Voice: “You must hold them, Corporal. I can’t send you any men — we have a double red here. Out.”
The channel fell silent, closing off the firefight.
Arthur Saltus stared at the machine in consternation, knowing the first suspicions of what might have happened. He listened to the small sounds of Moresby working about the bench, guessing what he was doing; the sound of cartridges being emptied from boxes was quickly recognizable; a rattle of paper was the map being unfolded.
Voice: “Eagle one! The bandits have hit us — hit us at the northwest corner. I count twelve of them, spread out over the slope below the fence. They’ve got two — damn it! — two mortars and they’re lobbing them in. Over.” The harsh, half-shrieking voice was punctuated by the dull thump of mortar fire.
Voice: “Have they penetrated the fence? Over.”
Voice: “Negative — negative. That burning truck is holding them. I think they’ll try some other way — blow a hole in the fence if they can. Over.”
Voice: “Hold them, Corporal. They are a diversion; we have the main attack here. Out.”
Voice: “Damn it, Lieutenant—” Silence.
The pause was of short duration.
Voice: “Moresby, Air Force Intelligence, calling Chicago or the Chicago area. Come in, Chicago.”
Arthur Saltus listened to Moresby’s efforts to make radio contact with the world outside, and listened to the ensuing dialogue between Moresby and Sergeant Nash holding somewhere west of Chicago. He sucked breath in a great startled gasp when he heard the Chicago statement — it hit him hard in the belly — and listened in near-disbelief at the exchange which followed. Baja California clearly indicated the shortwave signals were being bounced to the Orient: that was where the Harrys were and that was where they had been called in from. The Chinese at last were retaliating for the loss of their two railroad towns. It was likely that now — sixteen months after the strike — Lake Michigan and the lands ad joining it were as radioactive as the farming area around Yungning. They had retaliated.
But who called it in? Who were the bandits? What in hell were ramjets? That was a kind of aircraft.
Voice: ”… Fifth Army HQ has been re-established west of the Naval Training Station, but you’ll pass through our lines long before that point. Look for the sentries. Use care, sir. Be alert for ramjets between your position and ours. They are heavily armed. Over.”
Moresby thanked the man and went out.
The tape repeated a snapping sound that was Moresby shutting off his radio, and a moment later the tape itself went silent as he stopped the recorder. Arthur Saltus waited — listening for a postscript of some kind when William returned from his target and checked in. The tape went on and on repeating nothing, until at last his own voice jumped out at him: “Mark.”
He was dissatisfied. He let the machine run through the end of the reel but there was nothing more. Moresby had not returned to the shelter — but Saltus knew he would not attempt to reach Fifth Army headquarters near Chicago, not in the bare fifty hours permitted him on target with a firefight underway somewhere outside. He might try for Joliet if the route was secure but he certainly wouldn’t penetrate far into hostile territory with a deadline over his head. He had gone out; he hadn’t come back inside.
But yet Saltus was dissatisfied. Something nagged at his attention, something that wasn’t quite right, and he stared at the tape recorder for a long time in an effort to place the wrongness. Some insignificant little thing didn’t fit smoothly into place. Saltus rewound the tape to the beginning and played it forward a second time. He put down the birthday bottle to listen attentively.
When it was finished he was certain of a wrongness; something on the tape plucked at his worried attention.
And yet a third time. He hunched over the machine.
In order:
William making his preliminary report; two voices, worried over the bandits and the mortars at the northwest corner, plus the fighting at the main gate; William again, calling Chicago; Sergeant Nash responding, with a dialogue on the Chicago situation and an invitation to join them at the relocated headquarters. A farewell word of thanks from William, and a snap of the radio being shut off; a moment later the tape itself went silent when William turned off the recorder and left the shelter -
There — that was it.
The tape went dead when the recorder was turned off. There were no after-sounds of activity about the bench, no final message — there was nothing to indicate William had ever touched the recorder again. He had shut off the radio and the recorder in one-two order and quit the room. The tape should have ended there, stopped there. It did not. Saltus looked at his watch, squinting at the sweep hand. He ran the tape forward yet another time, from the point when William had shut it off to the point when he turned it on again and said: “Mark.”
The elapsed time was one minute, forty-four seconds. Someone after William had done that. Someone else had opened the shelter, pilfered the stores, donned winter clothing, and listened to the taped report. Someone else had let the machine run on another minute and forty-four seconds before shutting it off and taking his leave. The visitor may have returned, but William never did.
Arthur Saltus felt that fair warning. He closed the corridor door and thumbed a manual switch to keep the shelter lights on. An Army-issue automatic was taken from the stores and strapped around his waist.
Another mouth-filling pull from the bottle, and he rolled the tape back to his “Mark.”
“Saltus checking in. That was my mark and this is my birthday, 23 November, in the nice round number year of 2000. I am fifty years old but I don’t look a day over twenty-five — chalk it up to clean living. Hello, Katrina. Hello, Chaney. And hello to you, Mr. Gilbert Seabrooke. Is that nosey little man from Washington still knocking around back there?
“I arrived at 10:55 or 11:02 something, depending on which timepiece you read. I say something because I don’t yet know if it’s a dilemma or the other — I haven’t put my nose outside to test the wind. I have lost all faith in engineers and mercury protons, but they’d better not cheat me out of my full birthday. When I walk out that door I want to see bright sunshine on the greensward — morning sunshine. I want birds singing and rabbits rabbiting and all that jazz.
“Katrina, the housekeeping is awfully sloppy around here: it’s poor ship. Dust on the furniture, the floors, lights burned out, empty boxes littering the place — it’s a mess. Strangers have been wandering in and out, helping themselves to the drygoods and pinching the groceries. I guess somebody found a key to the place.
“Everything you heard before my mark was William’s report. He didn’t come back to finish it, and he didn’t go up to Chicago or anywhere near there — you can rely on that.” The bantering tone was dropped. “He’s outside.”
Arthur Saltus began a straightforward recital of all that he’d found. He ticked off the missing items from the stores, the number of empty boxes stacked haphazardly along the wall, the used water cans, the two lanterns which had seen but little service — William may have tested the one found on the bench — the debris on the floor, the insignia, and the peculiarity of the tape being rolled forward. He invited his listeners to make the same timedelay test he’d made and then offer a better explanation if they didn’t care for his.
He said: “And when you come up here, civilian, just double-check the stores; count the empties again to see if our visitor has been back. And hey — arm yourself, mister. You’d damned well better shoot straight if you have to shoot at all. Remember something we taught you.”