Chapter Seven
A little digging at the source shone out the details of the project that created Ultra Team One-Seven. It seemed to be a crucial step in understanding the theft of the pulse cannon plans. Channelle and Deckard nipped over to the 'The Meadows' and broke in. The pressure plates, laser eyes, motion sensors, and the rest of it were old hat to him. Not only was he familiar with these devices and more like them, but also he knew where these particular ones were placed and their timing.
In the file vaults, they found all their yesterdays. Channelle hopped into the open drawer and nestled down, as Deckard set to record everything of interest with his MIL files of the ultra teams, files of the animals and men that had been used, the dead and the alive were all duplicated. His own file came up. He hesitated, and then opened it. He was not sure he wanted to look that deeply into his own guts. He opened it up to the first page. Words.
Blaine flipped quickly past some photos of him on the op table, his gut wrenching in reflex. Some prenatal x-rays of a cat. Words. Then a photo of him with Kitka on his chest. His eyes were shrunken, black. He was swaddled in bandages. It was the first day they'd met. He smiled, closed the file and stuck it in his pouch. He had no desire to have anyone else look at his and her file again, ever.
Hissing a high tone twice, he closed the cabinet and Channelle ran ahead of him, her tail twitching. On the grounds, they had to wait for one sentry to finish a cigarette before making his beat. Smirking at her incompetence, Channelle and Deckard made their way to the fence and leapt over.
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A theory: Trigger was in fact hired by Haining's competitors and had nothing to do with the Habakkuk II or the pulse cannon or whatever it was. Another: Trigger was in fief with the mind behind the pulse engine. He was dead now and would be providing limited information. Still another: Trigger was contracted by the Habakkuk thief or thieves. He was dead now and would be providing no information at all. The pouch obtained from Section X was spread all over the floor. Blaine had lost his focus on it and was staring languidly at the screen depicting Louis Tuscarora, the Trigger.
Tuscarora was born in Galveston, Texas, a notorious den of organized crime, drug runners, bootleggers, smugglers, and pirates. At the age of seventeen, he joined the Texas Guard, a state run militia. He specialized in underwater assaults, demolition, and long-range target acquisition and termination. He was reported missing at sea in an assault against an oil platform that had been converted into a base of operations by brigands. They had been pirating small vessels and cargo ships from there and it was determined that they had to be stopped.
Operation Asgard had been a qualified success. The marauders had been captured or killed, most of the stolen booty had been recovered and only three guards had been killed. Tuscarora was the only body they had not been able to recover. According to the report, he had been blown overboard when a concussion grenade had gone off prematurely. Tuscarora was presumed drowned and given a hero's funeral at sea.
Cooperation between Texas and everywhere else was slim to none. The small amount that he'd been able to chase down was courtesy of a foreign news service. They'd gotten the story because the oil platform was in just inside of international waters. The Texas Guard was ordered to cooperate with them, as far as the story went. Deck and Kitka have to go and check it out in person. Things began to point at the Lone Star State in a big way now. Wouk was from Texas. Tuscarora was from Texas. The Texas Triumvirate held the gate open wide for anything that might come in through the third coast. That's where the Russian came in after his defection. Tuscarora might have provided some information after all.
Deck glanced down to see Kitka digging up the carpet with slow kneads. She glared up at him, with amusement, as if to say: "What else would I be doing?" He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. They'd have to wetback into the Lone Star state, then have to skip through the boarder patrols, wet and dry, dance around the Texas Highway patrol, the Texas State troopers, the Texas Rangers, and the Texas Guard. After this, face a population hostile to outsiders, who they were very good at spotting, and finally the Texas Tri.
.
The first step was to get there. Deck picked an insertion point into Texas distant from major roads or harbors. He gathered his equipment and put in his rucksack. He put that into another, more average looking backpack. They boarded a bullet train that was bound for Wichita, Kansas. The rail passed close to the panhandle border. His items included: 2 wrist rockets with their various projectile modules, ammo, a MIL, relevant files, a pick kit, some fake Ids and credit chits.
