Polar Shift

  NUMA 6 - Polar Shift

  36

  KARLA SURVEYED THE MEN in Confederate gray and Union blue who were crowding the suburban roads in their pickup trucks and SUVs.

  “I must have been mistaken,” she said. “I thought the Civil War was over.”

  “You have led a sheltered life,” Austin said. “The War of Northern Aggression is still alive and well. Holler the name of Robert E. Lee out the window and you'll recruit enough Rebel volunteers to reenact the Battle of Gettysburg.”

  Austin followed the traffic to a parking lot adjoining a large open field of a dozen or so acres. After parking the NUMA car, they joined the throng of spectators and Civil War reenactors streaming toward the field. Signs along the way announced that the military demonstration and steam car parade were being held to raise money for the Friends of the Manassas National Battlefield.

  Austin stopped a bearded man dressed in the butternut gray of an officer in Lee's army to ask directions.

  “Stonewall Jackson at your service,” the man said with a courtly bow.

  “Nice to meet you, General. You're looking well, considering. I wonder if you might know where the antique steam cars are gathered,” Austin said.

  Jackson squinted into the distance, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. “Technically speakin', cars weren't invented in 1861, so I don't know what you're talking about, suh. But if I did, I'd suggest that you might find what you're looking for near the Porta Pottis, which we didn't have back in my day.”

  “Thank you, General Jackson. Hope you enjoy the battle.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, tipping his hat at Karla.

  As she watched Jackson melt into the crowd, she said, “He really takes the part seriously, doesn't he?”

  Austin smiled. “Manassas was the first big battle of the Civil War. The Feds thought they were going to walk over the Rebels. People even came down from Washington with their picnic baskets to watch the battle, pretty much the same as they're doing today. The Confederates caught the breaks that day, but the Union eventually rallied.”

  “Why aren't we at the actual battlefield?” Karla said.

  “They tried a reenactment there some years ago. Things got kind of crazy, so they're holding it on private land.”

  Karla looked around. “I see what you mean about 'crazy.'”

  Austin grinned.

  “As old Stonewall might say, 'Save your blood. The South will rise again.' ”

  THE SIX MEN who pulled their motorcycles up to the parked van looked as if they had been cloned in a lab. They all wore goatees, and their widow's peaks had been trimmed to arrow-sharp points.

  Lucifer's Legion was an extreme group of neo-anarchists who felt that violence in advancing their cause was not only justified but necessary. Like their wild-eyed, bomb-tossing predecessors, they were the fringe of the mostly nonviolent anarchist movement, which wanted nothing to do with them. They traveled from city to city on their motorcycles, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake.

  When Margrave became part of the neo-anarchist movement, he enlisted the legion's help. He reasoned that since the Elites had the police, who were empowered to use physical force, and, in some situations, kill, he and his supporters should have a similar option. He bankrolled the legion, using them as his personal Praetorian Guard. He was amused at first when they grew beards and cut their hair to affect a satanic look that Margrave had come by naturally. After several anarchist protests they were involved in became unexpectedly bloody, he realized that they were out of control.

  He kept them on the payroll but used them less and less. He had readily accepted Gant's recommendation that he hire the security company for day-to-day operations. Margrave was initially surprised when Gant suggested that he use the legion to kill Austin and Karla, but he accepted the argument that in case anything went wrong the authorities would think that this was a rogue gang acting on its own.

  Margrave knew the legion's psychopathic tendencies better than Gant, which was why he had insisted that Doyle keep an eye on them. Doyle had removed the stick-on METROPOLITAN TRANSIT AUTHORITY letters from the van. When the motorcycles pulled up next to the vehicle, Doyle stepped out of the van and inspected the odd crew dismounting from their bikes with a friendly grin that masked his disdain.

