his back to arch and finally toppled him over.  Cadillac pulled him
into a sitting position and cradled his head.  After a few minutes, Mr
Snow's eyelids fluttered open.

'Are you all right, Old One?"  asked Cadillac anxiously.

'Sure,' said Mr Snow.  He breathed deeply.  'Clouds are easy."

Jodi Kazan flew at a height of five hundred feet round the ragged,
circular edge of the cloud that sat obstinately on top of the wagon
train.  She altered course constantly, zigzagging from side to side,
occasionally turning back into the cloud, emerging at a higher or lower
altitude and on a different heading so that, even'though she was
dangerously low, it was virtually impossible for a Mute crossbow-man to
draw a bead on her.

In her skilled hands, the Skyhawk was a like a kite jinking on the end
of a line in a stiff breeze.  This was where her accumulated combat
experience came into play.  Maneuvering the aircraft was now totally
instinctive in the same way that her body drew in breath without
conscious effort on her part.  The Skyhawk was as much part of her as
the lungs and heart within her chest.  All her attention was directed
towards the ground, searching it with the sharp-eyed concentration of a
bird of prey; the fingers of her right hand curled lightly around the
pistol grip of her rifle, ready and able to bring down a running Mute
in mid-manoeuvre with the aid of what the First Family weapon designers
proudly termed 'an auto-ranging laser-powered optical sight' that threw
a red aiming dot on the chosen target.

Any wingman who flew in a straight line and took more than ten seconds
to line up on his target was liable to find a ten-inch crossbow bolt
spoiling his digestion.  If they didn't go straight through you, the'
barbed points made it impossible to pull them out without tearing
yourself apart.

They had to be cut out, preferably by a field surgeon, and it was said
that they were often dipped in some kind of shit that caused a
non-fatal wound to turn gangrenous.

Jodi had been shot at during punitive actions against groups of
runaways from Mute work-camps.  Where they got their weapons from was a
mystery.  There had been unconfirmed reports that small bands of
Tracker renegades were involved but, to Jodi, such stories did not make
sense.

With overground radiation levels still dangerously high, why would any
foot-loose Trackers waste time setting up a trading operation when they
would not survive long enough to enjoy any benefits that might
accrue?

And what could they possibly hope to gain?

Despite the ruthless pacification of the overground above the Inner and
Outer States of the Federation, none of it beyond the guarded
perimeters of the work camps and way-stations could be regarded as one
hundred per cent 'safe'.

Even though Trail-Blazer expeditions might have killed everything that
moved several times over, groups of hostiles kept infiltrating the
fire-zones where, despite the danger, they stayed holed-up, waiting for
an opportunity to make a sneak attack on a way-station or a
lightly-armed wagon train on a re-supply mission.

Acting on an inexplicable hunch, Jodi cut the motor and side-slipped
silently out of the low cloud.  She was startled to see two large
groups of Mutes break from the cover of the tree line.  They were
moving in the direction of the wagon train.  Jodi yanked back on the
control colunm pulling the Skyhawk into a steep climbing turn.  Her one
thought was to reach cloud cover.  No crossbow bolts followed her into
the cold damp greyness but that was no guarantee she had not been
spotted.  Mutes rarely wasted their precious crossbow bolts.  The Field
Intelligence reports she had read all stressed this point.  The bolts
were greatly prized and in desperately short supply like the crude but
highly efficient bows that fired them.

Back inside the low layer of cloud, Jodi switched on her motor, flying
at the slowest (and quietest) speed she could without losing
altitude.

She called up Booker and Yates and told them to join her above the
northern edge of the cloud bank then radioed a brief report to The
Lady.  Hartmann told her to hit the Mutes before they could mount an
attack on the wagon train.  Hoping that the thick cloud would muffle
the noise of her motor, Jodi pushed the throttle wide open and climbed
southwards through the murk.  Breaking out into the clear, brilliant
blue sky above, she made a one hundred and eighty degree turn, cut the
motor again, and glided back towards the advancing Mutes.  Below her,
away to the left, she saw a tiny arrowhead silhouetted against the
white cloud tops.  It was tes, converging on the rendezvous point.

