Phoenix Rising: Page 10

  The canyon exploded with the sound of gunfire as Dingus Cahill and the Bennetts opened up on what they thought would be their pursuer. Instead, the bullets whizzed harmlessly over the empty saddle of the riderless horse, raised sparks as they hit the rocky ground, then whined off into empty space, echoing and re-echoing in a cacophony of whines and shrieks.

  Bob had written more than 200 Westerns under at least 40 names, and even though there were no more Westerns being written, for the simple reason that there were no more publishers, Bob found some comfort in doing what he had been doing for fifty years.

  He was about to start a new paragraph when Jake knocked quietly, then stuck his head in through the door.

  “Mr. President, do you have a moment for us?” Jake asked.

  Bob chuckled. “How about calling me Bob? And who is us?”

  “Tom Jack is with me.”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  “Writing?” Jake asked.

  “Yes,” Bob answered. “I know, people probably think it’s foolish of me to continue to write, especially since there are no legitimate publishers left. But it’s something I used to tell my students whenever I would speak at a writing conference. A real writer cannot not write, no matter whether he or she sells or not. Real writers have a divine discontent that drives them to write. So . . .” Bob pointed to the screen. “Colt Langley rides again.”

  “What’s Colt Langley doing now?” Jake asked. He had read several of the published Colt Langley novels, and had been reading this novel as Bob was writing it.

  “He’s got the three bad guys holed up in a dead-in canyon, and he’s going in after them,” Bob said.

  “Three against one?” Tom asked. “How do you plan to get him out of that?”

  “Hey, Tom, you don’t know anything about Colt Langley, do you?” Jake asked. “He is one badass dude, I tell you. Why he’s killed . . .” Jake looked at Bob. “How many has ole’ Langley killed, anyway?”

  “Before the publishers all went out of business, there were 40 Colt Langley books, and he generally killed at least six or seven in each one.”

  “Even if it was only six in each book, that would be 240,” Jake said. “So you see Tom? Three bad guys? They’d better be saying their prayers, because they’re goin’ down.”

  Tom smiled. “You’re right, Colt Langley is one badass dude.

  “I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here to talk about Colt Langley,” Bob said.

  “No. I thought you might like to know that we heard from Louisiana. They will be sending a delegation. And, an old army buddy of mine is going to be with them. Colonel Stump Patterson.”

  “Stump? That’s not his real name, is it?”

  “If I remember, his real name is John. But I never heard him called anything but Stump. We were together in Germany.”

  “Germany,” Bob said with a smile. “If that doesn’t bring back good memories. My favorite tour for the whole time I was in the army was when I was in Germany. I would have extended my tour if I hadn’t gotten orders to Vietnam. I was a single officer then, and on flight pay. What could be better?”

  “Where were you in Germany?” Jake asked.

  “I was stationed at Conn Kaserne in Schweinfurt. There was a bar on Niederwerrner Strasse called the Scotch Bar. A very pretty young fraulein named Uta used to hang out there a lot. She’s twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, you know, just the age to be perky and—wait. Damn! She’d have to be at least seventy-two now! Never mind.”

  Jake and Tom laughed.

  “I was with D Troop of the 3rd Battalion of the 7th Cavalry,” Bob said. “We had our own pipe and drum corps. I’m sure you’ve heard of us.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jake teased. “I got enough of your ‘Garry Owen’ crap when I was in. I know all about Custer’s Own, believe me.”

  “So, Louisiana is coming. How many states does that make now?”

  “Eight,” Jake said.

  “Are we going to move our capital to Mobile?” Tom asked.

  “No, I don’t see any reason why we should, do you?” Bob asked.

  “No, I don’t. Sherri and I are just getting settled in here. We’re on the sixth floor of The Dunes, on the north side. There’s not a better view on the entire island.”

  “Tom Murchison, my best friend in the world bought that unit,” Bob said, wistfully. “We’d been friends since the third grade, but as adults it was always a long distance friendship. He only got to come to his unit one time before he got cancer and died.”