  Doyle was a cold-blooded murderer, but with their glassy-eyed stares, fixed smiles and quiet-spoken voices these guys gave him the creeps. He hoped Gant knew what he was doing. He had worked, reluctantly, with the group from time to time. His own deadly expressions of violence were controlled and calculated. He killed for business reasons: to remove a competitor; to silence an informant. The undisciplined behavior of Lucifer's Legion offended his sense of order.

  He pointed at a turquoise Jeep in an adjacent row. “Austin and the woman are headed to the battlefield. We'll have to find them.”

  The legion's members seemed able to communicate with each other without speaking, moving in unison like a flock of birds or a school of fish. Acting like a unit, they fanned through the parking lot. They sighted a panel truck owned by a company called Gone with the Wind Costumes. A company employee was unloading a rack of period outfits for the more casual reenactors who didn't own their own uniforms. He found himself surrounded by six grinning clones. One clubbed him unconscious with a telescoping blackjack while the others used their bodies to screen the assault.

  They shoved the unconscious man into the back of the truck and rummaged through the collection until they found what they wanted. They carried their loot back to Doyle's van and changed into the costumes. In a short time, the bikers dressed in jeans and T-shirts were gone. In their place were three Confederate and three Union soldiers. They tucked sawed-off shotguns in their belts, then got back on their motorcycles and spread out like hungry wolves in search of prey.

  Doyle left the van and joined the flow of foot traffic. As he moved through the stream of spectators and costumed participants, he scanned the crowd like radar. Doyle had near-perfect vision that was a valuable asset for a hunter and his sharp eye picked out Austin's white hair. A second later, Doyle saw the attractive blond woman by Austin's side. Her face was the same one the computer in the van had identified as Karla Janos.

  He unclipped a hand radio from his belt and sent a quick message to Lucifer's Legion.

  AUSTIN HAD found the steamer cars. There were about twenty antique Stanleys lined up along the edge of the field. A middle-aged man with a clipboard in hand was moving along the line of cars.

  “I'm looking for someone with a little authority,” Austin said, purposely setting himself up for the old gag.

  The man grinned. “I've got as little authority as anyone.” He proffered his hand. “Doug Reilly. I'm president of the Virginia Stanley Steamer Club. What can I do for you?”

  “I'm looking for a car owner named Dirk Pitt.”

  “Oh sure, Pitt's the replica of the 1906 Vanderbilt Cup racer over there.” Reilly pointed to an open red car whose long rounded hood was shaped like a coffin. “There were only two originals and neither exists as far as we know. Engines from a Stanley, though. Great hill climber.”

  “Which one's yours?”

  Reilly led them over to a shiny black 1926 sedan and pointed out the car's unique features like a proud father. “You know anything about these old buggies?”

  “I drove one at a steamer rally once. I spent more time watching the controls than watching the road.”

  “That about sums it up,” Reilly said with a chuckle. “The Stanley Steamer was the fastest and most powerful vehicle of its day. A Stanley with the 'canoe' body broke the world's speed record with 127 miles per hour back in 1906. They deliver full power the second you hit the throttle. With their diesel drive, they could go from a standing start to sixty while most gas-powered cars were grinding through the gears.”

  “It's surprising that we're not all driving steam cars today,” Austin said.

  “The Stanley boys didn't want to mass-produce their cars. Henry F
ord turned out as many in a day as they did in a year. The 1912 Cadillac introduced the electric starter. These cars are all steaming, to save time. If the Stanley brothers had figured out how to make their cars start faster, and improved their production and marketing, none of us today would be driving what the Stanleys called an 'internal explosion engine.' Sorry for getting off track.”

  “Don't be sorry,” Karla said. “That was fascinating.”

  Reilly blushed. “All the other car owners have gone over to watch the reenactment. I'm keeping an eye on things here. When the battle's over, we're going to lead a parade around the field.”