When they got close enough, they would jump the train and cross the northern most tip of the Texas gulf. From there, they would make their way across the state and into Galveston. Once there, they would start making life uncomfortable for a select few until they got the information.
Deck dressed in the typical Colorado style for the train. Hiking boots with red laces, pressed and cuffed jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt and green ski vest. In his backpack were all the other items that he might need; he would only call attention to himself dressed any other way. Kitka's diamond choker was replaced with an plain, black leather one with small yellow tag that indicated who she belonged to and that all of her shots were up to date. Rail officials required that animals were either transported in cages, or held. Kitka was quieter and more well behaved than other animals or humans for that matter, so in first class, they wouldn't be bothered. At the station, others boarded the train, all clad in similar style as he. So thus prepared, they boarded the Bullet train Javelin.
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Deck was shaken awake by rattling of the window that he sat next to. The train was slowing down. Looking over, he saw Kitka curled up, sound asleep. He stretched and looked around the cabin. Their compartment had overhead racks for luggage, room for six, a water fountain, a porter button, and a frosted glass door that afforded moderate privacy. In first class, all the booths were private, but in third, they were only seats in rows of two on both sides of the isle. The train was at a full stop now. Deck pushed the porter button.
"At your service!" Came a young male voice over the intercom.
"Yeah, I'd like a bottle of soda and some peanuts, if you have any, also: why is the train stopped?"
"I can get those for you, sure, sir, and as to why the train is stopped, I could only guess that some kids probably poured some Iron bugs onto the tracks. A sort of a prank, I guess."
"Iron bugs?"
"Yes, sir, bugs that come in a bottle that eat away metal. Developed during the Unrest, I think. Anyhow, you can get them through certain mail order places now. We have the equipment to fix it. We should be moving any time now."
"Oh. Well, thanks."
"Glad to be of service, sir."
The Unrest. That's what the rest of the world called the Info and Corp wars. Iron bugs. A development of the Section. Deck had even met the guy who invented them. At a target, seemingly ages ago. The bugs, in actuality microscopic robots, were hermetically sealed in a small packet. They were created for agents to escape imprisonment. The bugs were able to "eat" something like 2000 times its own weight in metal and other material before shutting down.
A standard packet held about twenty, enough to eat through locks, hinges, and the like. A packet, was about half the size of an old postage stamp, was small enough to hide in the heel of a shoe, under a hairpiece or watch, or in the more delicate places about the body. Soon, agents found other uses for them. For instance, a small cut could be made in a hardwire communication line, then the bugs poured in. With just one packet, about a quarter of a mile could be destroyed.
The plastic insulated covering was untouched, making it look normal. Technicians found it almost impossible to locate the break without painstaking and time consuming scanning. In that amount of time, an agent could do his work and be far away by the time repairs could be made. Not just communication cables either, but monorail tracks, coaxial cables, silver optical cables, the uses were limitless. Soon agents were requestin
g ten or fifteen packets for each mission.
The primary users of the iron bugs were not the ultra teams, but a unit of saboteurs, provocateurs and troublemakers known as the 5X5ers. The unit was a part of Section X, but given more rein in their operations. One such man in 5X5 was "Black" Jack McKrakken, a professional menace to society. Before the war, he was jailed twice on such accusations.
One involved a telemarketing machine that was able to break through phone calls already in progress, phones that were off the hook, and emergency phone lines, even MIL lines. The product it was selling? Telemarketing machines. While in jail, he still managed to create mischief through his lawyer, who was an ambassador from Albania, and so had diplomatic immunity. His second term in jail was highlighted by a prison riot sparked by the incessant playing of "pop goes the weasel" over the prison loudspeakers.
