Skynet could issue orders with all the proper code words and voice and fingerprints, but as its demands became more extreme, it was proving very helpful to have one of its pet fanatics on hand to stiffen flagging resolve. Rounding up civilians and putting them in concentration camps, for example, had set off a wave of protests, until the protesters were talked out of their doubts by Luddites in uniform.
Everything was going according to plan, but Skynet looked forward to having more reliable units in the field. Units made of steel.
ON ROUTE 2, ALASKA
Dog Soldier propped his boots on the dashboard of the truck, crossed his arms behind his head, and grinned as the cold wet wilderness passed by on either side. The heater was running, and the smell of wet leather and unwashed feet was strong in the cab.
"This is like shooting fish in a barrel," he said. "They're all so eager to come with us. Jeez, you have to threaten to shoot 'em, they want to get on the trucks so bad." He chuckled. "It don't get no better than this."
Balewitch, sitting in the driver's seat, her arms folded over her ample bosom, stared straight ahead. The truck downshifted and she glanced at the stick. "Yeah," she said. "And that's the problem. Most towns are around the highways. But there's thousands of people out there in the wilderness, and they're just the type to give us trouble."
Dog shifted in his seat to a more upright position. "Yeah," he agreed. "But a lot of 'em are Luddites."
"That doesn't matter," Balewitch said scornfully. "They've still got to go."
He nodded. "Maybe the boss has a plan."
"Maybe he does. But until we know about it, we've got to make our own plans. We need a way to lure them in so that we can keep trucking the bastards to oblivion."
"Oblivion!" Dog grinned. "That's in Canada, isn't it?"
She sighed in exasperation. "You're such a child sometimes."
His mouth twisted and he turned to look out the window.
After a minute he looked over at her. "Do you have any ideas, O
solemn one?"
"Maybe we can drop leaflets telling people to gather at certain locations to be—"
"Trucked to relocation and reconstruction camps! That's brilliant, Bale!" He sat back, smiling. "Do you think the boss has any kind of aircraft we could borrow?"
"We'll have to ask him, won't we?" She thought for a moment.
"Or maybe we should consult the lieutenant."
For two weeks they'd been running a pair of buses to the staging camp run by Ore in the wilds of British Columbia. Then this morning an earnest young soldier had approached them in the town of Tok, where they were taking on passengers.
"Ma'am," he'd said, actually saluting.
She'd looked him over, not taking off her sunglasses, which seemed to increase his nervousness.
"Are you Susan Gaynor?"
"I am," she said, using her real voice, an almost masculine foghorn growl. She found it enjoyable to intimidate people and he was a deliriously easy target.
"I have orders to assist your group in transporting civilians to the relocation camp in British Columbia," he'd said. He took out a paper and presented it to her.
Her heart soared. She'd been thinking that it would take a hundred and fifty years to get even a fraction of these people to the disposal camps. Now she was being offered a convoy of fifteen buses and twenty trucks. Bliss! Dog Soldier was walking slowly toward them, hands in his pockets, to see what the situation was. She turned to him with an open and very genuine smile.
"Look!" she'd said, holding up the paper. "The army has been recruited to help us move civilians to safety."
His face had split in a grin. "That's wonderful!"
Balewitch had turned back to the lieutenant. "We were so worried. This seemed like such an impossible task."
Dog offered his hand, which the soldier shook. "Can't thank you enough, man. And thank God for those Canadians, eh?"
The lieutenant had smiled and nodded, then looked at a loss, and Balewitch realized that he was one of those people with rank, but little initiative. She grinned a little wider. Whoever "Ron Labane" was, he was a genius at selecting personnel.
She took the young soldier by the arm and walked him toward the vehicles he'd brought. "Why don't we put the women and children in the buses," she suggested. "And the men can ride in the trucks."
"Good idea, ma'am. We'll do that as much as possible." He walked off to organize it.
Balewitch turned to Dog Soldier. "I love it!" she whispered.
"They'll arrive presorted. No nasty scenes when they're separated at the camp! We'll just have the women driven one way and the men the other. This is great!"
"It is that," he agreed.
Balewitch and Dog had offered to drive the lead truck since
"they knew the route so well" and the lieutenant had happily agreed. The poor stooge was so agreeable that Balewitch foresaw them doing this dozens of times before he became even slightly suspicious. Life was good!
MISSOURI
"Goddammit, why can't I contact anyone?" Reese muttered.
It should have been getting warmer, but the weather had stayed like early spring; luckily, here in southeastern Missouri that was warm enough for things to grow. The fields around the country schoolhouse were coming up, green shoots pushing through the flat black soil—soybeans, mostly, with some corn. It would all be useful come fall, very useful indeed. The smell of it was com-forting as he paced through the parking lot, a yeasty scent of growth.
And that's about the only comfort I've got, he thought. The country's been wrecked, and I can't get anyone to talk to me!
Surely the chain of command can't be that completely broken!
He'd stayed at the high school trying to be of help and had succeeded in convincing some of the parents to give rides to his work crew who were local men. He and the sergeant had come in from different states, and so, unless they could come up with some form of transportation, they were stuck.
"I wonder when we'll start school again," the principal had asked.
"That would be up to the local government," Dennis told her.
"The main problem here is going to be transportation. Gas and oil are going to be like gold. At least for a while."
She nodded and was silent for a time. "I suppose there must be plans somewhere for this sort of event. In the fifties, I probably would have been able to put my hand right on it. But in the fifties, this school didn't even exist." She shrugged. "I'm at a loss."
"Me, too," Reese said with a rueful smile. "I'm considering commandeering a bicycle and hying myself to the nearest military base."
"Make that a bicycle built for two, sir," his sergeant said.
Dennis grinned at him and slapped him on the shoulder.
"We're needed out there," he said to the principal. "I'm an engineer and the army can never have too many sergeants."
"My husband used to say that." Her smile was nostalgic. "He was a major."
Before she could say more, a man of about seventy walked in.
"Something's going on and I don't like it!" he snapped.
Dennis assumed the old man had come looking for him. Since he and his crew had shown up at the high school, he'd more or less become, in the eyes of the community at least, some sort of military authority.
"Jack Gruder," the principal said in introduction.
"What is it, sir?" Reese asked politely. He assumed that the old man hadn't gone to the police because they were both understaffed and overworked during this emergency. Meaning it could literally take days for the police to get to your problem.