“Very, well,” said Modular Man.
“I think the best way would be a low approach over Jersey City,” Vidkunssen said. “That’s what the Air Force will use on their bombing runs. Your radar profile is going to be lost in the ground clutter of the city buildings, and if you miscalculate your bomb release point the weapons will either fall in the harbor or onto the part of New Jersey that’s now occupied by the Rox…” He fell silent for a moment as he realized what he’d just said, then laughed. “I guess with you the bomb release point isn’t going to matter much, is it?”
“Is my radar profile?”
“Maybe.” Modular Man felt dismay filter through his mind. Vidkunssen’s voice was apologetic. “They captured some radars when the Rox expanded onto New Jersey soil.”
“How many?”
Zappa spoke up. “Three, along with three complete Vulcan 20-mm antiaircraft systems, four 60-mm lightweight company mortars, two .50-caliber heavy machine guns, and a pair of Bradley fighting vehicles. Ammunition for the above, plus assorted small arms. Also some bridging equipment, boats, and plastic explosive.”
“Plastic explosive?” the android wondered. “What was plastic explosive doing there?”
“There was an engineer company present, trying to figure out a way to get onto the island. The explosive and the bridging equipment was part of their TO&E. When the castle’s curtain wall expanded onto the mainland at Liberty State Park, all the soldiers abandoned their gear and ran for it.”
“Do the jokers know how to operate any of this equipment?”
“It’s safe to assume that there are a few veterans among them. Perhaps” — he looked troubled — “some of those I knew from the Nam. And they captured maintenance and instruction manuals and the like. We know they’ve been trying to use the radars because we’ve picked up their signals.”
“What if they try and shoot at me with any of these weapons?”
Zappa frowned up at him. “Take them out. Take out anything that’s threatening you. I won’t tell my people not to defend themselves just because it isn’t in somebody’s op plan.”
“Thank you.”
“Our last photos, taken earlier this morning, show the Bradleys, the fifties, and one of the Vulcans dug in behind the Jersey Gate, with the rest moved to the island. But if you can update that picture we’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” It should be easy enough, the android thought, to use his radar to spot the point of origin of all the bullets coming at him.
“Any questions?” Zappa asked.
Modular Man tried to think. “I suppose not. It seems straightforward enough.”
Zappa turned to Vidkunssen. “Give Modular Man the photo file and an interpreter to tell him what he’s looking at.”
There was a knock on the door, and an aide reported that Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Powell was calling from the Pentagon.
The conference seemed to be over.
“It’s insane.” Cordelia had flatly said. They were sitting in the clinic cafeteria, sipping tea and contemplating the green and orange institutional walls. Finn had left them and gone about his business. Wyungare and Cordelia had been allowed space to contemplate their plan of action.
“That’s the point,” said Wyungare. “It’s not insane. It may well be that a healer can help.”
“You ought to hear the rumors out there,” said Cordelia. “I think something big is going down, huge trouble. More trouble than an army of healers could cope with.”
Wyungare shrugged. “No shame in trying, even if failure follows.”
Cordelia giggled. “That sounds like a fortune cookie.”
“It is. I received it at a Chinese restaurant in Sydney the night before I left for America.”
The woman reached across the table and took his hand tightly. “Understand something, ma chér. I know how well you can handle yourself. I haven’t forgotten Uluru and our little adventure with Murga-Muggai. You’re so damned competent. But you’re a healer, and I suspect there’s going to be a lot of firepower cut loose if you end up trying to contact Bloat out at the Rox.”
Wyungare wrapped her hands in his. “I am more than a healer,” he said. “I am a warrior and a magician. I’ve got some resources I can draw upon.”
“I know,” she said. “But I just don’t want you to die.”
“And neither do I wish that.” He deliberately smiled at her, trying to relax the tension he felt in her muscles and saw in her face. “Trust me to know what I’m doing.”
“And do you?” she said unexpectedly.
He was honest. “No.” He added, “But I can vamp like crazy.”
That made her laugh. The laughter trailed off uncertainly and died, “Is your mission worth death or worse?”
“Worse?”
“I think there are fates even more terrible.”
“I think you’re right,” said Wyungare. “And my answer is yes.” She put his hand to her lips and lightly kissed it.
“Do you want to get some idea why?”
Cordelia looked at him questioningly, then said firmly, “Yes.”
“And, if all goes well, would you like to visit your uncle?”
“You mean back at the room?”
“I mean your uncle Jack — not his avatar.”
“Yes,” Cordelia said. “Please. Yes.” Her fingers squeezed like steel.
Jay Ackroyd’s office was a fourth-floor walkup on 42nd Street, half a block off Broadway in a sleazy section of town that matched, Ray reflected, the P.I.’s personality perfectly.
There were a couple of derelicts hanging around the building’s entrance, but they took one look at Ray’s snarling countenance and decamped without begging for change. Ray stepped over the snoring pile of rags in the foyer and went up the steps grumbling to himself. He didn’t mind the fact that there was no elevator, but he wished that the stairway wasn’t so damn filthy. He could hardly wait for the splendor of Ackroyd’s office.
The frosted glass on the top half of the office door said JAY ACKROYD in a solid, block-letter arc. Spelled out below that in slightly smaller but just as solid letters was DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS.
Ray opened the door, and stopped, surprised.
The reception room was small, but since there was little furniture, it wasn’t exactly cramped. An almost bare desk sat next to one wall. There was a telephone answering machine on its freshly dusted surface. Sitting in a chair behind the desk was a blond, inflated plastic doll with a round, puckered mouth. Peculiar. Ray thought, but then Ackroyd was a peculiar fellow. A plastic blowup toy seemed to be just his style. The reception room, much to Ray’s surprise — and approval — was spotless. There was no dust on the furniture, no cobwebs in the corners, no grime on the one window that looked out on the grimy street below.
Ray crossed the small reception room and knocked lightly on the door separating it from Ackroyd’s sanctum. When there was no answer, he pushed it open.
Ackroyd was sitting behind his desk, his feet resting propped on its spotlessly polished surface, reading a magazine. The P.I. was wearing headphones to drown out the city drone coming from the open window that was letting in the warm late-morning breeze.
“Ackroyd,” Ray said, but there was no response. He took two steps into the tiny room, which put him right in front of the desk, and rapped twice on the desktop next to Ackroyd’s crossed ankles.
The P.I. looked up, startled, almost dropping his magazine. The alarmed look in Ackroyd’s eyes vanished, replaced by one of polite questioning. He uncrossed his ankles and took his feet off the desk. “Yes?” he asked in the too-loud voice of those wearing headphones.
Ray grimly tapped his right ear, and Ackroyd nodded. “Oh, right.” He took the headphones off. “What can I do for you?”