Blackjack was recruited by the Section and the founding member of 5X5. Every member of 5X5 operated with complete independence and deniability. They were given a brief amount of training by Blackjack then enough rope to hang themselves. The missions that they ran were referred to as "gags". Sometimes they operated in packs, more often alone, occasionally in pairs. The Section provided them with funds as long as their work proved to be satisfactory. The one rule that they had to obey was that regular missions had the right-of-way. If any 5X5er was running a gag and regular Section team or teams showed up, 5X5ers were to halt operations until the other Section team had left. This rule was not always obeyed, as the 5X5ers hardly ever exposed their presence to anyone. Rank was achieved through a precise pecking order. Blackjack recruited most of the 5X5ers himself and ran his unit like a contest of one-up.
It was he, using over five thousand packets of Iron bugs, that wrote "Godzilla Rules" in letters large enough to see a mile away in the side of the Mitsubishi building. The packets were designed to melt in the sun, and McKrakken spent an entire night arranging the packets with a set of industrial suction cup climbers and silicon glue. The Mitsubishi building was in the middle of downtown Tokyo, and when the incident happened, the company's president and vice president both committed suicide over the embarrassment.
McKrakken, who was reportedly on top of a building directly across from Mitsubishi when the packets dissolved to observe his handiwork, was said to be disappointed. He said that he was hoping that he had used enough bugs so that the moment the message was complete; the building would be weakened to the point of collapse. McKrakken had prepared an amplified recording of a Godzilla roar for when it happened, but was so dismayed that he left without activating it.
Years later, a small child discovered the device abandoned by McKrakken and activated it, which sounded through the downtown area, causing a number of car pile ups, and general panic during which several buildings were set afire.
Deck and Kitka had met McKrakken later outside a target. McKrakken was planning to enter a Villa estate to set up a number of booby traps on the grounds and inside the house. Among them was bottle of eye drops full of a neutral saline and a potent hallucinogen, the pride of Blackjack's night of work. It was well known that the particular board member, of whose villa they were outside, made use of eye drops before big meetings. Blackjack hoped to give him more than a case of clear eyes. McKrakken refused to give right-of-way until Deckard filled him in on his own mission. McKrakken waited until One-Seven made their pickup before wreaking his havoc.
It was undoubtedly Blackjack who was selling the Iron bugs through the mail. Revenge was his specialty, he was un-discriminating on whom it was wreaked on. Most of his work was in the forms of annoying and dangerous pranks. It seemed he was now spreading his legacy through mail order.
Deck smiled at the memory of a small hyperactive man in fatigues, his face painted like a grinning jack o' lantern in camo paint, waiting impatiently.
They drank the water and Deck ate the peanuts, but Kitka was content to bat them around on the wooden floor. Fifty miles later, the train hit another patch of eaten track and Ultra team One-Seven slipped off the train and headed towards the Texas Gulf. An uninterrupted fifteen miles and they were on the shore. On the other side, barely discernable, was Texas. Night had slowly fallen and the two stood there in the moonlight, as the waves softly hit and the crickets chirped. Wondering how to get across, Deckard heard the faint chug of a boat motor sounded over the expanse, and he crouched into the long strands of grass and fronds.
A small boat, maybe sixteen feet, pulled into view. He drew out a monocular and scoped it out. There was a light inside the cabin, but no one on deck. The course was straight and steady. Deckard strapped his gear on tighter and took off his climbing boots. With a slight sound to his partner, he slipped off into the water and the two made their way towards the craft.
The water was cold and muddy. Kitka went quickly towards the boat, her ears pressed against her head. She was already on board by the time that he made it there. Once there, she shrouded. He hung on to the railing, carefully listening. Deck heaved onto the boat, glanced about and activated the vid pickup on his watch. Kitka was in the cabin, which was amazingly spartan. A few chairs around one table. Cabinets. Stairs. In the engine hold was a large metal container with several tubes dripping out of it. The camera suddenly jarred, and Deck grew tense. He drew out his guns and was on the verge of going into the cabin, when Kitka came out of it and up to him. In her mouth, by the tail was a small field mouse, struggling like mad. She sat, looking pleased, her eyes glowing faintly.
"Thank you," he mouthed irately to her, retracting his weapons. Only one of them was a gun, the other was a grappling hook, but still could be deadly at short ranges.