The Skyhawks, with their inflated aerofoil section wings possessed
excellent glide characteristics and, in optimum weather conditions,
could soar on a rising current of air, staying aloft for hours without
using their motors.  Silent soaring flight offered a measure of
tactical surprise but speed and direction were dictated by the
prevailing weather and the thermals were not always where you needed
them.  It was best suited to long-range, high-altitude patrols.  When
you were contour-flying, hugging every rise and fall in the ground,
shooting from the hip, you needed maximum revs and then some.  What was
known to wingmen as 'melting the wires'.

As Jodi circled over the northern edge of the pancake cloud covering
The Lady, Booker and Yates angled in towards her, the metallic blue
solar cell fabric atop their wings glinting in the sun.  They closed up
on her, Booker tucking himself just under her port wing-tip, Yates to
starboard.  They wheeled silently in arrowhead formation, keeping the
same precise distance; close enough for Jodi to recognise the smiling
faces under the raised visors of their red and white lightning-striped
crash helmets - the mark of wingmen from The Lady.  Both sat strapped
into blue cockpit pods slung from rigid struts under Skyhawk's wing.

On the nose of each pod was the red, white and blue star and bar
insignia of the Federation, followed by a white aircraft number.

Flying like this in tight formation, banking through the cool, clear
air above the clouds was something that Jodi never tired of.  It gave
her a constant charge; awakened feelings inside her that she savoured
without attempting to analyse them, or put them into words.  Like Steve
on his first flight, Jodi did not know that she was responding to the
beauty of the skyscape, the overground world; an overwhelming sense of
freedom.  She only knew it felt good.

Almost as good as killing Mutes.

TEN

With Jodi in the lead, the three Skyhawks flew in a silent descending
curve that took them over the line of the Laramie mountains.  Jodi's
intention was to come round behind the advancing Mutes, firing a lethal
burst into their unspecting backs before slamming the throttle
forward and jinking away under full power, returning from different
directions at low level to pick off the remainder.  In previous actions
against the Southern Mutes she had found that they were as terrified
of'cloud warriors' as they were of the 'iron snake' and, if subjected
to a determined, vigorous attack, usually turned tail and fled for
cover.

Like the execs to whom she had reported, Jodi had not allowed the idea
that Mutes might possess magical powers to take root in her mind.  The
interaction of earth-forces; ground and air temperature, humidity,
atmospheric electricity, the movement of air masses over differing
terrain were part of a logically constructed system of cause and effect
which could be recorded, analysed and understood.

Like Hartmann and his officers, Jodi had found it strange and slightly
unnerving - that the mist and low cloud that had formed overnight
around and above the train should still persist several hours after
sunrise.  And not only persist; actually appear to move with the wagon
train when it had begun its advance.  Jodi was not an expert but she
preferred to think that there was a simple, rational,
meteorologically-sound explanation for what had occurred.

Back in Nixon-Fort Worth, she had been irritated by Steve Brickman's
probing questions about the rumours of so-called Mute 'magic'.  Odd
things had happened in the past but when the facts were considered
carefully and coolly - as in the incidents investigated by the
Assessors - it was clear that most of the things people claimed had
happened either didn't happen at all, or were nothing more than a
strange coincidence.  A haphazard conjunction of events which, in the
heat of battle, had seemed extraordinary.

What everyone carefully ignored was the fact that many hardened
trail-hands stoked up on illicit caches of Mute 'rainbow grass'.  It
was a Code One offence but that did not appear to deter the users from
getting blocked out of their skulls - usually before making an
overground sortie from the wagon train.  Given the hallucinogenic
effects of the grass it was not surprising that some trail-hands had
weird experiences.  And since they could not own up to smoking it, what
better than to claim they had been victims of Mute 'magic'?  The idea,
and the lurking fear of it, was a real morale sapper.  It was little
wonder that it had been ruthlessly stamped on by the First Family.  In
the world they had laboured unceasingly to create, all was explained
and inexorable logic prevailed.  Despite the odd, occasional doubt,
Jodi had clung stubbornly to the official viewpoint.

She refused to consider the possibility that 'summoners' really
existed.  The idea that the Plainfolk clans had people who could
manipulate the weather at will was plainly ridiculous.

As this thought passed through her mind, Jodi heard an ominous rumble
of thunder.  She looked up through the clearview panel in the wing.

