'You've checked warrants on the intake. Anything outstanding?'
'The usual. Multiple homicide, driving without due c and a, line-running, highway piracy.'
'Process 'em, and ship 'em out, then.'
'Already taken care of.'
'Good work.'
Younger and Rintoon strolled through the fort, crossing the courtyard from the admin block to the Ops Centre. The space was enclosed, but three storeys tall. Cruisers and cykes were being stripped and serviced in the motor pool. Sergeant Quincannon was squarebashing some new recruits on the parade ground. Everybody who had a job was doing it, which was the way it should be.
In the centre of the courtyard was an imposing statue, symbolizing the heritage of the service. General Custer, Teddy Roosevelt and Trickydick Nixon, shoulder to shoulder, six-guns waving, with Dwight D. Eisenhower holding up the star-spangled banner behind the grouping. Some drunken Trooper had shot Nixon in the face. The culprit was still in the guardhouse, but Younger couldn't say he was entirely upset about the vandalism. The Ex-President looked a sight better without his ski slope nose, and Younger had never been convinced that he would have known what to do with the Buntline specials the sculptor had given him.
'What about our guest, sir?'
'The Italian woman?'
'Swiss, sir. She works out of Rome, but she's a Swiss national.'
'Whatever. She's getting the tour?'
'Lauderdale's looking after her.'
'Good man.'
Sergeant Quincannon saluted as Younger and Rintoon walked by, and his troop raggedly followed suit. Younger bothered to return the Quince's gesture. The red-faced Irishman was just the kind of soldier he wanted in his command. He was three times the man drunk that most of the rest were sober. Which was a useful trait to have, since he was a frequent imbiber of Shochaiku Double-Blend.
'What do we do with her later? When she's seen everything?'
'Full co-operation, all down the line. That's come through channels, so don't get in her way. I understand it's international, so don't embarass the government.'
'You mean we should…'
'Snap to and shape up, Vladek, snap to and shape up. She's a fully-trained Op, probably has more kills than Redd Harvest to her credit. Go along with her as far as you can. Just don't get us into trouble, okay?'
'Okay and affirmative.'
'Good man.'
The doors of the Ops Centre slid open, and the officers stepped in. The Trooper on the desk gave them retinal and palmprint checks, established that they were the people whose faces they were wearing and logged them in.
'By the way, extend my invitation to Ms Juillerat for dinner this evening. Also you and Hendry Faulcon, Captains Lauderdale and Finney, Doc King and Lieutenant Colosanto. That's boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl. I'll cook. Ossobuco. That's shin of veal in white wine with tomatoes, garlic, lemon, parsley and fresh-milled black pepper.'
'I'll take care of that sir.'
'Make her feel at home. Italian food. Of course, if she's Swiss, maybe I should switch to fondue bourgignon.'
'That's your decision, Colonel.'
They entered the despatch room. Personnel were at their consoles, tracking and logging. A map of the territory took up one wall. Dozens of lights moved on the map.
'Now,' said Younger, 'about that overdue patrol?'
III
They were back inside Fort Apache, and Lauderdale was explaining the day-to-day duties of the Road Cavalry to her. 'We patrol the interstates regularly, keep in touch with the outlying settlements There are still some sandside communities out there. And there are motorwagon trains to escort, and convoys to keep track of. And, of course, there are the gangcults. Mainly, we just try and find out where they are these days. The wars are over. We don't seek to engage the enemy unless we have to. The recent joint action against the Maniax is fairly atypical. Some of the private agencies like to strut their stuff from time to time. It makes their customers think they're getting service.'
They were in the motor pool, where the vehicles from the convoy were being worked over by oily mechanics. Lauderdale called over Trooper Grundy, an auto ostler, to show off some of the special features of the US Cav cruiser. Chantal listened politely, but didn't find out anything she hadn't learned from her researchwork.
'That's a nice machine you came in with, Ms,' said the ostler. 'A Ferrari?'
'Yes. It's standard issue.'
'Your Agency must be well set-up.'
'You could say that.'
Lauderdale coughed. 'If you'll come this way, Ms Juillerat, I'll show you our Ops Centre. It's the command module for the whole fort.'
The captain led her into the central tower of the fort, and got her through the checkpoint. The girl at the desk asked for her details, but she flashed her authorization and the receptionist raised an eyebrow.
'Pass 'Go', collect two hundred dollars and Get Out of Jail Free, huh? We don't get many through like you. Did you have to sleep with someone important to get clearance like this?'
Chantal smiled. 'I had to get married.'
'Tough.'
'It's very demanding.'
The girl was filling out her badge. 'You're telling me. I've been down the aisle three times. With me, it just didn't take.'
She pinned the badge on Quintal's lapel.
'Right, take care of that. It'll open all the doors you're cleared to go through for you, but don't spill coffee on it or the thing shorts out and you'll be apprehended on sight as a security risk.'
'I'll be careful.'
Lauderdale guided her through the labyrinth. Smartly-dressed men and women hurried purposefully down the corridors. The air was full of communications. There were plaques, recording the names of cavalry personnel who had fallen in the line of duty. Trophies were mounted in glass cases. Geronimo's head-dress, Phil Sheridan's uniform, a canteen from Little Big Horn, a variety of arrows, a blood-clogged chainsaw from the Phoenix NoGo Campaign of Pacification, some dented hubcaps from Route 666, scraps of car bodywork with gangcult decals. Everybody was armed. As a child, watching television in Lucerne, Chantal had assumed that everybody in America carried a gun. Back then, it might not have been true.
'This is the Ops Centre,' Lauderdale said, ushering her into a large, semicircular space dominated by an illuminated map. A sabre from the Battle of Washita was in a case over the map. Heads turned. Lauderdale saluted.
'Sir,' he said.
A tallish, well-built man with an iron gray moustache returned the captain's salute. He must be in his fifties, but he looked fit enough to be a gladiator.
'Sir, this is Ms Chantal Juillerat, from Rome.'
The officer extended a hand, which she shook.
'This is our commanding officer. Major General Younger.'