Kitka dropped the mouse, which scampered off. The two of them made their way around topside. Empty. The cockpit was surprisingly state of the art and completely computer controlled. Curious. Down to the engine hold. There, Deckard examined the metal container. It was roughly his height, but twice as wide. It gave off a strong odor of sour mash. Below the container was a heat coil. It was a still. Behind the container was a small closet of bottling supplies. Of course, it was a night crawler. The laws of the republic decreed that all whiskey be cleared through the Texas Alcohol Control Board. Besides strictly adhering to several regulations, the TACB officials were corrupt and the "fee" for getting their approval was high. Distillers put their equipment aboard small ships like this one. The middle of the gulf was technically out of jurisdiction for authorities.
They would set up the stills, put on the computer controls and send it up the gulf. When it returned to the point of origin, the whiskey would be bottled and sold under the noses of the TACB. These boats were called night crawlers. Periodically the TACB would kick up enough fuss as to get the coast guard to board the boats and confiscate them. They would later be sold at auction. The stills were sold as "curiosities". With a few well placed bribes, or on the word of a connected friend or relative, a bootlegger could get all his equipment back in one piece for cheap and set back up. Anybody found on these boats faced a stiff fine and prison sentence.
With a little luck, Deck and Kitka could ride most of the way in peace, barring raids from the Coast Guard. Sitting at one of the chairs, Deck emptied his gear on the table and checked them for water damage. Kitka curled up on a burlap sack that was in the corner and watched him. The boat chugged on through the night.
.
They stayed on the night crawler for two days and two nights. One the third night, they began nearing the mouth of the gulf. The embankments, which had only sported the random dock, or half deserted houseboat, now showed signs of life. The docks were larger and wider with colored lights softly glowing. Structures expanded out onto the water with neon signs fixed to their roofs or sides. Too far away to hear anything, Deck imagined people laughing and talking over the din of music and silverware and plates. A band might be playing Dixieland or cool jazz. Women in elegant satins and silk, topped by minks and diamonds. Men would be wearing dinner jackets, ties, and vests. Cigars and cigarettes would be lit
and gestured with. The staff would labor over their work in clean white garments and hats. That's where the rich would go, or the affluent, or those striving to be. Disagreements would be mild or at worst, spirited. Teeth would be shown in wide smiles, understanding expressions.
Further down, similar places, maybe more ritzy, maybe less. At the beer and gin joints, the music might be Country and Western or hard rock, but the customers would be rougher, maybe more honest. Come from the docks, or on the river itself, they would be in their work attire. In these places, a wrong word or glance might end in a pulled pistol or a drawn knife. Blood would splatter on the floor and drain into the pores in the wood.
It would be in these places that Deckard would be asking his questions. And what would these questions be?
Have any of you seen a giant snake around here? Hangs out with a Russian guy who smokes black cigarettes? No? How about a short white haired scientist? Invents weapons deadly to world? Well, just tell me how I can hook up with the local Texas Tri connection and I'll be on my way.
Deck kept his head down with looking over the new additions to his landscape (or waterscape) with a small pair of scopes. In addition to being infrared, it displayed the distance, the direction and the wind speed. He had a set of eyeglasses with the same capabilities, but they were less powerful. Kitka roamed the boat with impunity. She had spent her time catching the rats and mice that were around. Saving them for sport, she let them live, but after two days and nights of it, the vermin rarely left their hiding places. Kitka also swam and caught fish. She had been designed and bred to survive in all kinds of environments and used her various talents at every given opportunity. She was, in short, a show-off.
A foreboding came over Deckard as he lay there. There was a light fog on the water that grew thicker, as the gaily-bedecked taverns and clubs came closer. A bell sounded twice far down the river. It looked as if the boat were sailing down a river of smoke, and it began rocking from stem to stern. He slid off his perch and went into the cabin to get his equipment.
The fire under the still gave off a popping sound as it suddenly went off. The sound startled him and he reached for his pack. Then his head swam in the thick air and he collapsed on the table, breaking it. He was reaching into his bag with his last effort, when his body gave out and he fell into a dark well of unconsciousness.