  “I’m sorry. It makes me feel bad to think that I’m able to take advantage of that.”

  Bob smiled. “Well, you’ve both got the same first name. And knowing Tom as I did, if the cancer hadn’t killed him, seeing what Ohmshidi has done to the country would have.”

  “Too bad he didn’t get to enjoy his place. It sure is beautiful.”

  “How do you know he isn’t enjoying it?” Bob asked. “Truth is, sometimes I feel his presence, just like I feel the presence of the men I served with in Vietnam—men whose names are now on the wall. Were on the wall, I mean,” Bob corrected, bitterly. “We thought their names would be preserved for a thousand years; who would’ve ever thought that some low-assed bastard would take the wall down?”

  “Well, at least we have the satisfaction of knowing that one of our own killed the son of a bitch who did that,” Jake said.

  “That would be Chris. Has anyone heard from him?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t think we are likely to hear from him,” Bob said. “If we are lucky he will just show up and tell us that the job has been done.”

  “You know who Chris reminds me of?” Jake asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your Western hero, Colt Langley.” Jake made the shape of a pistol with his hand, made the sound of firing, then lifted his extended index finger to his lips as if blowing away the gun smoke.

  “Have gun, will travel,” Jake said.

  “That was Paladin,” Bob said. “Or more accurately, Richard Boone.”

  “Who?” Tom asked.

  “A TV show back in the late fifties and early sixties,” Bob said.

  “You people are old!” Tom said, laughing.

  “At my age the only alternative to being old is being dead,” Bob said. “I’ll take being old. Tell me, by the way, have we heard anything from Virdin? His ship is still on patrol, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, he’s guarding the off-shore gas rigs,” Tom said.

  “Do you think he has everything he needs? I mean, he’s only one destroyer.”

  Tom chuckled. “This isn’t the navy you remember, Bob. The John Paul Jones has more fire power than the entire Japanese fleet that attacked Pearl Harbor. Believe me, he more than has enough to handle anything that might come up.”

  At sea on the John Paul Jones

  It was just after sunrise and in the east the sun was spreading color through the heavens and painting a long smear of red and gold on the surface of the sea. On the bridge, Captain Stan Virdin was drinking coffee as he took in the beautiful sunrise. Because Virden enjoyed classical music, and because he thought it had a calming effect on the crew, he had the Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana broadcast throughout the ship by way of the 1MC.

  The John Paul Jones had been built as an Arleigh Burke class destroyer, and was among the largest destroyers built in the United States. The Arleigh Burke class destroyers were the most powerful surface combat vessels ever put to sea. The John Paul Jones was a multi-mission ship with a combination of an advanced anti-submarine warfare system, land attack cruise missiles, ship-to-ship missiles, and advanced anti-aircraft and antimissile weaponry.

  When the United States collapsed under Ohmshidi, the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment took its place and reestablished the military. The destroyer John Paul Jones was renamed the Shapur 1 by the navy of the AIRE, but when the ship was recaptured by the patriots of Firebase Freedom, it was once again called the John Paul Jones.

  The current miss
ion of the John Paul Jones was to protect the offshore gas and oil drilling rigs that the patriots of Firebase Freedom had captured. Those rigs were now producing gas and oil for the use of the patriots who were in open revolt against the AIRE.

  “Calling myself an admiral, when we only have one ship, would be a bit of self-aggrandizement, wouldn’t it?” Virdin had replied, when he was offered that rank by Bob Varney. I’ll be satisfied with the rank of captain.”

  So it was as Captain Virdin that he took his ship out on patrol.

  “Captain, we have surface contact, small vessel approaching at thirty-five knots, bearing one, niner, zero,” the radar operator said.

  “Thirty-five knots? Damn, that’s practically flying,” Virdin said. He raised his glasses and looked slightly west of south, but he saw nothing.

  “Mr. Pearson, launch the UAV copter,” Virdin ordered.