The sky was clear.  But it had been hot and humid for days.  When that
happened you often got a build up of pressure and static and then...

Jodi checked the movement of the rifle mount and the ease with which
she could pull the weapon into her shoulder and take aim, squeezing off
imaginary shots on the uncocked trigger at rocks on the slopes of the
mountain below.  Satisfied, she stretched out her arms and pointed
three times at Booker and Yates.  They veered away obediently, opening
out the formation to fly three wingspans from their section leader.  As
they assumed their new positions and turned their faces towards her,
Jodi raised her right hand and brought it down in a slow chopping
motion over the nose of her Skyhawk.  It was the signal to go into what
was known as a free-firing attack.  Jodi brought her dark visor down
over the chin piece of her helmet, grasped the pistol grip of her rifle
and pulled the butt into her shoulder.  Booker and Yates did the
same.

With their propellors windmilling silently behind their backs, they
swooped down over the western flank of the Laramie mountains like three
giant birds of prey.  The tops of the forest of red trees that carpeted
the lower slopes rushed up to meet them.

To the south, The Lady continued to advance cautiously, still blinded
by the heavy mist.  Unknown to Hartmann, the wagon train had wandered
two or three miles off course.

What he took to be the eroded remains of Interstate 80 which had once
run from Cheyenne, through Laramie and then westwards to Rawlins, was
actually a dry, shallow, river bed.  As they followed its winding
course northwestwards, Hartmann noted that the ground on either side
was rising steadily.  He made his second mistake of the day in thinking
that they were passing through a cutting.

From the hour before dawn when the mist had formed round the wagon
train, a small group of Mutes camouflaged with scrub had been trailing
it, sending reports of its progress to Mr Snow by runner at regular
intervals.  Mr Snow knew of Hartmann's navigational error.  Indeed,
with the knowledge Cadillac had given him, Mr Snow had reached into
Hartmann's mind and.  had created the confusion that had made the
mistake possible and then prevented the wagon master from realising
what he had done.  The rumble of thunder that Jodi had heard when she
turned west over the mountains had been a trial blast by Mr Snow,
clearing his throat for the big event.

Escorted by ten Bears, Mr Snow ran, Mute-fashion, some way behind the
two large groups that Jodi had spotted.  Cadillac and Clearwater had
been ordered to stay hidden in the forest with the She-Wolves - the
female warriors - the M'Call elders, the den mothers and the
children.

The remaining Bears were moving under cover of the trees to a point
nearer the wagon train.  This much larger group constituted the clan's
strategic reserve and would be committed to the battle as conditions
required.

The whole of Mr Snow's remarkable mind was concentrated on the task he
had set himself.  He had produced the cloud and sown a degree of
confusion in Hartmann's mind but he was worried about his ability to
summon, control and ultimately survive the immense power he was about
to draw from the earth and sky.  As a consequence, the soundless volley
of rifle fire that mowed down the running warriors around him came as a
complete surprise.

A bullet struck him in the head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Miraculously, the needle-pointed round hit a cluster of knuckle-bones
threaded on one of the plaited loops of white hair.  The force of the
impact drove them against his skull, shattering two in the process, and
knocking him temporarily senseless.  As his body rolled onto its back
amidst his wounded and dying escort, he saw the three blue arrowheads
flash overhead.

'You dumb bastard,' he thought.  Darkness overcame him.

Jodi and her two wingmen achieved a similar surprise when they caught
up with the advance groups lead by Motor-Head and Hawk-Wind.  Both were
running, on an almost parallel front, in open formation, glancing every
now and then at the sky.  In their case, however, the operative word
was 'up'.  They did not look directly over the ground behind them and
thus were caught in mid-stride as the three Skyhawks soared into view
from a dip in the ground, slammed on full power and swept them,
wing-tips clipping the grass, guns firing right, left and centre.

The stream of bullets from their three-barrelled rifles cut a deadly
swathe through the mass of startled warriors.  For Jodi and her wingmen
there was no heady smell of cordite, or blazing barrels; only a harsh,
staccato 'chuwittchuwittchuwitt!"  that was never heard by the quarry
when flying at altitude and was now drowned by the shrill whine of the
motors.

