Jack Yeovil - Comeback Tour
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2024-12-18
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Commander Lawrence Jerome Fonvielle gritted his teeth and held back tears as the console lights went
out, bank by bank. The technicians were calmly proceeding with the shutdown, going from desk to desk,
flicking switches and pulling wires. They were as thorough and efficient as he would have demanded them
to be, had he still been responsible for issuing their orders. His title was almost purely honorary, now.
You couldn't be a Commander when the Suits took your command out from under you.
"We have a splash-down, sir," said Wardle, still monitoring the Big Screen. "Dead centre of the target
area."
The Old Magic. American Know-How. It was still there.
"The USS Eisenhower is deploying the Sikorskis to pick up Santini's men."
Fonvielle nodded. He could not count the number of splashdowns he had anxiously lived through. This,
he knew, would be the last.
Bobbing out there in the South Pacific in their Vulcan capsule were the last generation. Eleven men and
three women in a tin can, waiting to be choppered out before the spacecraft sank.
"CampGlennis still operational, sir. Good steady signals."
Fonvielle could not reply. He looked at the monitors. The base in theSeaofTranquillity , so recently
evacuated, would continue its measuring, evaluating and transmitting long after there was anyone on Earth
interested in the data. These days, if there wasn't any money in it, no one gave a damn. Fonvielle was an
old-time fighter jock himself, and the new math gave him a headache, but he could appreciate the beauty
of the data. He understood the gleam in the scientists' eyes as they pored over the rock samples or the
graph curves.
The Dream wasn't about money. It wasn't just about data, either, but that was part of it. The Dream was
about Victory. This wasAmerica 's purest conquest, the fulfilment of a national destiny. The wars were
still being fought, the war for the ownership of the sky." Fonvielle still believed what he had heard all
through his training. The sky belonged to the men who could take it, to the men with the Right Stuff. The
Dream was about sticking your hand into the sky and making a fist, holding it fast.
"Edwards has been monitoring steadily since last night," said Wardle. "I'm closing our contact."
Fonvielle had done his year in Tranquillity back in the '60s, when Richard Nixon was president and the
Needlepoint System was still in the planning stages. He rememberedCampGlenn as a peaceful place; his
off-duty time spent suited up outside the dome, his intercom down, the silence and stillness stretching out
forever, had been the most intense experiences of his life. None of his marriages had offered any hours to
compare with those. He had been withdrawn from the spaceside of the programme after a psychiatric
evaluation diagnosed him as prone to what they were calling Raptures of the Stars, that curious
detachment that affected long-term astronauts. A lot of space jocks got religion when they flopped down
to Earth, or cracked up. Fonvielle had just hiked himself up the chain of command. If he couldn't have the
sky himself, he would make sure that his country kept its grip on it.
"Excuse me, sir."
An orange-suited technician slipped between him and the Tranquillity Monitor, and broke the contacts.
The screen winked out. Glenn was still transmitting, but its signal was being fed into a computer bank at
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Edwards now. The administration trusted the machines to alert them if the automatic sensors came up
with anything interesting.
The Needlepoint System. That was where the programme had sailed into choppy waters. It had been
President Nixon's legacy. Trickydick had done so well with his 1960 inaugural promise to put an
American on the moon by 1965, with Glenn and Schirra touching down a full nine months ahead of
schedule, that he had resolved publicly to do something about the balance of power, and sworn to ring
the Earth with a series of weapons satellites capable of knocking out a flight of Soviet bombers
scrambling in Tashkent, or, indeed, a cockroach scuttling across a loft floor in Harlem.
A woman came into the control room with an armful of semi-opaque polythene sheets, and doled them
out. They fitted over the equipment like loose condoms, and gave the consoles, monitors, terminals and
databanks a ghostlike feel. Now the dust could settle in peace.
Fonvielle had been second-in-command of the Needlepoint Project when Nixon gracefully bowed out in
'68, passing on the presidential seal to Barry Goldwater. Then, NASA had really screwed the pooch.
During the years of struggle and failure, as system after system crashed, he had fought long and hard with
his subordinates at suppressing the nickname everyone in NASA was using for the programme. The
Needledick System.