  “Aye, sir.”

  On deck preparations were made to launch the small, unmanned helicopter.

  “Stand clear of the rotor blades!” the 1MC announced.

  The craft took off, then started toward the contact. In the CIC room Virdin and the others watched the monitor.

  “There it is,” someone said.

  The contact was a small patrol boat. The boat sprouted four machine guns and what looked like torpedo tubes, and it was heading toward the gas wells, going so fast that it was throwing up quite a rooster tail behind it. Suddenly one of the guns began firing at the UAV.

  “Cap’n, we’re being fired on.”

  Virdin pushed a button. “Weapons?”

  “Weapons, sir, Lieutenant Langley.”

  “Do you have the coordinates of the surface contact?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Take it out.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Thirty seconds later a Tomahawk missile was launched, and Virdin watched the trailing smoke as it headed toward the horizon. All eyes were glued to the monitor until there was flash of light, then black, as the patrol boat was hit.

  There was cheering in the CIC.

  “Signalman, send the following message to Phoenix. Sighted armed patrol boat approaching defense area. When we sent a UAV out for further observation, the UAV was fired upon. Patrol boat engaged and sunk.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the signalman replied.

  “Secure from weapons, make ready to recover the UAV.”

  Fort Morgan, Alabama

  When Willie Stark received the message from the John Paul Jones, he picked up the phone and called over to headquarters.

  Barbara Carter, an attractive eighteen-year-old girl and recent escapee from the Youth Confinement and Enlightenment Center Number 251, took the call.

  “Headquarters, Firebase Freedom, this is Barbara.”

  “Barbara, this is Willie. Is the General there?”

  “Just a minute, Captain Stark, and I’ll get him.”

  “Captain Stark? I thought we were beyond that.”

  “Not when I’m on duty,” Barbara replied. It was an open secret that Barbara and Willie had been seeing each other on an increasingly regular basis.

  “You won’t be on duty tonight,” Willie teased.

  “I’ll get the general for you,” Barbara said. “And we’ll see about tonight, tonight,” she added, with a smile in her voice.

  Jake was talking with Bob Varney and Tom Jack when Barbara knocked on the door, and when Jake looked up at her, she spoke.

  “Captain Stark is on the phone, sir.”

  Jake picked up the phone. “Yes, Willie, what is it?”

  “Sir, I just got a FLASH message from Captain Virdin.”

  “Wait a minute, Willie, I’m going to put you on speaker phone,” Jake said. He pushed the button so Bob and Tom could hear as well. “All right, go ahead, what is the message?”

  “Sighted armed patrol boat approaching defense area. When we sent a UAV out for further observation, the UAV was fired upon. Patrol boat engaged and sunk.”

  “Thank you, Willie,” Jake said as he punched out of the conversation.

  “Did he say he sunk the boat?” Bob asked.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Well, you can’t say he isn’t decisive. I hope it was a patrol boat, and not some fishing boat.”

  “Bob, I know Virdin, and I’ve known him for a long time,” Tom said. “If he says it was a patrol boat, you can hang your hat on it.”

  “Has he always been this decisive?”

  “He is someone who was born for command,” Tom said. “He isn’t afraid to make a decision, but I certainly wouldn’t call him rash.”

  Bob nodded. “All right, good,” he said. “He is the kind of man we need in leadership positions if we are going to make this thing work.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Moscow

  Although Chris had come into “The Company” in the last two years of the Cold War, he had been quite active in his dealings with the Soviet Union, and during those days, Nicolai Petrovich had been his counterpart. Even as the two men represented opposing governments, Chris and Nicolai managed to develop a respect for each other’s skills and professionalism and once had actually worked together to defuse what could have been a very dangerous situations. In this cooperation, both had been taking personal risks because many of the things they did would not have been approved by either government. That degree of shared danger gave them a sense of intimacy, as if they were together against the rest of the world.

  Nicolai was retired, but Chris knew that Nicolai could get the information he needed. The only question was, would he?

