Derek

Noise. Lights. Chaotic flashing, no coherent patterns or sounds.

Derek Hammond was waking up from another bad dream. He had been doing it for years and if the bad dreams were less frequent they hadn't stopped altogether.

Been a week or so at least. Better than every day.

As usual he was lying in the La-Z-Boy in the corner of his bedroom/office. At thirty by twenty it was practically a small apartment. The bathroom was across the hall but everything else he needed was here. One corner was a small office and another held a small kitchen and wet bar. The regular full-sized bed was was used only occasionally for certain visitors who spent the night and took up little space.

Across the room the screensavers on all three computers showed the same time. 0432. As he watched they changed to 0433.

Something woke them up. I was dreaming about Altamosa. That's probably what woke me up. Always does.

The AC came on and he realized he was hot. Pushed the quilt off onto the floor. There was a vent directly above the chair and the cool breeze felt good.

The air went off at 0439. The place was as tight as a high-dollar cooler and and didn't take much to heat or cool. The phone on the nightstand had been silent.

Somebody hit the computers to contact me? Sometimes they do. Grant maybe. Don't especially want to hear from him just now. Or anyone else.

Jenny, Steve, Luke. All died at Altamosa and he shot his way out with Erika as the place went up. Both took several hits but got through the disorganized attempt to corral them and took out a fair number of enemy in the process. Weeks in hospital afterwards. Learning the fates of their comrades and grieving silently as their wounds healed. The hospital was new and state-of-the-price, nurses and techs in colorful scrubs, a lot of pretty young women and the men were young as well, doctors were mostly older but all were courteous and gentle.

We're heroes. Those that are alive.

Erika had left yesterday, going back to Sapphire. Derek didn't put much stock in psychomedical practices but she had seemed to benefit from the visits. She assured him that no medications were involved and as long as that was the case he was good with just keeping an eye on her. She did seem to be improving.

Seen people on chemicals go off and kill people and never know why they did it or even that they did.

Be a week before she comes back. What do they want from me now?

He returned the recliner to sitting position and got up. Coffee would be good but what if it was something urgent? Fuck urgent. He went to the kitchen. Slid in a K-cup of Folgers Black Silk and hit the button. It would take a couple of minutes. He skinned a pair of frosted cherry Pop-Tarts and dropped them in the toaster. As he waited he wondered who, if anyone, was demanding his attention.

Grant was one of a very few who would even know how to interrupt him here and fewer would dare risk his displeasure. His being an Atlantis liaison was not even near the primary reason. Grant was also near the top in the provisional government and the provisional government was looking more and more like the likely final form every day. It being a Monday made it more likely it was something from the top. Not that most of them were up that early but Grant was old school.

He put the Pop-Tarts and coffee on the counter and sat down. Once the pastries were consumed he took his coffee over to the office. Rolled the mouse on Jessica-6 to wake her up. The chat window was on top.

"How soon can you be at Crescent Cove?"

That was Grant all right.

Is he at Crescent Cove and if so why? Or does he just want me to be there?

He waited before clicking the ACK button. Crescent Cove was over a hundred miles away and as near the middle of nowhere as one could go in a few hours. It was also a Banebrook node.

Dunno about those guys. Mostly spooks and their support network. Some interesting people though.

Banebrook was also one of the agencies deep in the formation of the new government. That could be interesting as well if he had the time but about now he would like for Erika to come back for a few days. Or Miranda. Or...

Stop it already. Grant isn't into frivolous stuff. Not that I exactly owe him - more like the other way around - but he's serious about things. No foolishness there at all.

So his short term future was in Crescent Cove. Whether a day or two or weeks. Might as well get going. Brush teeth and shave and shower. Usual uniform of Wrangler jeans and khaki shirt. He'd found a supplier of the shirts with velcro pocket flaps and had the good sense to buy a few dozen before things of all kinds began to be hard to find. The sleeve pocket was probably just somebody being fancy but came in handy. His held a couple of those credit card sized survival tools. They'd come in handy more than once.

Damn short notice if I'm gonna be gone a while. Need somebody to watch the place. And Sarah.