Wardle took off his headphones, and dropped them on his desk. The usual cluttermdashpictures of his
kids, coffee cups, markerpens, scribblepads, the Mickey Mouse mugmdashhad been cleared away. He
was the last of them. And he would be transferring tomorrow. A few ot the lesser lights were dim enough
to put up with the travesty at Edwards. The rest were quitting the service. The private sector was
dangling fat contracts in front of more than a few NASA personnel, particularly ex-astronauts with
high-profile names. But Fonvielle knew those jobs were just glamour assignments, with no guts. The
corporate space programmes didn't need men, they needed human adding machines with currency
symbols carved on their hearts.
"The Eisenhower just hauled Santini and the rest out of the drink. That's over with."
Fonvielle couldn't trust himself to reply.
"Chrissie Farren says 'hi'."
Fonvielle nodded. Chrissie had been the third woman in space. He remembered her as an eager-beaver
lieutenant. The jocks had taken bets about who would get first into her electrically-heated long Johns. He
couldn't remember who, if anyone, had swept the pool.
Wardle was disengaged from his console now. He pulled on his civilian jacket, and walked away.
Fonvielle had been among the first to transfer to NASA, shifting from the X-11 programme in the '50s.
And now he was one of the last to get out of the kitchen.
The heat had really started with President Agnew. Spiro T. had insisted on seeing some return for the
billions of federal dollars that had been flushed into the bowl of the Needlepoint Project. Fonvielle had
argued the System wasn't ready for testing. He knew only too well that the bugs needed a through
ironing-out.
After the moonbase fiasco, when Needlepoint had come within fifteen feet of breaching the dome during
the test run, Agnew had ridden hard on NASA. Senate Committees were set up, and the Suits
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descended on Houston and Canaveral. Men with ledgers eased men with vision out of their seats.
The space programme had had a twenty-year run, and the gravy days were over.America had
conquered the moon, and left the Soviets and their sputniks standing.Russia had had too many internal
problems to divert the funds toStarCity , and their programme had fizzled when the first man into space
rained back on the steppes as microscopic ash. His name had been Yuri Gagarin, Fonvielle remembered.
The Soviets could have recovered, but the pointless war inVietnam had drained all their military and
scientific muscle.StarCity had been a ghost town for ten years.
A ghost town. Just like Canaveral would be tomorrow.
"Sir?"
Fonvielle was distracted. The matronly woman in charge of the shut-down shoved a clipboard at him.
"Your signature, sir. By the X."
She handed him a pen, and he scrawled.
"Thank you, sir."
The lights on the big board went out one by one.
Fonvielle remembered the American dead. The. programmes had all been costly. Mercury, Gemini,
Apollo, Hercules, Pegasus, Circe,Argos , Vulcan. But there had always been men and, for the last seven
years, women. Everyone wanted to cross the threshold, and reach into space. He had lost friends to the
stars. More than he should have. Alan Shepard, Grissom, Cap Collins, Capaldi, Len Nimoy, Rusoff,
Mikko Griffith, Mildred Kuhn, Mihailoff, Hamill, Con Lindsay, Garret Breedlove. The white heat of the
early '60s, with Nixon riding them for results, had been exhilarating at the time, but the historians were
right. Corners had been cut, and the drive to get Apollo together had killed too many people. He
remembered the blown hatch that had taken Grissom, lightheaded from the first spacewalk, to the bottom
of the ocean. And the computer error that had turned Richard Rusoff into a second moon, silently
orbiting the Earth for a projected five centuries before the burn-up cremated his dried and preserved
body. And the fuel leak which had burned up Griffith, Kuhn and Mihailoff in an instant just before
take-off.
But it had taken the Needlepoint failures to bring down the programme.
Needlepoint was up there somewhere, glinting in the night sky. A ring of satellites, fully equipped with
laser weapons, hanging useless in their erratic orbits. It would be at least thirty years before they started
tumbling towards the ionosphere or out into space. Every time an American strategist looked up at the
stars on a clear night, he would be reminded of the money pit the Needlepoint System had turned out to
be. And he would curse the memory of President Trickydick Nixon. And of Commander Lawrence
Jerome Fonvielle.
They left him alone, and turned off the main lights. He stood in the dark, surrounded by dead machines.
At last, he could give in. Tears coursed down his cheeks, and his entire body was racked with silent
sobs.
