The Jupiter Plague

Sam wrote swiftly without looking up; the silence grew taut.

Cleaver — I’ve changed my mind. We’re going into it. Having trouble. Have boat pick me up land end pier 15 East River. Capt. Green

“I won’t be going back to the island for an hour at least, sir,” the lieutenant said, and Sam knew he had won. The officer’s tone was the same, but the Sir made all the difference.

“That will do fine.” Sam folded the note and handed it to him. “For your own sake, Lieutenant, I suggest that you do not read this message nor show it to anyone other than General Burke. That will be the best for everyone.”

The officer buttoned it into his breast pocket without a word and the jitter buzzed away. Even if the man did read it, it wouldn’t mean much — to anyone but Cleaver. The signature was meaning-less — but the rank was his old one and the lieutenant would describe him. If the note reached Cleaver they would come for him at once.

It was ten now and it would be physically impossible for the boat to be there before eleven at the very earliest. Sam began to work his way north slowly, keeping a careful eye out for moving cars. Two patrol cars passed, but both times he saw them well in advance. In one of the doorways where he took shelter he found an open garbage can and he buried the black bag under the rubbish in it. The alarm would be out for him by now and anything that marked him as a doctor had to be avoided. On Maiden Lane, within sight of the gray water of the East River, a robot bar was doing a good business; it takes more than a plague to keep sailors out of a saloon and the place was half full. Sam ordered a roast beef sandwich, there were still some in deep freeze, and a bottle of beer from the robot bartender — it was tricked out in an un-wholesomely cute pirate eye patch and neckerchief — and ate slowly. By eleven he was walking along the waterfront looking for a secure spot where he could wait. There were some heavy crates next to the warehouse on pier 15 at the foot of Fletcher Street, and by hunkering down between them he was concealed from sight on the land side. It was wet and uncomfortable but he had a good view of the slip, although the end of the pier was half concealed by fog and falling rain.

There was the sound of heavy motors as an occasional ship passed, but too far out for him to see in the mist. Once a louder hammer of an engine drew his attention and he pulled himself further back between the boxes as a river police launch rumbled by, sweeping close to the end of the pier but not turning into the slip. By noon he was soaked through and getting bitter, and by one o’clock he was thinking of the eighty different things he would like to do to the pinheaded lieutenant if he ever saw him again.

At exactly 1:13 the silent shape of a small recon boat swung into the slip and coasted toward him with only the slightest burble of sound coming from its underwater hydraulic jets. Standing in the bow was the lieutenant. Sam pulled himself to his feet, stiff and cramped, and the boat nosed in his direction.

“If you knew what I have been thinking about you—” Sam said, and smiled.

“I don’t blame you, sir,” the lieutenant said, chewing nervously at his lower lip as he held out his hand to help Sam off the ladder. “I was less than an hour getting back to the tunnel, but there was some kind of trouble there with the police and everything was jammed up. It was only about a half an hour ago that I got through and brought your note to the general. You were right, sir,” he tried a tentative smile. “I’ve never seen him act like that before, not even in combat. He went up like an A-bomb and he got this boat from somewhere and had it in the water and me and the coxswain and all in it, inside of ten minutes.”

“Here we go,” the coxswain said, opening the throttle and turning in a tight circle. Sam and the lieutenant moved into the bow to get some protection from the low windshield and, at the same moment, they saw the river police launch nose around the end of the pier and head toward them.

“Get down!” the lieutenant said, but Sam had already dropped onto the deck, sheltering behind the low sides. “Get under that tarp.”

The T5 coxswain in the stern kicked a bundled up tarpaulin toward Sam without looking down as he did it, and it stopped at the ammunition boxes in the waist. Sam wriggled over to it, drew it toward him and struggled to open it without rising high enough to be seen: he could hear the launch rumbling closer. The stiff canvas resisted and in desperation he kicked hard into the folds with his feet and pulled it up over him. With his knees against his chest he could just about fit under the unrolled part and the last thing he saw as he pulled his head under was the lieutenant turning to face the police boat and resting his fingers, by chance, on the trigger guard of his machine pistol.