Sarah was the kid sister, three years younger but a decade or more more naive. Not naive really, innocent. Never exposed to the ugliness and he had tried to shield her. Sometimes it seemed not to have been the best choice.

What was I supposed to do? I didn't start that shit, didn't want to be part of it. Sure didn't want my little sister to be in it.

Sarah would still be asleep and he didn't want to wake her. Charlie could handle security no matter how long he was away. If Grant needed him for very long he can damn well put a detail in here to be sure it's secure.

Still hate it when she wakes up and I'm gone and she has no idea for how long. Or if I'll be back. I'll call as soon as I get there and that'll have to do for now.

He slipped on a pair of Timberland boat shoes - another thing he had the good sense to buy several pairs of - and got on with the important stuff. One of the Hardballers in a vertical shoulder holster. He had acquired a dozen or so of the things and had them tuned by Gil Andrews so they were as reliable as any 1911-style pistol. Half dozen mags in the harness and a dozen more in the gear bag, not like there weren't plenty of old-timers that used them. At thirty-six he was hardly an old-timer but he favored the old stuff. Like the pair of North American Arms .22 Magmums in the holsters around back. They - one of them anyway - had saved his life and that seemed a good reason to have them.

What else? Most of the Sabre-7 regulars carried AR-family stuff in 5.56 but the special units would be well stocked with anything he might need. Take the Princesses.

Two of them anyway - the Z41 carbine and the full-size Z50. The Z50 was heavy but he didn't figure on carrying it much. Both were 7.62 NATO and used M14 mags. They went into a hardside case. A copy of a Swiss Army Ranger replicated in all stainless steel including the scales accompanied a four-inch Buck lockblade into a pocket. The damascus wakizashi from Harley Lightfoot and its companion tanto would be going. And the latest version of the trick bag.

0644. Sarah wouldn't be awake. Brief Charlie on the way out. He tapped Charlie's button on the Commpad.

"Yo boss. You're up early."

"Damn right I am," Derek said. "Grant wants me at Crescent Cove. I don't know how long I'll be but if this does go long I'll have him send down a squad or two. Don't hesitate to call if something comes up before then. Try to keep Sarah calm."

"Will do. You be safe."

"OK, I'm outta here."

Four vehicles in the garage. The least conspicuous would be the grey Chrysler minivan. The Jeep Gladiator had light armor in the doors and bulletproof glass but attracted enough attention it just might get shot at if the wrong people saw it. There shouldn't be any wrong people between him and Crescent Cove but the situation was still somewhat fluid. The two known infiltration cells were under constant surveillance how many did they not know about? A couple of months ago a courier had been ambushed on the route he was about to take and was alive mostly because he got lucky. It would be the minivan.

He tossed his bags in the back and fired up. Full load of fuel, with the extra tank the trip would just move the needle. He plugged the Commpad into the sound system so he could talk hands-free. What else?

Something. What is it? What am I forgetting? Run the checklist again. Nothing.

Worrying about Sarah. She'll be all right, Charlie will see to that. Something still doesn't feel right.

Something always didn't feel right - if nothing didn't feel right you were getting careless.

The garage had doors on both sides do it wasn't necessary to back out. He opened the door in front and drove out, stopping at the exit of the driveway.

Why is it I feel like I don't want to be doing this?

Probably because Grant didn't call unless it was bad. Or about to get that way.

As he neared the end of the quarter mile driveway the gate swung open. It could only be opened by the guards - even if he returned home to find it closed he would have to call. If that ever happened something was seriously wrong and he wouldn't want to go in without some caution. He saluted the unseen guards as he passed through turned onto 141 North. 141 was most of the trip, connecting to 63 about ten miles or so from the perimeter of Crescent Cove.

141 ran straight a lot of the time, long stretches connected by a few squiggles. Two of those squiggles were Whitman and Henderson. About forty miles apart and mostly wide spots in the road and known to host infiltration cells. The one in Henderson had made the courier but the cell in Whitman had tagged him as he passed through and passed the information ahead.

"They staged a wreck on the main drag," Grant had told him. "Just in time otherwise he would have detoured. Once he was stuck in a line they moved in. But we were watching them and the courier bailed out and got lost in ground clutter before they arrived. He was carrying a small package of codes and got away and our guys torched the vehicle. He got to a safe house and we sent a pickup unit."

