They were in the motor pool, where the vehicles from the convoy were being worked over by oily mechanics. Lauderdale called over Trooper Grundy, an auto ostler, to show off some of the special features of the US Cav cruiser. Chantal listened politely, but didn't find out anything she hadn't learned from her researchwork.
"That's a nice machine you came in with, Ms," said the ostler. "A Ferrari?"
"Yes. It's standard issue."
"Your Agency must be well set-up."
"You could say that."
Lauderdale coughed. "If you'll come this way, Ms Juillerat, I'll show you our Ops Centre. It's the command module for the whole fort."
The captain led her into the central tower of the fort, and got her through the checkpoint. The girl at the desk asked for her details, but she flashed her authorization and the receptionist raised an eyebrow.
"Pass 'Go', collect two hundred dollars and Get Out of Jail Free, huh? We don't get many through like you. Did you have to sleep with someone important to get clearance like this?"
Chantal smiled. "I had to get married."
"Tough."
"It's very demanding."
The girl was filling out her badge. "You're telling me. I've been down the aisle three times. With me, it just didn't take."
She pinned the badge on Quintal's lapel.
"Right, take care of that. It'll open all the doors you're cleared to go through for you, but don't spill coffee on it or the thing shorts out and you'll be apprehended on sight as a security risk."
"I'll be careful."
Lauderdale guided her through the labyrinth. Smartly-dressed men and women hurried purposefully down the corridors. The air was full of communications. There were plaques, recording the names of cavalry personnel who had fallen in the line of duty. Trophies were mounted in glass cases. Geronimo's head-dress, Phil Sheridan's uniform, a canteen from Little Big Horn, a variety of arrows, a blood-clogged chainsaw from the Phoenix NoGo Campaign of Pacification, some dented hubcaps from Route 666, scraps of car bodywork with gangcult decals. Everybody was armed. As a child, watching television in Lucerne, Chantal had assumed that everybody in America carried a gun. Back then, it might not have been true.
"This is the Ops Centre," Lauderdale said, ushering her into a large, semicircular space dominated by an illuminated map. A sabre from the Battle of Washita was in a case over the map. Heads turned. Lauderdale saluted.
"Sir," he said.
A tallish, well-built man with an iron gray moustache returned the captain's salute. He must be in his fifties, but he looked fit enough to be a gladiator.
"Sir, this is Ms Chantal Juillerat, from Rome."
The officer extended a hand, which she shook.
"This is our commanding officer. Major General Younger."
"Brevet Major General Younger, Lauderdale. At your service ma'am."
"Thank you."
"You've been looked after?"
"I have."
"You like ossobuco?"
Chantal was fazed. "Why, I've never had it."
"Fine. You won't have anything to compare my efforts with. Eight o'clock sharp suit you? Dinner, I mean?"
Lauderdale, who turned into a statue with a steel backbone in Younger's presence, chipped in with "Ms Juillerat wanted to see our command centre, sir."
"Commendable, captain. Eight o'clock?"
"Certainly, Brevet Major General."
Lights moved on the big map, and people with headsets talked into their microphones. It was the kind of set Chantal remembered from teevee coverage of the space program in the late '70s, or from repeated secret agent shows from the '60s. The Man From UNCLE with Robert Vaughn, Mission: Impossible with Peter Graves, or Get Smart with Ronald Reagan. "What precisely are you doing at this moment?" she asked.
"Well, ma'am," began the Major General, "there are always many missions to keep track of. There's a GenTech convoy out of El Paso headed for San Bernardino. El Paso is the railhead for the vat-grown organs that come out of Mexico, and San Berdoo is GenTech's West Coast centre for transplant surgery. We're riding shotgun on a shipment of hearts, lungs and livers, I guess."
"GenTech are a major customer?"
The Major General looked stem for a moment. "The United States Cavalry doesn't have customers, ma'am. We are public servants. We're here for the taxpayers."
"I'm sorry. English is not my first language. Sometimes I make errors."
"Think nothing of it. You're right, GenTech do route much of their interstate traffic by us. I think that's a mark of confidence. The other corps do the same. And we do a lot of wagonmaster work."
"You shepherd the resettlers?"
"That we do. It's a tradition of the outfit."
"Do you have much connection with the Josephites?"
Younger paused. Chantal wondered if she had said the wrong thing, aroused his suspicion. Finally, he answered her, "no, not that much. At the first, we kept the route to Salt Lake open, but they have their own Ops now. I understand they do a decent job, but I'm not really up on the affairs of Deseret. I'm not sure if it's within our jurisdiction. It's only notionally part of the United States."
"Sir," cut in a woman at one of the tracking consoles. "We have a trace from Tyree."
Younger turned, and stood over the tracker, peering at the screen. There was a moving blip, travelling down an anonymous road.
"Put it up on the big screen, Finney."
Captain Finney, a plain, pleasant-laced person, punched some keys, and her picture took up the whole wall. There were placenames. Dead Rat, Friendly, Baker Butte, Poland, Crown King, Octave. The blip travelled last. It was the only thing moving.
"That's wrong," said Finney. "Tyree was supposed to swing by the Petrified Forest, check out Escadilla and come back by way of Tucson. She's in the Tonto Basin."
"You're sure it's her cruiser?"
Finney flicked some switches. "Double-checking. Yep, the radio's down, but the auto-recognition is still holding steady. She's moving flat out, pushing the capabilities of the cart if you ask me. That's Tyree all right. At least, that's her ve-hickle and it's not programmed for any other driver."
"Looks like we've got us a rogue. Vladek, muster some pursuits."
Colonel Rintoon got on the telephone, and scrambled some field units, ordering them to intercept. He held the receiver to his uniform chest and looked up at the screen, taking it personally.
Chantal was trying to follow this.
"Leona is true and blue, sir," said Finney. "She's Cav from the toes up. Something bad must be going down."
"I don't like this." Younger pulled out a cigar and chewed it unlit.
"Is this an unusual occurrence?" Chantal asked.
Younger chewed some more, and looked pained. "I should say so. You can't hijack a Cav cruiser. It shuts down unless you feed it your personal code, and it even double-checks your body heat pattern. There's only human error."
"And what exactly has gone wrong?"
"Sergeant Tyree—a good soldier—appears to have gone renegade. She's obviously not in pursuit of anything, and she's way off her course. She's twelve hours overdue on a return to the fort, and she hasn't called in since some time yesterday afternoon. She's got a Trooper and a liaison from Turner-Harvest-Ramirez with her."
"I have a response from a patrol," said Rintoon. "Conway and Mixter are up on Mogollon Mesa. They can come down and interface with Tyree and Stack. If they need help, Conway'll give it. If they've turned, Conway'll put an end to that."
Finney looked as if she was about to protest, but she let it go. Younger nodded, and Rintoon relayed the order. A new blip appeared on the screen, moving in a course set to intercept the original light.
"Who's the T-H-R guy? What do we know about him?"
Rintoon had the facts. "Kenneth Kling. A nobody. No record at all. He just has a nuisance value assignment."