The leading wave of Bears untouched by the attack, turned back, their
faces twisted in expressions of incredulity and anger.  A volley of
crossbow bolts fired from the hip hummed past the Skyhawks as they
climbed away, banking in different directions.  A couple of bolts
passed through Booker's port wing, deflating a section of the aerofoil,
a third went through the clearview panel above his head.

Yates's aircraft took a bolt in the nose of the cockpit pod.  It
punched through the thin metal, passed under his raised legs and tore a
gaping hole in the other side.  Yates's stomach went cold at the
thought of the screaming pain he had so narrowly avoided.  A couple of
inches higher and it would have passed through both knees ...

Jodi flew through the first volley unscathed.  She pressed the transmit
button on the control column and spoke to her wingmen.  'Stay up, keep
moving, start picking them off.

I'm going down to roast their fannies."

Booker and Yates wheeled and side-slipped across the sky in
unpredictable flight patterns that made them difficult targets to aim
at.  With a comparatively high rate of fire of one hundred and eighty
rounds a minute, they were able to direct an almost continuous rain of
nickel-coated lead at the Bears below and - like all wingmen - they
excelled at snap shooting.

Diving away to one side, Jodi banked low behind a line of trees then
flew back up the slope at zero feet.  The M'Call Behrs armed with
crossbows were firing at Booker and Yates; the others stood their
ground, stabbing the air defiantly with their knife-sticks, or
brandishing stone flails seemingly oblivious of the clan-brothers
falling dead around them.

Approaching the battleground, Jodi pulled the control column hard back
and over to the right.  As her aircraft went into a steep climbing turn
she released the three small napalm canisters from the port rack in
quick succession, lobbing them over a wide arc.  The canisters flew
lazily through the air tumbling end over end then fell amongst the
Mutes, erupting in an explosive burst of flame that spurted forwards
from the point of impact, engulfing the unwary warriors in their path
and sending searing tendrils of flame out on both sides.  Motor-Head
and his clan-brothers, most of whom had somehow remained untouched by
the guns of the circling arrowheads, stared aghast as the ball of flame
and thick black smoke rolled towards them.  They broke and ran for
their lives, with the screams of their brother Bears ringing in their
ears.

It was at this moment that Talisman, or the Sky Voices, or whatever
power it was that plots the course of the world and the men who serve
it, brought Mr Snow back to his senses and gave him the earth-forces to
command.  Swept by a terrible premonition of danger, he staggered to
his feet then, as the strength flooded back into his limbs and his mind
cleared, he ran forward, down and up over the rise, reaching the crest
in time to see the three napalm canisters burst among the M'Call Bears;
saw the flame blossom and unfold like the black-edged petals of a giant
flower, heavy with the scent of death.  A jolting current galvanised
his leg and stomach muscles; made him gasp for air.  He became rooted
to the earth as the forces flowed through him.  He flung out his arms,
fists clenched at the sky and a blood-chilling ululating cry burst from
his throat.

The response was almost immediate.  A shrill whistling rushing sound
built up to a frightening crescendo.  It was as if the whole sky had
become the mouth of a giant sucking in air then expelling it with
terrible force.  A mighty wind swept down from the mountains behind Mr
Snow, tearing at the tops of the trees.  It whirled and screamed around
his head then swept upwards, sending Jodi's Skyhawk cartwheeling across
the sky like a kite that has snapped its string.  As she fought
desperately to regain control, she heard a sharp dry cracking sound
like a felled tree tearing itself loose from its almost severed
trunk.

The sky exploded with a terrifying, ear-splitting roar; was filled with
blinding light.  As the Skyhawk whirled round, a searing image burned
itself into Jodi's brain like a night scene suddenly revealed by a
photographer's flash-bulb.  A great shaft of lightning ripped across
the heavens, divided in two, and struck Booker and Yates.  The
split-second horror was slowed by Jodi's brain into a gruesome
slow-motion sequence as the two Skyhawks burst apart like ripped bags
of confetti, then were immediately enguffed in an explosion of flame as
their load of napalm ignited.  Two great splashes of orange were
suddenly smeared across the blue canvas of the sky, incinerating the
pilots and the falling debris.  The bits that remained were scattered
by the driving wind, like flurries of sparks from burning pine
branches.

