control Manhattan. Less so in some ways because we're not challenging Blackstone down there like we are challenging these bastards up here.'
Kipper ignored the tone of rebuke that Jed had allowed to creep into his delivery.
'But as best we can tell,' Culver continued, 'over six hundred of our homesteaders have been driven off their land. Only a hundred and twelve have made it back to a federal facility. Now,' Culver added hurriedly, 'that doesn't mean the TDF killed them. Texas in particular is crawling with genuine bandits and freebooters. There's also the road agents, outlaw gangs, but the FBI believes they are operating with the tacit assistance of Fort Hood. Chances are that most of our people fell afoul of these agents. But it is undeniable that there have been instances where lethal force has been used by the TDF when transfer was resisted. And as terrified as the refugees were of the TDF, they were even more frightened of any encounters with the road agents.'
Kipper pressed his lips together and took a moment to calm himself. He gazed around the cabin, taking in the crouched, watchful posture of Corporal Peckham at his door gun and nodding to Agent Shinoda, who was drinking from a water bottle while hanging on to a grab bar near the marines at the back of Marine One.
'Lets not dress it up any fancier than need be,' he said, turning his attention back to Jed Culver. 'Lethal force, involuntary transfer. It's all bullshit, Jed. We're talking about murder and ethnic cleansing. And you're right. I'm sorry. We do need to do something about it.'
16
Salisbury Plain, England The large faded yellow and red poster read: WARNING TO THE PUBLIC. DANGER FROM UNEXPLODED SHELL AND MORTAR BOMBS. The words in the middle of the sign were faded beyond legibility, but the last sentence, IT MAY EXPLODE, didn't leave much room for doubt that a world of hurt lay around them. The effect was lessened by the pole to which the poster was affixed leaning over at thirty degrees, creating a definite air of neglect, but Caitlin could hear the distant thud of munitions and, occasionally, when Dalby's little car crested a ridgeline, she could make out the dark, heavy shapes of armored vehicles maneuvering through the mist and rain in the distance. Some of them were still painted desert tan, most likely former U.S. Army Abrams and Bradley tanks given to Britain as collateral for her materiel support since the Wave. A mountain of U.S. military equipment and more than a few personnel to maintain and operate it had been 'permanently loaned' to a handful of allies in a variation of the lend-lease arrangements from World War II. Although the signage appeared to be neglected, Salisbury Plain itself was alive with thousands of troops training in the wet, filthy conditions.
Dalby didn't spare the warning sign a glance as he sped along the winding country road. They had seen dozens of such posters since entering the restricted military area but Dalby appeared to know his way around, skirting temporary roadblocks and turning down laneways and roads in defiance of the direst warnings.
'Do you come through here a lot, then, Mr. Dalby?' Caitlin asked.
'The last few years, yes, Ms. Monroe. And I spent a lot of time here as a young squaddie many, many years ago. It's a miserable place, truth be known. But convenient.'
She nodded in an abstract way, staring at the fresh brown scars of tank tracks that crisscrossed a gently sloping hill to their left. She'd seen paratroopers drop onto a similar rise from a flight of C-17s shortly after they'd entered the Plain an hour earlier and had immediately thought of her husband, who had once run around jumping out of perfectly good aircraft for a living, perhaps even around this very part of the countryside. Her anger flared again. Bret had done a great job protecting Monique, but he had been very badly injured in doing so, losing half of one finger to a bullet and sustaining a fracture from the impact of another bullet on his right leg, along with a badly chipped elbow and a broken wrist from where he'd fallen and rolled. It was a mercy that Monique had come through unscathed, but a cold fury still washed over Caitlin when she thought about how it so easily could have turned out differently. Thinking of Monique, she suddenly realized how heavy and painful her breasts felt, the awareness arriving along with an unexpected moment of grief. She knew she would not be seeing either of them very soon, possibly not for weeks.
She would never breast-feed her daughter again.