"We have people inside the local authorities," Derek said. "Police, fire, quite a few regular citizens."

"So do they apparently," Grant replied. "And we haven't figured out who yet. Be careful in both places."

"It's the places we don't know about that worry me more," said Derek.

"Yeah, don't let your guard down. Little place in between them - Herget - nothing there but a road sign. Maybe two dozen people in a five mile radius but there's something there. We're trying to run it down."

The Commpad beeped - long and three shorts, three long, long and three shorts. He activated the headset.

"Good to see you're on the job," he said. BOB was Bobcat, his guardian angel.

"We got a late start. Tell Grant he owes us. Again."

"Ginger?"

"Keeping an eye on you. We'll shadow you all the way and coordinate with ground units."

Ginger would be flying a Redtail. The little aircraft easily had the range to stay with him all the way and return to base near a hundred miles south of his place. Something like a Cessna Dragonfly on steroids it could loiter for several hours and if necessary could dive on a target and pound it with a 20mm cannon or rockets. She would be at about ten thousand and two hundred knots and probably with a wingman flying a racetrack course over his route.

"How's my company down here?"

"Zoom your map out a bit. There's a unit about two miles behind you and another the same distance in front. They can see your position and will maintain the interval."

Two miles was about two minutes, plenty of time for him to react if he got a warning from the lead unit.

"I see them."

"Once you hit the perimeter of the two red zones you'll have some extra friends. Same at the yellow."

Yellow would be Herget. He had driven through there numerous times, just a sign like Grant had said. It was also just past an intersection with another highway. What was that? No time to look it up now but that highway might lead to somewhere else, another nowhere place that might hide a threat. He keyed his mike.

"Ginger. You there?"

"What's up?"

"That yellow zone. What's there?"

"Hang on. Let me patch Charlie in..."

Whitman was near thirty miles away, Herget was another ten to twelve miles. At least that was where the intersection was and that was what he was concerned about.

"Herget is near the intersection of 141 and County Road 455", Ginger announced.

As he remembered there was nothing to the left of the highway, the east side, and 455 ran west. Which didn't mean anyway. A hostile installation count be miles down a gravel road to nowhere that anyone knew of except those who had a reason.

"Anything else?"

"Herget is a populated place with a population of 82. That help any?"

"Nope. Can you get a thousand meter scan from the past twenty-four hours? Or two thousand if possible."

"Hang on...."

Good ways to Whitman, plenty of time to check."

Another twenty minutes at this speed, the cruise contol set for the speed limit. Not that he couldn't get out an encounter with local police easily enough but no point in asking for trouble. He checked his escorts - both were in place.

The ambush at Henderson had failed because they had notice. Would they have any notice of another trap? One never knew.

Give them ten. Fifteen at the outside. Before I hit that stretch to Herget I need to know something."

Whitman 10. OK, ten minutes or so. Check the escorts, closing up. Want them right close if anything happens.

"Looks good at Whitman." Ginger.

"Roger good on Whitman. I'm at five. Holler if anything changes."

"Will do."

Whitman 3209. The sign reflected the population twenty years ago. Technically there was a census six years ago but by then updating road signs wasn't a high priority.

There were four traffic lights on the main drag. If traffic was light no worry, watch out for blockages. They used a wreck at Whitman. What else would they try? A downed power line? Maybe. Think like they do.

I'm not that stupid.

Traffic was light and he hit the first light on green. The next light was red as he approached, two vehicles ahead. He eased up to let it change and was through without ever making a complete stop. Light three had a few backed up but they cleared quickly. Light four went green as he arrived and he was back on a clear road.

Herget was next. He punched Ginger's channel.

"Good so far. How's it look ahead?"

"Nothing suspicious so far. Your escorts will close up to a hundred yards or so as you pass through Herget. White Crown Vics. We'll drop in and set up for a strafing run if it's needed."

The Crown Vics were old police cars reconditioned and modified with light armor and bulletproof glass and some performance improvements. Each would have four VI Corps men. The 'we' would be Ginger and her wingman. He had no idea what sort of tricks - if any - the adversary might try at Herget. A few miles to go and he watched his mirror for his escort. The one on front would slow to let him catch up.