He slumped onto a polythene-covered swivel chair, and wiped his leaking eyes.
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The skeleton programme NASA was keeping up at Edwards Air Force Base was a joke. Just a few
green airmen peering at the monitors to make sure all the government-owned satellites were still spinning
in their orbits, keeping out of the way of all the private junk. Agnew had given up the country's hold on
the sky, and left only a few multinats in the space market. And all they were interested in was throwing up
a horde of little silver balls so they could beam porno into the depths of the Amazon basin, or shift
electronic blips of money fromSwitzerland toOsaka . The age of the explorers, the pioneers and the
heroes was over. The Suits had thrown it away, and now the merchants were moving in.
His face dry at last, he swore to keep the Dream alive.
PART ONE:DIXIE
I
"C'mon, Jesse Garon, don't fail me now..."
Whenever he was alone, which was most of the time, the Op talked to Jesse Garon as if his brother
were there. In a sense, he was. In the backwoods, they said that when one of identical twins died, the
survivor would carry the baby's soul for the rest of his natural life.
"C'mon..."
Despite his thick leather waders, the cold of the Mississippi Delta swamp was seeping into his legs. He
had been in one place for over two hours, since before sundown, waiting for the attack to come.
On a still night, you could hear the helicopters coming from a long way away. He had enough time to
take the rocketlauncher out of its watertight case, and load up with a GenTech one-shot Ground-to-Air
missile. The weapon was heavy on his shoulder, but he stood his ground, putting up with the ache, his
right eye to the nightsight.
Around him in the swamps, the cicadas trilled. There were water moccasins weaving across the surface
of the rancid waters, and he had heard that the 'gator population was rising now they were raising the
reptiles for food. But he'd been trailing through swamps all his life, and nothing had bitten him to death
yet.
He wore a heavy black leather jacket, zipped up to his chin. Underneath, his shirt was a vivid pink. He
didn't want that flash of colour in the night, marking him out as a target for the CAF. His face and hands
were camouflage-streaked.
Finally, he heard the whup-whup-whup of the spidercopters. The CAF nightriders were flying out
ofVicksburg in precise military manoeuvers, raiding, extracting tribute, coralling a load of indenture boys
and girls, and retreating. They were connected in the state legislature, the Op knew. Indenture was a
profitable system for the corps and politicos. In boardrooms across the world, they had wet dreams
about workers you don't have to pay. The swampies had tried to get some official law in to deal with the
Confederates, but no one was interested. They had had to pool their money and hire themselves some
protection.
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When he was first mustered out of the army, back in '60, he had gone to a Western movie with his
Mama Gladys and the Original Colonel. The Magnificent Seven. In that picture, a group of poor Mexican
fanners were being terrorized by a gang of bandidos led by Eli Wallach. They put all their money together
and appealed to some American gunfighters to come and help them out. Although they had very little, the
cowboy heroes agreed to fight and mostly die for the farmers. Back then, when he was taking down
$10,000 a week, he hadn't believed those seven gunfighters would really take the job.
But here he was, nearly forty years later, with a rocketlauncher cricking his neck, preparing to go into
battle with a couple of chopperloads of Klan-hooded killerscum for what amounted to a potful of beans
and some used-up cashplastic tokens.
He could see the spidercopters now, stealthing their way across the bayou, ripple-patterning the waters.
They were painted with the stars and bars, and they were packing enough hardware to burn out a small
town. Which, since Mayor Kettle had refused to pay tribute or hand over any more young people as
indentees, was exactly what they planned to do to what was left ofYazooCity .
The New South was full of factions like the Confederate Air Force, semi-official gangcults with some
money behind them. With the gradual erosion of centralized government and the permeation of the state
law-enforcement agencies by the big corps, a whole slew of patriotic warlords had set out to carve
themselves little empires.
The Commander-in-Chief of the CAF was a dyed-in-the-wool white supremacist fanatic called Burtram
Fassett whose last gangcult had called themselves the Knights of the White Magnolia and operated out
ofPhoenix . Turner-Harvest-Ramirez had broken up that crap game in the early '90s, but now he was in
the bigotry and intolerance business again, lording it over a cadre of tightly-drilled white trash soldiers
dreaming of white-columned, ivy-swathed mansions they'd never get their dirty boots into. Robert E. Lee
would have had them shot down like dogs, but they sang "Dixie," "The Bonnie Blue Flag" and "I'm a
Good Old Rebel" while they were burning out black churches and families, and could recite all the
dialogue from Gone With the Wind if prompted. The South had always raised as good a crop of hatred
as of cotton.
