The plans are sent along by courier to the other settlements and we busy ourselves bringing the fortifications of Port Roger up to date. The Indians are offered good pay to work in our ever-expanding shop and are learning how to make these devices.
Soon we have a fair stockpile of shells sufficient to pour a deadly fire into the bay from both sides. We have mounted gun towers around the walls of the town with cannon that can reach the bay or be lowered to fire directly down on any forces laying siege to Port Roger.
Nordenholz is supervising the construction of special boats designed to operate near the coasts. These are about fifty feet long, mounted on two pontoons. They will draw only a few feet of water and can be used in rivers and quickly launched or concealed. They will carry the maneuverable cannons and a good stock of mortars and grenades. He calls them Destroyers, since they have no other purpose. No provisions need be carried, just guns and gun crews, and the Destroyers will be so much faster than a galleon that they can easily avoid the fixed cannons.
I now turn my attention to improving the flintlock. My dissatisfaction with this weapon derives from an incident that occurred in a waterfront tavern in Boston. This place was near our old gun shop, and we were accustomed to take a beer there after work. One evening I was there with Sean Brady when a man came in who had been dismissed by my father for his drunken, lazy, quarrelsome habits and had stomped out, vowing vengeance on all of us.
There he stood at the bar, weaving and glaring at us with bloodshot eyes, and let loose a string of vile oaths and insults. Brady told him to mind his mouth or lose his teeth, whereupon the man pulled a flintlock pistol from his side pocket, leveled it at Brady's chest, and pulled the trigger. At this precise second the bartended, who was standing behind the ruffian and to one side, spat a stream of beer straight into the pan, causing the weapon to misfire. We then beat the man unconscious and threw him into the harbor and watched him sink.
Of what use are flintlock weapons with a driving rain behind you? And the length of time taken to reload far exceeds the firing time. The weapon lacks firing power—that is, the number of projectiles that can be fired in a given length of time. So back to the library.
I note that early cannonballs were breech-loading, and feel once again the admonitory prickling in the back of my neck. At that very moment a hand touches the nape of my neck. It is the Iguana who has come in silently with her twin. I look up at her.
"It's there in my head, but I can't quite get it out where I can see it."
"Well, how did you see the exploding cannonball?"
Hans and I look at each other and grin.
Waring has told me about Hassan i Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, who terrorized the Moslem world for years with a few hundred assassins. I pointed out that holding a single fortified position—as Hassan i Sabbah did at Alamut—is no longer possible, owing to improved weapons that I have already perfected and which will inevitably, in the course of time, fall into the hands of our prospective enemies. We need now a much wider area of occupation, Waring said cryptically: "Well, that depends on what you are trying to do."
As I was returning from the library this afternoon, a red-haired child of twelve or so popped out of a doorway, aimed a small pistol at me and pulled the trigger.
"Bang! You're dead."
I had seen these toy pistols may times before and never concerned myself to find out exactly how they functioned, just as I had seen firecrackers without realizing the potentials of that toy. The child was reloading.
"Let me see that," I demanded.
The child handed me his pistol, which had a flat hammer. The report resulted from the hammer's striking a little blister of powder glued between two pieces of paper. Suddenly I had the solution: firing device, charge, and ball in one unit, to be inserted and extracted through the breech. I bent down and the boy jumped up on my back, and I carried him into the gun shop as he fired his pistol in the air.
We are working round the clock on this design. Pallets are on the floor, and we take turns sleeping. We are producing double-barreled guns in both rifle and pistol form, for increased firepower.
In a week we have two rifles and two pistols, with a number of cartridges ready for testing. The test is carried out in the gun shop, since secrecy must be observed. A man-sized target is set up at one hundred feet. "Pow Pow"—two bullets on target.
After the test I present the red-headed boy, whose name is Chan, with a rifle and give Strobe a pistol. At this Strobe is somewhat piqued. I retain the remaining two weapons for my own use. Plans are immediately dispatched by courier to all the settlements in these locations: on the Pacific side of the isthmus of Panama opposite the Pearl Islands; two settlements inland from Guayaquil in a heavily wooded and mountainous area; and settlements above Panama City on both the Atlantic and Pacific sides and in the mountainous interior.
Production of the weapons is now standardized and we have fifty Indians working under our supervision. As soon as they learn how to assemble the guns, they are sent back to their villages and jungles since decentralization is a keynote of our strategy. Instead of one central factory, there are a number of small shops that can turn out a few guns a day. We are distributing guns through the store in Port Roger. Arming the native population is another essential step. The cannon that protect Port Roger are being converted to receive breech-loading shells.
Necesita automóvil
I hadn't been in Mexico City in fifteen years. Driving in from the airport I could hardly recognize the place. As Dimitri said, a selective pestilence may be the only solution. Otherwise, they will multiply their assholes into the polluted seas.
Kiki, Jim, and I checked into a small hotel off Insurgentes, which was a few blocks from John Everson's Mexico City address. Then we split up. Jim and Kiki went to John Everson's address to see what they could pick up from the landlady and the vecinos. I went to the American Embassy, found the Protection Department, and sent in my card. I saw the girl hand it to a man at a desk. He looked at the card and looked at me. Then he did something else. I waited twenty minutes.
"Mr. Hill will see you now."
Mr. Hill didn't get up or offer to shake hands. "Yes, Mr. uh ..." He glanced down at the card. "...Snide. What can I do for you?"
There is a breed of State Department official who starts figuring out how he can get rid of you without doing whatever it is you want done as soon as you walk into his department. Clearly, Mr. Hill belonged to this breed.
"It's about John Everson. He disappeared in Mexico City about two months ago. His father has retained me to locate him."
"Well, we are not a missing-person service. So far as we are concerned, the case is now with the Mexican authorities. I suggest you contact them. A colonel, uh ..."
"Colonel Figueres."
"Yes, that is the name, I believe."
"Did John Everson pick up his mail at the embassy?"
"I uh don't think ... in any case, we don't encourage ..."
"Yes, I know. You are also not a post office. Would you mind calling the mail desk and asking if there are any letters there addresses to John Everson?"
"Really, Mr. Snide ..."
"Really, Mr. Hill. I have been retained by an American citizen—rather well connected, I may add, working on a U.S. government project—retained to find an American citizen who is missing in your district. So far, there is no evidence of foul play but it hasn't been ruled out."
He was also the type who backs down under pressure. He reached for the phone. "Could you tell me if there are any letters for John Everson at the desk.... One letter?"