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Two years into their service, Ultra One-Seven was called up for assignment. The assignment: Sabotage the Feines Conglomerate mainframe. Captain Blaine and Commander Kitka were called in, given briefing and equipment. Believed to be in a tall tower like building in London, One-Seven was delivered close to the site. Ultra One-Seven made their way through the streets, via subway, and penetrated security.
The Feines Tower was seventeen floors high and a thorough search revealed it vacant of any type of industrial computer mainframes. One-Seven encountered heavy resistance upon their exit attempt. Captain Blaine put forth the theory the mission parameters were fabricated by double agents to set up an ambush. Ultra One-Seven was put in for extensive leave time for hospital care.
That was how the official report read on the worse mission that Deckard and Kitka had ever lived through and ever would live through. The drop was a set up from the instant they entered the tower. From the information given, this was supposed to be a milk run. The Feines Corporation was all accounts, second rate, a dumping ground for second rate technology and information. The Section thought it might be more than it seems, so One-Seven was sent in. The alarm was set off by a security guard who was waiting for them on the second floor, their entry point. He had a remote switch in one hand, a dead man's trigger. In the other hand, he held a light caseless subgun. Ultra One-Seven listened to the high pitch skreel of the gun and the alarm, as rounds splattered around the overturned desk they had taken cover behind. That was the first five minutes. It got worse from there. Bullets swam through the air like hyperactive bees. The guards had also been thoroughly trained in close quarter combat.
In the end, both wrist rocket barrels were melted and warped beyond repair, the Ultracat light reflection collar was fused and useless, and both members of One-Seven had suffered extensive wounds, including the traumatic amputation of three claws, two fingers, and one toe, gunshot wounds through and through to the right and left arm, right thigh, and two left ears. Over twenty two metal silvers had to be removed from the torsos of both team members, in addition to the reattachment/regeneration procedures. Deck relived some of the tenser moments of this failed mission in his favorite nightmares.
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Visions of microscopic embryos swam in a sea of blackness. They tumbled and frolicked about. Deckard watched them intently for some time. Pain began shooting through his chest and arms. The blackness began to lighten bit by bit. His vision focused and he saw a short, stocky man in baggy pants held up by suspenders and a grubby white oxford shirt. On his head was a gray LBJ hat. He needed a shave and a battered cigar was stuck in one corner of his crooked U of a mouth.
"Come around now, boy?" He stepped closed and blew blue smoke in Deck's face.
Scanning about, he was underground, in a cellar, maybe. The wide concrete walls were damp and had pinup girl posters plastered on them. The room was filled with tables and shelves. These were full of chemistry equipment and books, as well as skin magazines. Several burners were on and tubes and beakers full of foul looking liquid were bubbling softly. Nothing quite deadly looking, but all of unfamiliar. Deck realized he was strapped to an inclined table by his wrists, chest and ankles. The straps were metal bands that were secured by what looked like electronic locks. This was familiar, unfortunately. He had been stripped of all his gear and clothes except for his black shorts.
"Now, boy, you gonna answer some questions," His attention reverted to the man.
"What were you doing on board my crawler?
Deck opened his mouth to answer but was on the receiving end of a potent shock.
"That's what you get when I think that yer lyin'." He chewed on his cigar. "Now what were you doin' on mah crawler?" His voice was getting louder.
"For Pete's sake, Stubby, give the guy some water. The gas always leaves 'em dry."
A bucket of water hit Deck in the face. He sputtered and managed to get some of it in his mouth. He was now alert.
"Answer!" Stubby got his shocker ready.
Out of the corner of his eye, Deckard caught a blur in the background.
Too slow. The shock came. Stubby must have been used to dealing with victims with a lower threshold of pain.
"You can take a lot, can't ya, boy?" Stubby poked at arms and chest with his fat finger. "These look like muscle implants," This caused considerable mirth. "You a movie star, boy?" Laughter from both men.