There were three spidercopters, moving in the classical arrowhead formation. The Op had flown similar
ships inCentral America in the '80s, and remembered how devastating it had been when the Sandinistas
got hold of weapons like the one he was hefting right now. He grinned at the memory of high-tech
engines of death crashing in flames in the jungle. It was time the CAF birdmen got a taste of their own
napalm...
The young men of Yazoo Citymdashdespite its name not much more than a collection of
swamp-harvester's huts these daysmdashwere spread out through the swamp, hefting rusty burpguns and
flamethrowers. The Op had drilled them for a few weeks, and knew they would do their best. They
couldn't hope to stand up to Fassett's forces for any length of time, but he was counting on the CAF
being so spooked by meeting any resistance at all that they went to pieces. That was more than likely.
The fanatics were always the first to run when you shot back. He remembered only too well being the
only one to stand tall outsideManagua when the government troops popped out of the ground. Those
Contra yellowbellies Uncle Sam had had him supporting probably hadn't stopped running.
The lead copter hovered, and its attendants held their places in the formation, noses slightly down,
weapon arms bobbing. The Op had the flying machine in his sights, and initiated the launch sequence. The
LED below the sight counted down from twenty. He found himself twitching to the beat of the LED, his
hips moving in his waders, his free hand clicking his fingers to the music only he could hear. The music he
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had heard all his life. A hatch opened in the spidercopter, and the cross speared down into the swamp,
rooting itself deep into the mud bottom, only slightly askew. The Op raised the rocketlauncher as the
chopper lifted up. The cross exploded into flame, and stood there burning.
Thirty yards to the left, William Soule swore. 95% of the citizens ofYazooCity were poor and black, and
that put them high on the CAF's list of undesirables.
The spidercopter to the left squirted bunting napalm in a high arc over the swamp. The CAF knew there
were people down in the waters waiting for them, and were trying to end it early. Large things crashed
through the burning waters, and the Op hoped his line of defence would hold. It was time. It was time to
rock and roll. The rocket whizzed out of the launcher, and he had the weapon back in its case before it
struck home. The pilot saw it coming too late, and tried to take evasive action, but the missile's inbuilt
homing system adjusted its course. It exploded dead centre on the spidercopter's nose, and the craft's
napalm tanks went up. It was like a small sun for a moment, and then fell in fiery metal chunks into the
swamp. The Op held a clump of hanging moss as the wave hit him at chest-height. Water slopped into his
waders, and he was nearly knocked over.
The other copters were rising out of range, computerized baffle systems coming on-line to defer any
further high-tech assaults. The Op didn't mind that. He knew he would only have one shot with the tube.
The baffles meant that the CAF couldn't use any of their smart missiles on him either.
Unslinging his G-Mek Rapide full-automatic machine gun, he sloshed across the swamp towards the
island where the first wave would be coming down. It was the only semi-solid footing for a mile or so,
and the CAF commandos would naturally strike for it.
There were bursts of flame as the CAF blundered into the booby-traps they had set earlier.
"Whoo-eeee," yelped Soule, punching the air. "Gonna fry us some hoodhead honkie ass tonight!"
The Op signalled to Soule, and the kid passed the order on. The Yazoo Krewe were to move in.
One of the spidercopters was over the island, men on ropes abseiling down from it. They were mainly
frozen in mid-air since the first explosions, but a few of the hoodheads on the ground were calling for
back-up. The other chopper had withdrawn to a safe height and was laying down more napalm.
People were screaming, trying to get the stuff off them. The Op knew that was hopeless. The best you
could hope for with a GenTech napalm product was a quick death from traumatic shock. This new stuff
was bio-based and bonded with your tissue on first contact. It burned inside you until there was nothing
left to burn. And it burned underwater, so pulling yourself into the swamp was no help. He hoped the
Yazoo Krewe hadn't lost too many.
