"If Tyree is clean, it could be this Kling who's gone psycho on us."
Finney swivelled on her chair and tapped another keyboard. "I'll have his profile faxed in from T-H-R in Denver." A printer stuttered, and Finney tore off a strip. "Shit! Uh, sorry, sir. I mean, uh, we have a negative on Kling. He's in his peter position, no advancement possible, no initiative, no more than basic skills, no major kinks. Someone has handwritten "self-important sonofabitch" in the psychological evaluation box. This jack is one of nature's born hostages. No way could he be behind it."
The second blip was within twenty miles of the first, and closing fast. It was strange to see a potentially lethal combat reduced to a giant kiddie's board game.
"Lenihan, patch Conway through the p.a. system," ordered Younger.
A smart young lieutenant with a headset flicked some switches.
"…proceeding South-South-West…" crackled a male voice. "No visual contact as yet…"
"He means they can't see it," Younger explained.
The blips were getting close.
"…I have it…a cruiser, for sure, up to 150 per according to my clock…does not respond to radio transmissions…am pursuing parallel course…
The blips moved together, faster. The background mapscreen changed at the edges to accommodate the pursuit. The placenames they passed blurred.
"Make contact, Conway," said Rintoon.
"…proceeding…"
There was a tearing noise over the loudspeaker, then a feedback whine. One of the blips went out.
"We've lost Conway," said Lenihan.
"Lost?"
"Lost, sir."
"Lost contact?" asked Younger.
"No…" Lenihan's voice was nearly cracked. "Lost. We have a heat source, but no ve-hickle. Conway's cruiser has been destroyed."
"That's not supposed to happen. What could Tyree be packing that could do that much damage?"
"I'd have to run that through the computer and get back to you, sir. A battlefield nuclear weapon would do it, but that doesn't conform to the facts we have here. The best I can think of is a lethal malfunction in Conway's cruiser, and that doesn't fit the pattern either."
"Your runaway is slowing down," said Chantal.
The blip was dropping speed. The placenames stopped blurring on the map, and came into clear focus.
"Welcome," she said.
The blip was definitely travelling on a backroad to a place called Welcome.
"What's near Welcome?" asked Younger.
"Nothing," said Finney. "The original Fort Apache, from the Indian Wars, is out there somewhere."
"What's in Welcome?" asked Chantal. The blip was slowing to a halt.
"Let me see," Finney tapped keys. "It's still nominally inhabited. At least, it was last time we did a drive-by. There's a motel, operated by someone called Jonathan Behr, and something called the Silver Byte Saloon. That's more or less home to a chapter of the Gaschuggers…"
"Could they pull off a hijack?"
"No sir, they can hardly handle their own rigs, let alone anything of ours."
Chantal had a feeling that this was the thing she was here for.
"Is there anything else about the town?"
The blip was sitting there, flashing under the black letters of the name.
"Nothing, really. A couple of old-timers waiting to be killed. A large cemetery. No agriculture, no gas station. Used to be a Josephite Mission, but that's closed down. All gone to Deseret, I guess."
"I don't understand, ma'am," said Younger. "What are you interested in?"
"There's a church still standing," said Finney. "St Werburgh's. A Miguel O'Pray is down here as the pastor."
"A Catholic church?"
"I suppose so. It doesn't say. He's listed as Father O'Pray, that would make him Catholic, wouldn't it? I'm a sufi myself."
"Does it have a terminal?"
"Pardon?"
"A computer terminal. Is it on any of the datanets?"
"Uh, that's…um…classified."
"It wouldn't be classified if there weren't a terminal, right?"
"Um…"
"You're excused, Finney," said Younger. The woman looked relieved.
"Yes, there is a terminal. It's a community church. They feed into our communications web, and then Phoenix, Nogales, Lordsburg and El Paso. They're surprisingly well set-up."
"That's it," Chantal said. "The church. Welcome, Arizona."
Younger and Rintoon were still busy being befuddled.
"Gentlemen, get the clearance. I'm going out there."
IV
There was a pause, as the Swiss looked to Major General Younger for approval. The c-i-c nodded.
"Lauderdale, help the lady out."
Lauderdale saluted. He realized his back was hurting from standing up so straight. He was unable to relax in the presence of a superior officer. It was a survival-oriented trait in the Cav.
"Sir, yessir."
Ms Juillerat was striding out of the Ops Centre. Lauderdale followed. He tried to look as if he were not fixing his gaze on her movements as she walked. The Swiss was undoubtedly in great shape.
Ever since he had drawn this assignment, he had been wondering who exactly this foreign woman was. He judged her to be in her mid twenties, but whatever she did she wasn't new to it. She had confidence to spare, and had demonstrated a wide variety of surprising areas of knowledge. She knew cars and she knew guns, and she was well-briefed on the workings of the Cavalry. He understood that she was brought up to speak French and Italian and that English was the language she learned when she had mastered Latin (!), Spanish and Japanese. Lauderdale could get by in Spanish, but that was it. Whenever the conversation strayed from purely professional matters, she developed zipped lips. She wore no wedding ring and gave the impression of almost unapproachable singleness, but she had told the order she was married. The only thing she had let slip about her past was that she had been brought up mainly by nuns, and educated in Dublin, Rome and San Francisco.
"You will have my car fuelled and ready?"
"It'll be done."
"Good."
Ms Juillerat was something in computers, he guessed. She had paid particular attention when being shown around the datanet hook-up and the information storage and retrieval system. But she had been very careful not to reveal who she was working for, and what her business with the Road Cavalry was. Considering her base of operations, Lauderdale wondered if she mightn't be mafia. The Cav had made stranger allies in the past—it was common knowledge they had a treaty with the yakuza to protect certain business interests in return for a restraint on the part of the Japanese—and that would explain her reticence when questioned about her outfit. Like the yaks, the mafia probably broke no more laws in the course of its business day than the average multinat.
There was certainly a predatory cast to her fashion model's features—large, dark green eyes; long, straight nose; full, little-girl lips; clear, pale complexion—and he could imagine her executing a gangland hit without distaste or compassion. Lauderdale was brought up in front of the teevee, and Ms Juillerat, from different angles, kept reminding him of actresses: Diana Rigg as Emma Peel in the way she held her shoulders, Charlotte Rampling, Nastassia Kinski, Zoe Tamerlis in Ms .45, Audrey Hepburn, Judi Bowker in Out of Africa, Irish McCalla.
"I'd appreciate it if your ostler checked out my onboard weapons systems and communications links. I've not had time to run a thorough field test, and I'd hate to be let down."
One thing Lauderdale was certain of, Chantal Juillerat was an Op. A top-of-the-line Op, like Redd Harvest, Woody Rutledge, Harry Parfitt or the Cav's own Captain Buffalo. She wore a black catsuit that showed her figure. She was well-rounded, unmistakably womanly, but lithe. He figured she would have the muscle tone of a young she-leopard. Her black hair was cut functionally short, and she carried herself like a fighter. She had the balance, and she had the reflexes. This would be one lethal little lady to tangle with.