Presumably the sign was somewhere near the center of the area but one never knew. There was almost no traffic and he saw the car closing at the rear and shortly spotted the one in front. Five miles later he figured he was out of range for any possible trouble at Herget. Whitman was the next place to look out.

Not that they wouldn't try something on a stretch of open road but there wasn't much cover. One of the towns or other populated area would be best. The lead escort moved away and the trailing one fell back.

The sign indicated that the population of Whitman was 12,903. It was probably as old as the one at Henderson but a city that size had more potential for hiding things. There were a dozen traffic lights on the main drag and he was bound to be stopping at some of them. The rear escort closed in as he passed the sign - the one in front was about a hundred yards away.

Just past the sign the highway widened to four lanes with a turn lane. The first traffic light was about a quarter of a mile away. White car just ahead, check the mirror, another one closing up.

Hundred yards is enough we could get separated if a light changes at the wrong time.

The local police department would be about thirty to forty with a dozen or so on patrol at any time with probably a handful of sheriff's deputies would be around to back them up. Whitman was in Crain County and Derek knew that the sheriff was a friendly and would be in contact with Grant's office - if there was any trouble they would get someone on it quickly.

They stayed together through the first three lights before they got separated. Derek's escort was separated by two cars. The lights were modern enough to be annoying but he didn't see anything suspicious as he waited. Underway again he spotted the lead escort in a parking lot. It rejoined the traffic and they remained closer together and didn't get separated again. Passing the city limits the escorts distanced themselves again.

Another two dozen miles and a right turn onto 63. The escorts peeled off and he was alone. Route 63 ran around Lake Monticello and Crescent Cove was just a few miles ahead. He turned onto the service road and drove the quarter mile or so to the gate. The gate was open but he stopped short and lowered the window. Several men in khaki uniforms were standing around and two of them approached. Derek held up the pass and one of them took it.

"Nice day to be fishing," he said as he examined it.

"I'd rather be surfing," Derek replied.

"That will have to wait," the guard replied. "Grant wants you to come straight up. He's in his office."

If Derek had responded in any other way the guards would know something was wrong and he would not be going through that gate. He continued to the center of the compound.

Grant's office was in the big building, the only really big building in the place. The forty or so acres inside the perimeter was mostly a buffer zone for the small installation that covered only five acres. The big building was an imposing three floors but was grey sheet metal over steel trusses. In front a large parking area ran the length of the building but only a dozen or so vehicles were present. Derek parked in one of the reserved spaces near the front doors.

A 1966 Olds Toronado was one of the vehicles and Derek knew it belonged to Grant. It looked futuristic fifty years ago and still didn't look dated. Grant had somehow managed to maintain and expand a collection of classic cars through the war.

Not that the war is over. Just close to it. I hope.

The reception desk was staffed by a very pretty young woman wearing the same khakis about everyone else wore. She was the only person in the lobby before he had entered. He walked over to the desk.

"Grant is expecting you," she said. "Go right up."

The last time he had been here the elevators were new and had some problems. Hoping those were resolved he pressed the button and waited. The ride to the third floor was smooth and quick.

Grant's office was at the end of the corridor to the right of the elevator. Grant stopped outside the closed doors. Derek hesitated briefly before opening the door and entering.

Grant's desk was straight ahead as he entered. It was a huge affair with a half dozen large video screens behind it and as many computers. Several phones lay on the blotter. Movement to the left caught his eye and he turned to see a young woman entering from the side. She was tall, near his height, willowy with dusky skin and long black hair. She was wearing olive parachute pants and a red T-shirt. And carrying a tray which she set on the desk.

"Marissa," Grant said, "this here is Derek Chambers. Marissa is my executive assistant. Which is to say she keeps the place running and me on schedule."

The tray held a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. He could tell that Marissa had small pistol in one of the pockets of her pants and Derek guessed she had a knife or two somewhere, likely in a sheath above an ankle.

"Nice to meet you," Marissa said. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Nothing good I hope," Derek replied.