The CAF was laying down conventional fire now, but they hadn't got the range yet. Bullets threw up little
splashes twenty feet behind them.
"Pore-ass motherfreakers," Soule yelled. "Ofey ratskaggers, lowbrow cornhole connoisseurs!"
The Op wished the kid would concentrate on the action, rather than taking the time to use his extensive
vocabulary.
"Shape up, Soule," he shouted. "This is serious."
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"Yes, Colonel," the boy snapped.
The Op sighted on a hoodhead who seemed to be directing the ground troops on the island, and took
him apart with a burst. That should throw some confusion into the ranks.
Matthew Croke, theYazooCity selectman who had visited him inMemphis , floated by, half his head shot
away. He rippled through the reflection of the burning cross.
Soule saw the man in the water, and swore again. He lifted his 'gator-baiter rifle and sniped three hoods
in a row, bringing them down with precise heartshots.
They still couldn't decide whether to land more gunmen or pull out entirely. The spidercopter was
hovering indecisively. Its lase swivelled, and burned a line across the ground. The grass singed, and
smoked.
The Op whistled, a pre-arranged signal, and the Yazoo Krewe stormed the beaches like John Wayne
hittingIwo Jima . The Op rapid-fired his weapon, jitterbugging a group of hoodheads.
Soule and three others were assembling a mortar under the cover of a dead tree. The Op gave them
some covering fire while they got the thing put together, and took a couple of shots at the copter. A
hoodhead fell from his rope, and splashed into the swamp. Someone up theremdashprobably
chickenheart Fassettmdashmade a decision to cut the ground troops loose and make a tactical retreat,
and the copter shifted in the air, its updrafts humming.
Come on, Soule.
"On line. Colonel," Soule shouted.
"Take the bird down," he ordered.
The kid's grin was a line of white in the night, and he worked the lever.
The shell rose in an arc, and peaked a few feet too low. It came down on the other side of the island,
exploding shrapnel into the thick greenery.
The spidercopter was still lifting, not yet up to speed. Its blades rhythmically sliced the air.
"Give it another fifty feet," he judged.
"Sure thing, Colonel," Soule replied.
The adjustment was made, and the next shell exploded in the belly of the copter. The left nacelle, which
housed the lase and the napalm squirters, was dislodged and tumbled downwards, flames flickering
around it, the stars and bars peeling.
"Down," the Op ordered, throwing himself to the soft, muddy earth and sinking his face into it.
He heard the explosion as the napalm tank burst, and felt scraps of fire on the back of his jacket. He
rolled quickly back into the water, and stayed under, holding the air in his lungs.
This wasn't doing his clothes any good.
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His eyes open, he realized that above him the surface of the water was a dull orange. The area was on
fire. He heard the blood pounding inside his head.
He kicked and swam until there was a cool darkness above him, and, chest bursting, spluttered his way
to the surface. He coughed and spat water and shook his thick hair. He had been born with
blondish-brown hair. It might be greying now, but he'd been dyeing it black since his early twenties. His
years in the army and, then, the Op business, had kept him in trim. But all the regen treatments in the
world and the personal attention of Dr Zarathustra couldn't take the years away. His face was unlined,
but he was 64 years old.
The copter was coming down in a lazy spiral, burning hoodheads bailing out, splashing into the pool of
napalm. The cicadas were quiet now, and there was only the sound of human pain to disturb the swamp.
Quite a few of the Yazoo Krewe would have been killed by the exploding napalm tank. The Op blamed
himself. He should have known what would happen. There was no point in winning the battle if there was
no one left at the end to get the benefit.
Guns still chattered as Fassett's hoodheads and Soule's Yazoo Krewe exchanged fire between the
hanging curtains of Spanish moss.
A man on fire ran at him, firing wildly, and he put a shot in his head. Camouflage robes tented around
him as he sank into the dark waters.
The Op realized he was up to his neck in the swamp now, and that his footing was none too good. The
napalm had driven him further away from the island than was advisable.
He struck towards the shore, avoiding the floating patches of fire, shaking the water out of his
guaranteed moisture-proof Rapide. Something crashed out of the swamp a few feet away, and he swung
around to open fire. The gun squelched as he pulled the trigger, and he swore to get his money back.