She pressed her lips together tightly and stared out the window, trying to disconnect herself from any feelings that might dull her edge or distract her. Grief and mourning were not what her family needed.
'Dear me, here comes some 'appy campers, then,' Dalby muttered as they rounded a blind corner and found themselves driving toward the rear of a double file of soldiers, heads down, tramping along the roadway in the cold rain. Dalby slowed and eased over to the side of the road, keeping a few feet of clearance between them. The troops were on Caitlin's side of the car, and she tried not to stare openly at them as they inched past. There looked to be about two platoons' worth of riflemen carrying a mix of SA-80s and M16s, most of them very young, very wet, and very, very disenchanted with the world.
'Conscripts, I'll wager,' Dalby said. 'Probably first few weeks in by the look of them.'
She nodded without comprehension. They did look young, but apart from that, why they'd be draftees rather than volunteers was beyond her. She assumed Dalby had an eye for such things, however, having been there himself.
'And this'll be the slave driver in chief.' He grinned, as another young man, tall and seeming to revel in the unpleasant conditions, peeled away from the head of the column and stepped into the roadway in front of them, holding up his hand. The other men kept trudging forward.
'Pass me the clipboard, would you, Ms. Monroe?' Dolby asked as they pulled up alongside the officer. 'In my experience, there's no situation a fellow cannot handle with a clipboard and a sense of entitlement.'
The lieutenant in dripping wet battle dress twirled one finger to signal to Dalby that he should roll down his window. A pair of Warrior infantry fighting vehicles passed by, drowning out the officer briefly.
'Good morning, Lieutenant. Not a bad day for it, eh?' Dalby chirped as he passed over the clipboard without being asked.
The lieutenant wiped a stream of rainwater from the brim of his helmet, only to see it reappear moments later. He leaned forward, dangerously close to dripping into Dalby's vehicle. 'An excellent day for it, sir, and what would you be doing driving around my firing range?'
'Well, if you'll read the top sheet, you'll see it's not all yours, Lieutenant… Hunter. We do have to share, you know.'
The officer, who spoke with the polished accent of the English upper class, turned down the corners of his mouth as he inspected the travel pass and Home Office authorization.
'I see,' he said somewhat despondently, almost as if he'd been looking forward to roaring through somebody other than his own men. 'So it's the village you're off to, Mister Dalby and… Miss…'
'Monroe,' said Caitlin, sitting forward slightly. 'Caitlin Monroe.'
'A consultant to the Home Office,' Dalby offered.
The lieutenant frowned. If he cared about her American accent, he gave no indication. 'She's not listed on the authorization. You'll have to wait here while I check with my superiors.'
'She wouldn't be,' Dalby said, letting some of the pleasant tone drop out of his voice. 'If you took the trouble to read the note, you'd see that I'm authorized to transport whomever I damn well please wherever it takes my fucking fancy, Lieutenant. If I feel like driving this vehicle right up your ass and parallel parking it in the voluminous spaces there within, then that's exactly what I shall do. And I believe your superiors would concur with that assessment. Luckily for you, however, I'm not so inclined. I just want to carry on to Imber.'
Lieutenant Hunter, who looked like he was chewing on a particularly sour dog turd by that point, sniffed in distaste. A drop of rain hung on the tip of his patrician nose. He wiped the brim of his helmet again, spattering a bit of misery onto Dalby's coat.
'Imber. I see. Well, no need for attitude, sir. This is a dangerous part of the country, you know.'
'Everywhere is a dangerous part of the country nowadays, laddie. So if you don't mind, I'll have those papers back and be on my way.'
The rain was thickening, and the soldier contrived to get quite a bit of water into the warm, dry interior of the little Mercedes as he tossed the clipboard back into Dalby's lap.
'Drive carefully, sir.' The lieutenant smiled. 'Accidents do happen.'
Dalby snorted and shook his head as he raised the automatic window and placed the travel papers on the floor