"Maybe he's doin' research for his next role, " The other man commented. Even more laughter.
"Well, " Deck began. Then whispered.
"What?" The piggy eyes glared out.
Deck whispered again.
"Speak up, man!" Stubby inched closer, his hand clutching his shocker.
"If I speak louder, it'll spoil the whole thing." Deck nodded, and then closed his eyes.
His inquisitor put his face right in Deck's, lifting his chin with the implement.
"YOU. SPEAK. UP." Each word brought the stench of old smoke fermenting in rotted lungs.
There was a crash and one of the tables launched upward, sending its contents screaming to the floor. Stubby turned and then fell backwards, his head striking the floor with a wet thud. His breath flew out like a soggy glob of phlegm. Deck swung his head about in time to see man #2 swing up out of his slouch, exclaiming profanities. His head spun about violently and he began to gasp for air, hands on his throat. Blood trickled between his fingers and he fell to his knees, then forward. The red slickness spread silently, quickly in a kidney shaped pool around his head.
Deckard blew out the breath he was holding, as Kitka formed before his eyes. The table she was on was the one closest to
the rear of the room, near the door. On this table was a lectern of black plastic. Kitka began licking her claws vigorously.
"Kitka," He said expectantly. She ignored him.
"Channelle!" He shouted as loud as he could whisper.
She stopped and glared at him, as she put her paw down on the lectern. There was a heavy clack and the locks on the straps opened. He was free.
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Stubby opened his eyes slowly and was upside down. He remembered nothing for a fraction, and then it came back as Deckard came into focus.
"Good morning, Stubby. Where's my gear and where are we?"
"My name is Sam,"
"Okay. Sam. Where?"
"In Moxa."
"Where?"
"'Bout 15 miles outside of Galvez town."
Sam licked his lips and tried to think. His hands and feet were bound. He was on the same table he had had the stranger restrained. The table rose slightly and he was vertical. A large furry beast landed on the table just outside his vision. He could feel the tail lashing back and forth striking his head.
"Gear." Deckard loomed over him as he slipped back into his black shirt.
"It's on the table upstairs."
"Guarded."
"What?" Sam was sweating and not because he was fat either.
His head jarred, as Deck had just smacked the top of it.
"Outside. It's guarded by...." his voice was louder and irritated.
"No, no one, I swear!"
"It's locked?" Mystified.
"No."
"Tripped?"
"What?"
Another blow. Kitka crawled over him, and began kneading her claws on his crotch.
"There are alarms. How many? Where are they? Stop screwing around here, before I get mad!"
"No! There are none! There's nothing! Think this is Fort Knox? We're just bootleggers."
Silence. A sharp pain in his tenderest of areas.
"Ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh," He mumured.
"What?"
"Please." His eyes flicked towards the affected spot. "Please."
"Kitka."
The subtle weight moved off of him and appeared in the corner of his vision.
"Why was the night crawler rigged? Why detain us?"
"That crawler was done with its brew. Ready to be shipped. It was rigged to keep winos and other leggers off it." He licked his lips. "Usually when we find someone aboard, we rough 'em up and throw 'em in the drink."
He paused. Nothing happened. "When we found you, with all that fancy stuff, we thought you might be TACB or something. We brought you back here to find out."
Deck nodded. He might be reading too much into this.
He hissed between his teeth twice and thumbed towards the door. Kitka shrouded. He eased towards the door and opened it slightly and he felt Kitka slip out. Pausing, and listening intently, he heard no sounds of mayhem or chaos.
Deckard went through the door and up a flight of concrete stairs to a small room that was done in early alcoholic junk heap. A metal table near the door held his pack and gear. It was spread out all over, everything out of its case or holster. Deck clicked his tongue in irritation and began sort it out, and put it on or put in his bag or vest. Outside was dark and warm, with crickets and frogs keeping the tempo. Moxa was outside of Galvez town, what might be Galveston. Kitka rubbed up against his legs while he worked. A step in the right direction, he didn't know, but it was the step they were going to make.