  Austin thanked Reilly, and then he and Karla made their way toward the battle reenactment. From the sound of musket fire and artillery, the fighting had begun. As they walked across the wide field, they could see a crowd watching skirmish lines of blue and gray advancing toward each other. The muskets made a pop-pop sound from a distance, and the smell of gunpowder drifted their way.

  A couple of dozen other stragglers were headed toward the reenactment. Austin was giving Karla a history lesson on the Bull Run battles when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone moving laterally rather than with the general flow of foot traffic. The man cut across their path, stopped fifty feet ahead and turned to face them. It was Doyle, Gant's henchman.

  Doyle was close enough so that the unsmiling expression on his hard features was clearly visible. He stared at them a moment, then reached under his jacket. Austin saw the sun flash on metal in his hand. Taking Karla firmly by the arm, he guided her back the way they had come.

  “What's wrong?” she said.

  Austin's answer was drowned out by a guttural roar. Six Harley-Davidsons were speeding across the field in their direction. Three bikers dressed in Confederate army uniforms were closing from the left, and three in Union blue coming in on the right.

  Austin yelled at Karla to run. They sprinted across the field with the bikers closing in a classic pincers maneuver but skidded to a stop before they closed on their prey. A police car with its lights blinking was flying across the field. The vehicle sped past Karla and Austin and stopped. The police officer got out of the car and waved his hands.

  He was reaching for his book of tickets when a biker dressed in blue produced a shotgun from under his coat and took aim. The pow sound of the shotgun mingled with the noise of the musket fire. Shot in his leg, the policeman toppled to the ground. Without a look back, the bikers formed into a single line again and continued their pursuit.

  Reilly was buffing the shine on his sedan when he heard the pop of motorcycle exhausts. He looked up and saw Austin and Karla running toward him. His smile turned to a puzzled expression of horror when he saw the bikers in hot pursuit.

  Austin dashed up to the cars and told Karla to get into the red Stanley with the coffin nose. He slid behind the wheel. Reilly ran over to the car.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Call the police!” Austin said.

  Reilly gave him a blank look. “Why?”

  “To report a car theft,” Austin said.

  Austin heard the roar of motorcycle engines. The bikers were almost on them. He released the hand brake and unscrewed the throttle-lever lock on the steering post. Then he pushed the throttle lever forward. Steam flowed into the engine.

  The bikers were only yards away when the car smoothly accelerated with hardly any noise. Austin swung the steering wheel over. The Stanley narrowly missed the next car in line.

  Austin slammed on the brakes and whipped the wheel over a second later to avoid hitting a family with two young children who were crossing the road. Austin drove onto the field. Doyle tried to cut off their escape. He stood directly in their path, aiming at them with his gun clutched in both hands.

  Austin yelled at Karla to duck. Keeping his head low behind the steering wheel, Austin pointed the car directly at Doyle, who jumped to one side to avoid being hit. He tried to get off a shot. The car fender grazed his thigh, and the bullet went skyward.

  The steamer raced across the open field. Austin remembered that in a steamer, it was necessary to accelerate slowly to get steam up. He had to use all his concentration to deal with the gauges and controls for a half-dozen different functions.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror. The motorcycles were a hundred feet behind the car and closing fast. They were spread out at the start of a flanking maneuver that would squeeze the car between two lines of bikers. The car and its two-wheeled pursuers were approaching the crowd of spectators watching the military demonstration.

  Austin leaned on the horn. A few people looked his way, but the horn was drowned out by the musket and cannon fire. He braked the Stanley and blew his horn again. Someone finally noticed him. The crowd began to part. By then, the bikers were coming up on both sides of the Stanley.

  The steamer and its motorcycle escort raced across the smoke-filled open field between the Union and Confederate troops, who were drawn out in long lines facing each other. The musket and cannon fire halted. Austin heard a sound he hadn't expected. Applause.

  “Why are those idiots clapping?” Karla said.

  “They must think it's part of the act.” Austin let out a bloodcurdling screech as they passed between the opposing armies.

