Terry?'
Johnson shook his head vigorously. 'With the army? No thanks. Sure, I miss the army… or I miss the old days in the army, anyway. I thought about joining the Territorial Militia but they're as fucked up as can be. I don't think I could stand it. In any case, no, I don't think there's a place for me there anymore.'
And good bait must wriggle, must never stop being bait. 'Answer the precise question, Terry. Would you like to get back into uniform?'
In the open question there was an implied one; Hennessey's tone said as much. Just what was being implied…
Johnson thought about the implications for a moment before answering, 'Okay. You win. Like I said, I miss the service something awful. Yes, I'd like to soldier again.'
'Can you follow orders; my orders?'
'You've always been senior to me, Pat. You taught me more about training and fighting than all the military courses I've ever had… in less time, too, come to think of it. Why do you ask?'
Set the hook. 'Remember, Terry, how we used to bullshit from time to time about having our own army; what we would do to make it a great one? Well, there is a chance we can do just that over the next few years. I have come into a large amount of money recently.' Which was true; even if his cousin Eugene prevailed in court, Hennessey still owned a huge chunk of the family business-'It's enough to get the ball rolling and keep it going for a while. It could be parlayed into an army with time and a little luck.' Reel him in.
Johnson didn't hesitate. 'I want in.'
'We'll be going back to Balboa.'
' Balboa? Girls? Booze? Never being fucking cold? Be still my heart. I want in even more than I did before. It will be great to see Linda and your kids again. By the way, how many do you two have now?'
' We don't have any, Terry…Linda and the kids are dead. I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. Terra Nova Trade Organization… that's all.' Hennessey forced the pain from his voice as he forced it from his conscious mind.
That's a lot worse than a divorce. Poor Linda… poor kids… poor Pat. Johnson turned his eyes toward the table. 'Okay, Pat. There're no words I can say except… I'm sorry.'
'Thanks. Me, too. But getting back to business; I will be in charge. I am a dick, remember.'
'Yeah… but you're at least a competent dick. And you've always been in charge; you know that. Now please quit tormenting me and tell me the plan.'
Hennessey looked up for a moment, unconsciously rubbed his hands together, then answered. 'For now the plan is to recruit a small staff. Half of that will be your job, the recruiting I mean. Carl Kennison-you remember him?-is going to do some of it too. I'm going to go look us up an old friend to be our sergeant major. His name's McNamara. You don't know him. Good man, though; you'll be impressed, trust me. I'll also be going to First Landing, Anglia and Sachsen for a few other people I've worked with over the years.
'Mac and I will go on ahead to Balboa to set up a headquarters. You and Carl will recruit and round up the rest of our group. Most of them you don't know either. I'll give you a list of names, addresses, and personal histories when we get back to the car. The list also has the pay scale I'm willing to offer.'
Johnson interrupted. 'Speaking of that, what is the pay?'
'In your case it's forty-eight hundred a month, tax free, plus room and board. Is that acceptable?'
'Very. Please continue.'
Hennessey pulled out a checkbook. 'I'll be turning forty thousand over to you. With that, you'll need to get around to where these people are, swear them to secrecy, sign them up, and get them, and yourself, flown to Balboa. I'll expect an accounting except for five thousand, which is your personal flat rate for expenses. You want to live like shit and save some of it, go ahead and live like shit.
'I don't expect you to make any sales pitches. I'll be giving you a personal letter for each man you're to recruit. The letter will explain the deal generally. I've noted on the list the duty positions I'm offering, with the priority of assignment for each one. By the way, you are to keep control of the letters. Let them read them, then get them back.
'There are twenty-two people on your list and as many for Carl. I don't need or want that many. They are prioritized, also. As soon as you have filled all the duty positions I've assigned you to fill, stop looking.'
Hennessey paused again. 'Do you have a decent car, Terry?'
'No, not really. I had one but I had to get rid of it when I left the army. I just have the beat-up old pickup we drove here in.'
Hennessey tapped a finger against his nose a few times, thinking. 'That's just as well. You won't have a lot of time to drive from place to place. I'll tell you what; I'll add eight thousand to that forty thousand. I want you to fly to each city or the nearest city you can get to with an airport or airship field. Use rental cars to get around once you get in the right general location.'
'Might be cheaper to buy a beater'-a beat up, used automobile'and have it flown or carried along with me by airship, barge or train,' Johnson observed.
'Mmm… no, Terry. I don't think you'll have time. Just fly and rent if that's at all possible.'
'Your drachma.'
Desperation Bay, Lansing, FSC, 7/8/459 AC
The city had partially taken its name from a disaster that had overtaken an early group of settlers to this part of Terra Nova. The broad freshwater bay that provided the other part could be seen from the airport control tower. The monument placed at the spot where most of the settlers had, ultimately, died could not be seen for the city that had grown up along the forty miles of shore.
In an uncomfortable chair overlooking the airship arrival gate, Dan Kuralski waited impatiently for the stranger who had spoken to him over the telephone two days prior. The stranger had identified himself as Terry Johnson. Johnson had said that he would be arriving today and was carrying with him an employment proposal from a mutual friend, Pat Hennessey. At first, Kuralski had been only mildly interested in the proposal. He was doing well enough financially as a computer programmer. He didn't really need the work. But then the stranger had said that the work would be soldierly. Kuralski was reminded of Kipling's words; the lines that went, 'The sound of the men what drill. An' I says to me fluttering heartstrings, I says to 'em Peace! Be still.'
Okay, OKAY. I make decent money as a programmer; let's not pretend that I like it, though.
That was why Kuralski was at the airport today to meet a total stranger. He had heard the sound and it had made his heartstrings flutter. Kuralski flat hated being a civilian.
From the window of the waiting area, off in the distance, Kuralski caught sight of a huge cigar shape turning nose first to the terminal. From the dirigible fell, almost as if thrown, six heavy cables. These swung freely below until each was caught by one of six special trucks, each with a grasping crane mounted above it. Even as the six trucks took command of the cables, the motors-forward, after and center-rotated as if to push the ship broadside into the wind. Their combined pushing was enough, apparently, to hold the ship fairly steady while the trucks carted the cables off to mules-super heavy locomotives-that sat on twin tracks leading to the terminal. The dual tracks ran in a wide figure eight so that the mules could be positioned wherever the dirigible might find minimal cross wind.
At the mules the cables were transferred, with each mule taking one. These were then tightened. Kuralski couldn't see it but knew from experience that the airship did the tightening, not the mules. Slowly, the dirigible inched down until it hung not more than twenty meters above the concrete of the field. At that point the mules, centrally controlled by a computer, began to roll the ship slowly forward in a long curving arc. After some forward travel, a switchback guided the mules off the figure eight and onto a twin track that descended and then ended at a concrete cigar shape hollowed out into the ground, just in front of the terminal.
At the terminal the ship winched itself down the rest of the way, easing its belly into the artificial depression. As the ship descended, from each side of the depression emerged a dozen or fourteen steel pillars, erecting themselves in a closing curve and dragging behind them what amounted to windbreaks-though their official term was 'sail'-that, coupled with the reduction in cross area and change in aspect, enabled the airship to sit quite safely on the ground.
Shortly after the ship was safely moored, Kuralski saw in the crowd of debarking passengers someone matching the description Terry Johnson had given of himself. He went up to meet the man.
Johnson was the first to speak. 'Dan Kuralski?' he asked, putting out a hand.
