Too bad about Senator Enderby. Younger had never believed anything those three Filippino houseboys had said on teevee during the MRA hearings, and he knew for a fact that the alleged monies paid by the Hammond Maninski and T-H-R Agencies to the Senator had been in the nature of remuneration for his work as a consultant with regards to the niceties of the law he had designed. But Big Chuck had let Enderby go to the wall. Younger bet the President had cried about it, but you had to put personal relationships beneath duty, service, your country and what was right. That was the only way to be.
There was a framed photograph of President North around somewhere, but Younger couldn't bear to put it where it showed. After Big Chuck, Solly Ollie was such a come-down. Heck, who needed a Prezz who couldn't cut it in the Marines and had to fall back on politics to carve himself a career?
Younger had been using his few minutes' peace and quiet to indulge himself. He had unlocked the cabinet in which he kept his leather-bound books. This was his private library, his one indulgence. On the spines, they all had titles like Statutes and Proceedings of the State of Arizona, 1989-1994 and Complete United States Cavalry Regulations, Vol. VI, but inside they were his kind of books. Every once in a while, he would haul one down and pick a page at random, then indulge in his most extravagant fantasies, assembling in his mind the makings of an orgiastic wallow in excess and voluptuousness.
Today, he had turned up one of his favourite peccadilloes. Potato dishes.
He ran through the variations. Creamed potatoes with soured cream and chives. Creamed potatoes with nutmeg. Stuffed jacket potatoes with garlic and herbs. Pommes de terre boulangere. Gratin dauphinois. Saute potatoes Lyonnaise. Saute potatoes Nicoise. New Jersey potatoes with fresh herb butter. Buffalo fries with rocksalt and guacamole.
He ran his fingers over the glossy illustrations. He checked off the ingredients against his mental inventory. His kitchen was reasonably well stocked for this ass-end-of-nowhere posting, but there were so many things he had not been able to get shipped out, even with his pull in the service. His mouth was full of saliva and smoke. He swallowed them both, and slipped the cookbook back into its space, locking the case.
He saluted Big Chuck again. The Ex-President would understand Younger's needs.
He checked his quartz digital pocket watch against the antique long-case clock from the original fort. It was time to make the rounds, time to prod the people who needed prodding and give a nod of approval to the personnel who didn't.
Outside his office, he accepted the salutes of several passing junior officers. Colonel Rintoon, his second-in-command, was waiting for him, clipboard tucked under his arm.
"Good morning, sir," he snapped.
"Morning, Vladek. Any surprises overnight?"
"Overdue patrol, sir."
"Hmmn. How long?"
"The full twelve hours. No radio contact. No distress blip. Tyree, Stack, and a T-H-R Op, Kling."
"Well, we can't lose one of our associates like that. Get a fix on their current position, and try to re-establish lines of communication. Anything else?"
Vladek looked at his clipboard. "Weekly convoy just in. Badalamenti reports sixteen pick-ups on the road. Maniax mostly, but we've got a stray Virus Vigilante, and a Psychopomp."
"The 'pomps are supposed to be history since that business at Spanish Fork."
"There are one or two left. Always are."
"It's not Jessamyn Bonney, by any chance?"
"No sir, I would have said. It's some low-rent ratskag. She barely shows up on the seedings."
"You've checked warrants on the intake. Anything outstanding?"
"The usual. Multiple homicide, driving without due c and a, line-running, highway piracy."
"Process 'em, and ship 'em out, then."
"Already taken care of."
"Good work."
Younger and Rintoon strolled through the fort, crossing the courtyard from the admin block to the Ops Centre. The space was enclosed, but three storeys tall. Cruisers and cykes were being stripped and serviced in the motor pool. Sergeant Quincannon was squarebashing some new recruits on the parade ground. Everybody who had a job was doing it, which was the way it should be.
In the centre of the courtyard was an imposing statue, symbolizing the heritage of the service. General Custer, Teddy Roosevelt and Trickydick Nixon, shoulder to shoulder, six-guns waving, with Dwight D. Eisenhower holding up the star-spangled banner behind the grouping. Some drunken Trooper had shot Nixon in the face. The culprit was still in the guardhouse, but Younger couldn't say he was entirely upset about the vandalism. The Ex-President looked a sight better without his ski slope nose, and Younger had never been convinced that he would have known what to do with the Buntline specials the sculptor had given him.
"What about our guest, sir?"
"The Italian woman?"
"Swiss, sir. She works out of Rome, but she's a Swiss national."
"Whatever. She's getting the tour?"
"Lauderdale's looking after her."
"Good man."
Sergeant Quincannon saluted as Younger and Rintoon walked by, and his troop raggedly followed suit. Younger bothered to return the Quince's gesture. The red-faced Irishman was just the kind of soldier he wanted in his command. He was three times the man drunk that most of the rest were sober. Which was a useful trait to have, since he was a frequent imbiber of Shochaiku Double-Blend.
"What do we do with her later? When she's seen everything?"
"Full co-operation, all down the line. That's come through channels, so don't get in her way. I understand it's international, so don't embarass the government."
"You mean we should…"
"Snap to and shape up, Vladek, snap to and shape up. She's a fully-trained Op, probably has more kills than Redd Harvest to her credit. Go along with her as far as you can. Just don't get us into trouble, okay?"
"Okay and affirmative."
"Good man."
The doors of the Ops Centre slid open, and the officers stepped in. The Trooper on the desk gave them retinal and palmprint checks, established that they were the people whose faces they were wearing and logged them in.
"By the way, extend my invitation to Ms Juillerat for dinner this evening. Also you and Hendry Faulcon, Captains Lauderdale and Finney, Doc King and Lieutenant Colosanto. That's boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl. I'll cook. Ossobuco. That's shin of veal in white wine with tomatoes, garlic, lemon, parsley and fresh-milled black pepper."
"I'll take care of that sir."
"Make her feel at home. Italian food. Of course, if she's Swiss, maybe I should switch to fondue bourgignon."
"That's your decision, Colonel."
They entered the despatch room. Personnel were at their consoles, tracking and logging. A map of the territory took up one wall. Dozens of lights moved on the map.
"Now," said Younger, "about that overdue patrol?"
III
They were back inside Fort Apache, and Lauderdale was explaining the day-to-day duties of the Road Cavalry to her. "We patrol the interstates regularly, keep in touch with the outlying settlements There are still some sandside communities out there. And there are motorwagon trains to escort, and convoys to keep track of. And, of course, there are the gangcults. Mainly, we just try and find out where they are these days. The wars are over. We don't seek to engage the enemy unless we have to. The recent joint action against the Maniax is fairly atypical. Some of the private agencies like to strut their stuff from time to time. It makes their customers think they're getting service."