  There was alarm in Karla's face. “Are you all right?”

  Austin flashed a grin. “Hell, yes. I've always wanted to do a rebel yell. Hold on.”

  They were through the battlefield and headed toward a line of cannon brought in for the occasion. Austin braked so he could veer sharply off without a rollover. The bikers maintained their speed, and saw an opportunity to close in. The two leading bikers were only a few yards from the steamer's left and right fenders.

  Karla looked at the rider on the right and shouted, "He's got a gun!

  The biker was steering with one hand, and with the other he rested a gun on his arm with the muzzle pointed at Karla's head. Austin didn't think; he simply reacted. He jerked the wheel over and back.

  The heavy bumper crunched the rider's right leg. The bike wobbled as it fought to remain upright. Then the motorcycle flipped, tossing the biker like an angry steer. Austin tried to nail the other motorcycle, but the rider saw what had happened to his pal and easily skated off beyond reach.

  The car flew up a hill without slowing, then down the other side. Austin could see cars ahead, moving along a road that skirted the perimeter of the field. He had to dodge a stone wall and split-rail fencing, but, a moment later, the Stanley leaped over the berm and landed across two lanes of highway.

  He straightened the steering wheel and increased throttle. On the hard pavement, the car changed into a playful young filly that wanted to run. The hard rubber tires whirred on the macadam. He passed a couple of cars with the bikers hot on his tail, and once he was clear of traffic let the car's speed creep up to eighty. He saw a sign warning of a turnoff and feathered the brakes. The bikers fell back, suspecting a ploy.

  Austin wheeled the car onto an access ramp. The Stanley shot onto the main highway. Austin weaved in and out, but each time he tried the maneuver the more agile bikers stayed with him. He tried to shake them by increasing speed. He was doing ninety, then one hundred miles an hour. He could barely see with the wind blowing in his face.

  “Where's a traffic cop when you need one?” he yelled.

  Karla was scrunched down in her seat, trying to avoid the full blast of air.

  “What?”

  “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “You want to make a telephone call?” she said in disbelief.

  “No, I want you to make one. Call the state police and tell them there's a maniac in an old red car being chased by a bunch of bikers in Civil War uniforms. That should get their attention.”

  Karla nodded and dug in her pocket for a phone. She punched out an emergency number. When she got through to the police, she conveyed Austin's message. “They say they'll have someone check it out,” she said. “I'm not sure they believed m
e.”

  The bikers were moving up again. Austin was pushing the car's envelope. He should have been dealing with the various controls governing water level, fuel pressure, pilot and other functions, but he was too busy staying on the road.

  A moving shadow appeared suddenly on the highway. Austin glanced up and to the side. A helicopter was pacing them. “That was fast!”

  “It's not the police,” Karla said. “It's a television station traffic helicopter.”

  The helicopter appeared overhead and easily kept up with the chase. Austin frantically scoured his brain for a plan, but he had exhausted all his options. The car flew past an off-ramp. Austin glanced in the mirror and saw the bikes slow, then make a turn onto the ramp.

  “Our friends have deserted us,” he said.

  Karla turned just as the last Rebel soldier turned off the highway. “Why?” she said.

  “Camera shy. They don't want to be on the six o'clock news.”

  He slowed the car down to a manageable sixty. He and Karla waved up at the helicopter.

  They were still waving when three Virginia State Police cruisers caught up with them. Austin heeded the phalanx of flashing lights and the wail of sirens and pulled off the highway. The Stanley was immediately surrounded by armed police officers. Austin suggested to Karla that she keep her hands where the police could see them. Once the police got past their nervousness and checked Austin's license and NUMA ID, they seemed more interested in the steamer than its occupants.

  Austin told them about the six bikers who had tried to force them off the road. At his suggestion, they talked with someone at NUMA, who vouched for Austin. The television station backed up the biker story. After about an hour, Austin got his license back, and was told he and Karla were free to go.