  “It has been a long time, my friend,” Nicolai said when Chris called. “And now, with the—unpleasantness—over between our two countries, we can call ourselves friends.”

  “We were always friends, Nicolai,” Chris said. “We were just doing our job.”

  “Yes, and we did our jobs better than most,” Nicolai agreed. “So, tell me, my friend, why, after all these years, do you contact me now?”

  “I wanted to give you my condolences on the death of our mutual friend Vladimir Shaporin.”

  By expressing his condolences, Chris was telling him that he was here in response to Nicolai’s request for a meeting.

  “Yes, thank you. I am looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “It has been a long time since I was in Moscow.”

  “You must see the statue of Peter the Great while you are here. It is a favorite of many tourists,” Nicolai said. “I am sure you will enjoy your trip. And, if you get a chance, stop in to see me.”

  “I will,” Chris said.

  A time and temperature sign in front of the Park Kultury metro station read 1900—20 degrees. Realizing that the temperature was expressed in Celsius, Chris estimated the conversion to be just under 70 degrees Fahrenheit. He walked down Krymsky Val Ulitsa to Kaluzhskaya Ploshchad and the giant Lenin statue. Directly opposite the statue of Lenin was the entrance to the Oktyabrskaya metro station. There, Chris took the orange-colored radial line exactly one stop to the Tretyakovskaya station. Leaving the train and reaching the street, he turned left past a McDonald’s, crossed the road and stepped into a pedestrian alleyway. Following the alleyway to the Moscow river, he crossed the pedestrian bridge, then, at a point near Gorky Park, stopped to look back toward the small island in the middle of the river. There, rising more than three hundred feet high, was a statue of Peter the Great, standing in the bow of a sailing ship. Though there was nothing aesthetically pleasing about the statue, it was, nevertheless, impressive in its awfulness.

  “You are American?”

  It was a female voice and looking around, Chris saw a very pretty woman, olive complexioned, with dark hair and big, brown, almond-shaped eyes.

  “Yes,” Chris said.

  The woman smiled and thrust her hip out provocatively. “If you are visiting our country, you need a Russian girl to show you a very good time,” she said. “I can do that, and it will not cost you very much.”

&nb
sp; There was an older couple nearby and they looked over at the young woman with an obvious expression of disapproval. They had been on the metro with Chris and had been speaking German. When the young Russian woman solicited Chris, they turned and walked away.

  “You are very pretty,” Chris said. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  The young woman pushed her lips out in a pout. “Oh, I am very disappointed,” she said. “Nicolai said you would be interested.”

  “What did you say?” Chris asked, hearing the name Nicolai.

  “Come with me, Mr. Carmack,” the young woman said. “I will take you to him.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Chris said. He laughed. “I had almost forgotten how to play the game.”

  “My name is Tanya,” the girl said as she turned and looked back for him to follow.

  The neon sign in front of the club read: PIRAMIDA. Inside the club two very incongruous themes competed—one of ancient Egypt, and the other futuristic fantasy. It was as if this bar was a manifestation of the entire Russian culture, still struggling to emerge into a lifestyle the old Communist society would have called decadent. It was an improbable combination of genres, complete with space-uniformed waiters and a DJ who played loud music from the lap of a giant pharaoh.

  Two strippers were gyrating to the music. The place was packed and Tanya reached back to grab Chris’s hand as she led him through the crowd. More than once, a very beautiful young woman would find an excuse to rub her body against his as they worked their way through the crowd.

  “Leave him alone—he is all mine,” Tanya shouted, first in Russian, then in English.

  Nicolai Petrovich was sitting in a booth in the back corner. Beside him was a young blond girl, as beautiful as Tanya. When they reached the booth, Tanya introduced her.

  “This is Natalie,” Tanya said.

  Natalie smiled, and extended her hand. “I am pleased to meet you. And this is Nicolai.” Natalie pouted at Nicolai. “I am afraid he did not give me his last name.”