The hoodhead was huge, easily six-seven, and built like a professional wrestler. He had IR shades over
his cloth face, and was holding up a two-foot-long dagger with a wickedly serrated edge. They sure grew
their rats big inVicksburg .
The Op had his combat knife out of his belt, and held it just under the water. The hoodhead slipped
himself onto it, taking the steel up to the hilt in his hard belly, just under the ribcage.
He screamed in rage, and blood darkened his hood over his mouth, but he was still slashing wildly.
The Op got a lock on the hoodhead's wrist, and tried to crush the bones, but they felt durium-laced.
"Nigra-lover," the hoodhead spat.
The Op carved into the man's gut, feeling the entrails uncoiling under the water like anemone tendrils.
His enemy had lost the dagger, but got a surprisingly strong grip on his throat. The Op corded his neck
muscles, and kept the air passage open. He had Zarathustra threads in there, and could lock his pipes
open. But the hoodhead was more interested in pulling him under the water than throttling him.
The Op struck a couple of karate blows to the hoodhead's neck, and felt the grip relaxing, but only
slightly. Out of the water, his karate training would tell and he would be able to use the man's weight
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against him. Here, they were just a couple of scratching and biting animals.
The 'gator came from somewhere, and latched onto the hoodhead. It must be the intestines trailing in the
water, calling to predators, signalling the presence of something mortally wounded and edible. The Op
kicked in the water, and swam away from the thrashing mass where the reptile was clamping its jaws into
the hoodhead, tearing limbs free, scattering blood in droplets. A hand reached for a frag, and flipped the
top.
The Op threw himself under the waters again, as his merciful grenade blew hoodhead and 'gator to
pieces. The Shockwave knocked him off balance, and he felt his hand sink into the mud as he tried to
steady himself. His Rapide, still slung around his arm, floated on the surface, pulling him up.
He broke the waters, and struggled towards the island. The fighting was dying down.
The third spidercopter was gone. The CAF had been stung badly, and were withdrawing.
There were dead and burned people floating thick around the island. With their skins and clothes
napalmed off them, they all looked the same colour.
The gunshots weren't so frequent now. The fighting was more or less over. The cross had burned itself
out. There was a half-hearted cheer as it toppled hissing into the swamp.
The Op pulled himself out of the swamp, water cascading out of his clothes, and walked across the
island. Soule was down on one knee near the crashed chopper, a friend trying to tighten a tourniquet
around his leg. His boot was exploded, and three of his toes were gone.
Soule grinned, and gave the Op the thumbs-up.
"We rocked," he said. "We rocked and rolled!"
His leathers heavy with water, his hair over his face, the Op walked towards the wreckage. The Yazoo
Krewe were clustered around a few wounded and captured hoodheads, prodding them with rifles,
kicking them with steel-toed boots. The CAF were yelping as they took their punishment. Chickenhearts
to a man, the Op guessed.
Ellroy Kettle, the Mayor of Yazoo City, was laying into the head of a fat man in a muddy once-white
sheet.
"How yo like that, massah?" Kettle shouted, tears running into the brown creases of his face. "That 'nuff
cotton plucked fo yo, Mistah Rhett Freakin' Butler? Yo want some iced lemonade on the freakin'
verandah, massah?"
Earlier, the Mayor had spoken with a cultivated Harvard accent. Now, he sounded like a cross between
Stagger Lee, the badass dude who took his razor to every whitey sheriff who came after him, and Stepin
Fetchit, the scaredy-cat pop-eyed slave of all thoseHollywood movies.
"Hold on there, Mr Mayor," the Op said. "The fight's over."
A couple of younger men tried to hold Kettle back, but he was carried away. The last time the CAF
flew againstYazooCity , they had harvested a crop of "indentees," young people conscripted to work as
cheap labour in the corp-run factories and fields ofAlabama andGeorgia . Kettle's daughter Rosaria was
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DarkFutureIII ComebackTour JackYeovilPROLOGUECapeCanaveral,1978.TheDreamwasdying.GeneratedbyABCAmberLITConverter,http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlCommanderLawrenceJeromeFonviellegrittedhisteethandheldbacktearsastheconsolelightswentout,bankbybank.Thetechnicianswerecalmlyproceedingwiththeshutdown...
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时间：2024-12-18
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