A new blast of wind hit Jodi, this time from the west, creating a
maelstrom of turbulence as it met the storm-bringer from the east.

Clouds built up at a terrifying rate and, in what seemed like a matter
of minutes, a towering anvil-head of cumulo-nimbus rose to blot out the
sun.  More lightning forked out of the sky.  Jodi quickly pulled the
lever that would jettison the three napalm tanks she was still carrying
and tried to fly her way out of the bad weather.  It was a losing
battle; some malevolent force seemed to be drawing her into the heart
of the storm.

Down on the ground, the thunder and lightning that had destroyed Booker
and Yates and put Kazan in peril had been heard but the noise had been
muted by the multi-walled skin of the wagon train.  The persistent
layer of mist and low-cloud also prevented Hartmann and his execs from
being aware of the storm clouds forming over the valley.

They did, however, detect the onset of the rain.  And it was about the
same time that Hartmann began to take increasing note of the steepening
river banks and decided to check their position on the map with the
Navigator, Captain Ryder.  Hartmann was also worried about the sudden
increase in radio static which had rendered transmissions from Kazan
virtually unintelligible.

A few moments' intensive study of the route taken by Interstate 80
showed no match with their present position and the rapidly growing
feeling that they were rolling along a dry river bed was reinforced by
the growing stream of water now washing round the bend ahead and
between the sets of huge wheels.  Hartmann realised that he could quite
easily go into reverse.  Both command cars had the full range of
controls.  Like many pre-historic streetcars, the head and tail of the
'snake' were interchangeable.  Hartmann decided instead to press on.

It was, arguably, his third mistake of the day.  What he was hoping to
find around the next bend was a break in the bank through which The
Lady could climb out and get back onto course.

The wagon train nosed round the next bend and was met by a shrieking,
howling wind that ripped away the mist, replacing it with driving rain
that hammered along the length of The Lady like an unending fusillade
of bullets.

Hartmann pressed forward for another mile.  The rain poured down
relentlessly; bolts of lightning split the sky to be greeted almost
simultaneously by earth-shaking thunderclaps: a sign that the raging
storm was directly overhead.

The depth of water rushing beneath the wagon train increased rapidly.

It was no longer a stream, it was a river and one that Hartmarm was
suddenly anxious to get out of.

Rounding another bend, he found the right hand bank less steep than
before.  He sent The Lady rolling up it.  The tyres of the command car
skidded wildly.  The rain had turned the slope into a mud-slide.  This
in itself was not an insurmountable problem.  As long as there was
twenty-five per cent traction, the wagon trains could usually push or
pull themselves over most obstacles and out of trouble rather like a
centipede.  All wheels, however, have certain limitations; even those
designed by the First Family; especially in mud.

Urged on by Hartmann, The Lady angled up the bank, the skidding lead
cars pushed by those at the rear.  A few yards from firmer ground, the
wagon train began to slip sideways.  The helmsman turned the wheels,
Hartmarm called for full power.  The huge cleated tyres spun wildly,
'sprayed mud, slipped even further to the left then shuddered to a halt
as the left front wheel sank into a hole.

Hartmann told the helmsman to straighten her up and tried to roll her
out using front and rear-end traction.  The offending wheel merely dug
itself in deeper, blocked from going forward by something immovable
probably a rock.

Hartmann cut the drive to the front-end wheels and tried again.  The
Lady edged forward a few feet and stopped again.  The First Engineer
got a red light from the strain gauge on the front left axle.

'We're going to have to back down and take another run at it,' he told
Hartmann.  'Otherwise we're going to tear that wheel off."

Hartmann cursed under his breath and passed control of the steering to
Jim Cooper, the Deputy Wagon Master stationed in the rear command
car.

Cooper eased The Lady off the slope, ran her two hundred yards down
river and gave her back to Hartmann.  The wagon master was determined
to roll her out, mud or no mud.  He took her out of the deepening river
up on to the shallow slope at the foot of the steep left-hand bank so
that he could curve round across the bed of the river to hit the mud
slope at a better angle.

And that, although he couldn't really help it, was his fourth mistake
of the day.  As The Lady moved back across the river with the body of
the wagon train angled over on the slope behind him, he and the rest of
the crew became aware of a low, rumbling roar that built up rapidly
into a thunderous crescendo.