Wilson Tucker - The Year of the Quiet Sun

A pair of boots — no, two or three pair — were missing from a rack holding several similar pairs. Another bundle of warm lined mittens appeared to have been disturbed, but it was impossible to determine how many were gone. Somebody had visited the stores in winter. That somebody should not have been the Major — he was scheduled for the Fourth of July, unless that gyroscope went crazy and threw him off by half a year. Saltus turned again to count the used ration boxes and the water cans: not enough of them had been emptied to support a big man like William for the past sixteen months — not unless he was living outside most of the time and supporting himself from the land. The used-up stores might have carried him through a single winter, supplementing game from outside. It seemed an unlikely possibility.

Saltus worked his way around the room to the bench. It was littered with trash.

Three yellow cartons rested on the bench top, cartons he’d not seen there on previous visits. The first one was empty, but he tore away the lid flaps of the next to discover a bullet-proof vest made of an unfamiliar nylon weave. He did not hesitate. The garment looked flimsy and unreliable buf because Katrina always knew what she was doing, he put on the protective vest beneath his civilian jacket. Saltus sipped at his bourbon and eyed the mess on the bench. It wasn’t like William to leave things untidy — well, not this untidy. Some of it was his work.

A tape recorder and another gasoline lantern were on the bench. A moment later he discovered empty boxes which had contained rifle cartridges, another box for the tape now in the recorder, an opened map, and the insignia removed from the Major’s dress uniform. Saltus thought he knew what that meant. He touched the lantern first but found it cold although the fuel tank was full, and then leaned over the bench to examine the recorder. Only a few minutes of tape had been spun off.

Saltus depressed the voice button, said: “Mark,” and rewound the tape to its starting point.

Another push and the tape rolled forward.

Voice: “Moresby here. Four July 1999. Time of arrival 10:05 on my watch, 4:10 by the clock. Six hours and five minutes discrepancy. Dust everywhere, stool missing from operations room; shelter unoccupied and stores intact, but the water is stale. Am preparing for the target.”

Brief period of miscellaneous sounds.

Arthur Saltus had another drink while he waited. He stared again at William’s discarded military insignia.

Voice: ”… moving around the northwest corner in a southerly direction — moving toward you. Estimated strength, twelve to fifteen men. Watch them, Corporal, they’re packing mortars. Over.” The sound of gunfire was loud behind the voice.

Voice: “Roger. We’ve got a hole in the fence at the northwest — some bastard tried to put a truck through. It’s still burning; maybe that’ll stop them. Over.”

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.”