Worried about Karl and the Harlichs, Fiddlestix & her companions, along with Amber Garwood, head to Florida once more.
They lapsed into uncomfortable silence, sitting on the end of the bed in his quarters. A light flashed over the door. Deacon opened it with a voice command.
“General,” it was Amber Garwood. “I request permission to join the mission to Florida.”
“Why?” His tone was firm, his expression that of a man who will not be lied to.
“Metzger wants an assessment of the conditions before he will commit any more troops. The call came in a few minutes ago.”
“And if I call him back, he will personally verify this?”
“Yes, sir,” she looked directly into his eyes, the picture of honesty and obedience.
“You have never given me a reason to trust you, Garwood. In fact, there are many reasons why I shouldn’t.”
“Your brother listened in. He can verify what I’ve told you.”
Deacon lapsed into silence. Without a word, he rose and walked down the corridor to the communications room. Jasper met him at the door, handsome face drawn in anger.
Jasper understood without explanation. “Metzger called, he asked her to join the team.”
“It was really him?”
Jasper nodded grimly. “He had all the access codes.”
“Call him back, most secure. Get me a visual.”
“Right away, General.” Jasper saluted, putting Deacon’s orders into action.
Deacon’s conversation with the Texan leader was brief, to the point and private. He did not share the details of their discussion with anyone. To Fiddlestix’ displeasure, Garwood was allowed to go on the trip.
Fifteen minutes later, they boarded their train, a sleek, bullet shaped, sliver of silver.
“Her maximum speed is two hundred and fifty,” Deacon told her absently. “We’ll be in Georgia in no time.”
“Yeah,” Blacksmith muttered in an aside, “but will we get there in one piece?”
The trip to Georgia base went smoothly, despite Blacksmith’s
misgivings. Once there, a soldier appeared, leading them to the flitter hanger near the peak of the mountain. A large freight elevator took them up in a matter of seconds.
As he changed into a flight suit, Blacksmith got more agitated when he thought about their flight.
“I’ve never flown one before, I’ll crash!”
“It’s okay, little buddy,” Buzzard hugged his short friend around the shoulders, squeezing hard to shut him up. “I’ll fly. You just ride back there and sit the hell still. Got it?”
Blacksmith’s tight lipped nod was sufficient. He would close his eyes and pray, that seemed his best strategy at the moment. Muttering his Rosary in Spanish, he put on his gear, checked his parachute and climbed into the back seat of the flitter.
© 2011 Dellani Oakes