"Not a bit," she replied with a smile. "If there's nothing else..."

"Anything on Harry yet?" asked Grant.

"He was about ten minutes out fifteen minutes ago," Marissa replied. "I'll check and see where he is."

"Harry Harrison?" Derek asked.

"The same," replied Grant. "I want him here for this."

"What is this?"

Marissa had disappeared and they were alone. Except for monitoring equipment.

"Yesterday about 1400 I got a message from Trinity Cobalt in Amarillo," said Grant. "They had the Spencers in custody."

"Small consolation prize for the big ones," Derek replied.

"Yeah," Grant agreed. "They blew town before there was even any reason to believe they would be targets. Still the Spencers are something - they have a lot of adherents and with the Balones bailing for the faithful they again represent the party

"They're both near death," said Derek. "Don't these people...."

"They're both dead," Grant replied. He moved a mouse and a screen came to life. "Alliance channel out of Amarillo. It's all over the world by now."

Grant clicked a window to expand it to full-screen.

MSAMD. The biggest of the government channels. Unofficial of course. Propaganda was bad enough but propaganda delivered by the dregs of the rejects he couldn't take for even a few minutes.

The performers were as well dressed as ever and as physically unattractive. The anchor was the best of the bunch - a young woman about thirty-something. Like most of her colleagnes she spoke with the exaggerated style Derek called Valley Girl speech, like a thirty-something Moon Zappa. Her name was Jessica Taylor. One of Sarah's close friends was named Jessica.

Hate it when a disgusting bitch has such a nice name.

Her unseen guest was communicating by phone and only her name was shown in the guest box - Terri Henderson.

Jessica: We have Terri Henderson on the line. Terri, can you hear me?

Terri: Just fine, Jessica. Go ahead.

Jessica: What's the latest on the former first lady?

Terri: We have some information just in the last few minutes from California. They confirm that the former first lady had been in Santa Barbara for several days. Yesterday - according to you sources there - she experienced a medical emergency and was taken by ambulance to Cottage Hospital. She was reportedly in stable condition and was expected to stay overnight. We don't know what happened but sometime during the night she was apparently removed. A helicopter arrived around three this morning and witness say that a patient - or someone on a gurney - was put aboard and the helicopter departed immediately.

Jessica: Isn't that unusual? Helicopters usually deliver patients to a hospital.

Terri: Right. Rarely is a patient removed in that manner.

Jessica: Any idea where it went?

Terri: None at this point. It was dark but there is video indicating that it was... let me see... AirEvac... we don't have any more info on that. It was only on the ground for a few minutes.

Jessica: Can you confirm that the patient being transported was Mrs. Spencer?

Terri: Not with certainty. What we know is that she disappeared from her room about that time and is still missing.

Jessica: I don't suppose the Secret Service has any comment?

Terri: None so far. We're waiting for someone to give us a statement. We know that she usually had a detail of a dozen or so but how many were present at the hospital, or guarding her room, we don't know.

Grant paused the video.

"Someone grabbed Caroline Spencer from a hospital and took her somewhere?" Derek said. "I don't suppose you know anything about that."

"It gets better," Grant replied. He clicked another window.

CBS had the next one. Jane Madison was the anchor and had a guest in a box. Trevor Robinson. Trevor Robinson's title appeared a few seconds later. Deputy Press Secretary.

Jane: Thanks for joining us, Trevor. I suppose things are rather... fluid now. Do you have anything new on the former president?

Him too? This is getting good.

Trevor: We can confirm that the former president was... taken from his residence in New Castle by... a number of men... armed men at about 3 AM. The abductors had several cars and he was taken away in one. The Secret Service lost track of them and their whereabouts are unknown.

Jane: Do you have any idea if he is still in the area? Could he have been flown out?

Trevor: At this point all air traffic after that time is accounted for.

Jane: The former president has experienced some health issues recently. Are you concerned for his safety?

Trevor: I'm not qualified to answer that just now.

"Damn," said Derek. "Somebody grabbed both of them.

"Got him at about 0300 on Tuesday morning. Got her twenty-four hours later."

"Where are they now?"

"I told you they're dead."

"Right. When and where are they dead? And how?"

"The former president was taken into custody at 0300 Eastern, the former first lady at 0200 Pacific or so. The object of the operations was to have the apprehensions as near to simultaneous as possible. We did pretty well."

"We?"

"We're part of the Alliance," Grant said. "Our little outfit was only peripherally involved but we were aware progress at all times."

"So you grabbed the former president and his wife - actually the one before the current former president. Since you've already told me they're dead I don't see.... you might well as tell me what happened."

"You know both were in bad shape physically," Grant said. "Like most in the know you probably had an idea of how bad. Bad as Caroline Spencer was her husband was worse off. The only reason he was there was that they were afraid to move him and when we grabbed him it probably finished him. He was still alive when she was brought in but died shortly afterwards. She lived another twelve or so hours."

"Just like that?"

"Nature took its course I suppose," Grant replied. "As I said they were in bad shape and neither had much time left. Probably the shock hastened their ends but it is what it is - as a matter of principle they were to be arrested if possible. Personally I don't care where they died - the world is a better place without them."

"I won't argue with you there," said Derek. "The propaganda value may be worth it but was it worth the risk?"

"There are some who have scores to settle," said Grant. "Poking a finger in the eye of an old enemy on the other side if you can't kill him or her."

There had been quite a few women assassinated, mainly because many had occupied so powerful positions in the fallen regime. Derek had no sympathy for any of them - he had lost friends even before the war officially began. Whenever that was.

"Is this what you wanted me for?" he asked.

"Nope. I was going to have you come up and when all this went down I called you before you heard about it some other way."

"What's the effect on the war?"

"None. But there's something underway that should have an effect - Operation Short Stick," Grant replied.

"Haven't heard of it."

"Good to know some secrets remained secret. You're cleared... "

"How long are we talking about?" Derek interrupted.

"Two, maybe three weeks."

"I have to square some things at home," Derek said. "Sarah."

"What do you need?"

"Put a squad at Caney Creek. Twelve minimum, fifteen would be better. I have accommodations they can use, they'll probably fight over the assignment."

Caney Creek was a good mile from the perimeter of Derek's domain and he always had a crew there. They could watch Grant's men - not that any of them were likely to cause problems but Sarah would be uneasy with them. Being on call in Caney Creek would be close enough.

"No doubt," Grant replied. "And since you're covering expenses... still... alright, fifteen. You know Jules Gibson. I'll have him take a squad."

"OK, I'd like him there now, regardless of when I'm leaving."

"They'll be there by 1800. Good enough?"

"Good enough. Now what am I doing?"

"Operation Short Stick," Grant said, "is what we've been waiting for. Neutralizing Kansas."

"As in cutting transportation corridors?"

"Exactly. Once we're done the enemy will probably lose interest and it'll be ours but mainly it cuts the country in two and allows easy passage between the Alliance and Republic while denying the enemy transport between east and west. For the past six or so months partisans have been preparing - we'll be joining the Nomad-12 and Vertex-4 out of Texas. They'll be bringing in some supplies the locals are short on. You and Bill Sullivan be our liaison and coordinate our Silver Angel group. Mainly it'll be monitoring the preparations and keeping it on schedule."

"Where is Bill?"

"He arrived yesterday," Grant replied. "He'll be joining us for lunch. Let's grab a drink and a smoke."

At each of end of Grant's office were two closed doors. Derek didn't know what was in three of them but he knew which one the bar was in. He got up and followed Grant. Inside Grant picked up a bottle of Wild Turkey and looked questioningly at Derek. Derek nodded.

"Never know with you," Grant said. "I don't have time to be a connoisseur so it's Turkey if I got it and if not whatever I got." He poured three fingers into each of two glasses and handed one to Derek.

The clock indicated that it was 1135. Derek didn't usually drink that early but a lot of men did and Grant was one of them. He took a sip and took the cigarillo Grant offered.

"Couldn't wait for me?"

Derek knew that Bill Sullivan was nine years older than him only from his dossier. He looked a couple of years younger. Exactly six feet tall and one-sixty-something he moved with an easy grace that suggested a martial arts practitioner.

Because he was - Derek had sparred with him a couple of times both unarmed and with several weapons and wouldn't want him for an adversary in a real fight. Even so Bill was armed with conventional artillery and cutlery - big pistol in a vertical shoulder holster and a Marine Corps bowie on the other side of the harness. Derek remembered the pistol being an EAA 10mm. Probably there was a concealed knife or two as well.

"I figured you'd smell whiskey and be right over," Grant said. "Help yourself." Bill picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and poured a liberal drink.

"Long time no see," he said to Derek.

"Been a while," Derek replied. "When was that, May last year? I had to make an early exit but it seems to have worked out pretty well."

"Well enough. We appreciated the help while you were there."

"You've got two weeks for this one," Grant said. "Beginning Monday - that's three days. The two weeks doesn't include travel time to Kansas so you'll leave on Saturday. Slow and inconspicuous."

"Just the two of us?" Bill asked.

"I want you to take some backups," Grant replied. "A support team - communications, escorts while you're on the road, managing your base. Chuck Bartlett and a team of seven or eight, I don't have his final list. You're going to Holyrood, a little place in the middle of nowhere but that describes most places in Kansas. A few miles out of town is an estate owned by a major player in the Kansas partisans - Enoch Eastwood. It's about forty acres, most of its fields and some sparse woods.

"Enoch Eastwood?" asked Bill.

"A mandroid," Grant replied. "Made it easier to keep the place from attracting attention - mandroids are squeaky clean until they're deployed. Your main contact there is Elliot Robinson. He has a staff of about a dozen. Holyrood is central enough to make travel to all relevant points relatively quickly."

"What is Robinson's relation to Eastwood?"

"Eastwood is pure data," said Grant. "Robinson is the warm body you sometimes need. And almost as hard to track."

"OK, I got it. I think."

"Just forget Eastwood. He's strictly a tool. We know he isn't real but the enemy doesn't.

"Lunch is served." Miranda had reappeared.

Lunch was down the hall. A large room with a massive table that looked like something from a corporate boardroom and probably was. A lot of stuff like that had been liberated from its former owners during the past three years. It and the fancy leather chairs looked out of place in the bare room. A young man and woman who looked like siblings were finishing setting the table.

"Just buzz if you need anything," the woman said as they left

"Mark and Marie Taylor," Grant said. "Ed Taylor's kids. Twins."

"Is Ed here?" Bill asked.

"Sometimes," Grant replied. "He's in Texas a lot and up in Alliance territory. He sent his kids here to keep them safe after their mother died."

Lunch was salad, soup a pasta dish Derek wasn't sure he could name but it was good. A tub of iced beers was available for those who didn't find the iced tea suitable. After a couple more hours of talk in Grant's office Bill took Derek to see the preparations for their trip.

---

"We'll be going as a motorcycle club," Bill said. "The fleet is all ready."

They were in a large building one street behind headquarters. Most of the space was taken up by motorcycles.

"Two of the trikes are for us," he continued. "The other four are for for Chuck and some of his guys. We can carry quite a bit of gear with them."

"Haven't taken a bike ride in a while," Derek said. "Maybe it's time. Those are George Simon's, aren't they?"

"Yep. Latest run of Silver Eagles. The two-wheelers are mostly Harleys of various ages with several Triumphs. Gives it a more normal look. We'll go across the corner of Kentucky and across Missouri, so there shouldn't be any trouble unless certain people know it's us. They don't have the resources to be tracking our every move but they'll be interested in anything heading into Kansas from anywhere."

"And a bike club entering won't get any attention?" Derek asked.

"There's a group that's nominally on their side," Bill replied, "operating across the state. They're supposed to be an intel org so the military guys leave them alone. In reality they're setting things up for us. There'll be some at the border for us to mix in with."

"Sounds good in theory," said Derek.

"The Crazy Saints are a tight operation," Bill said. "Being a motorcycle club is just a cover for them too. They're pros."

"Okey-dokey. When do we leave?"

"0500 tomorrow. You all set?"

"I just need to check and see if Grant has it all set at my place. He better or I'll be late."

"Sarah?"

"Yeah."

Bill didn't comment - Derek knew he had lost someone close to him. A couple of someones in fact.

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