Polar Shift (45 page)

"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 Ford 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 me."

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.

They stopped at a car wash to clean the grass and dirt off the car body. Austin was amazed to see that the car hadn't been damaged. People who were leaving the battlefield smiled and waved when they saw the steamer drive up a short while later. A tall man with dark hair and opaline eyes was waiting patiently for them.

Austin braked the car to a halt and smiled. "Hi, Dirk. Thanks for the car loan."

"I saw you go flying between the battlefield lines with the Hell's Angels on your tail. What's going on?"

"This is Karla Janos. Karla, Dirk Pitt."

Pitt gave Karla his best smile. "I was looking forward to meeting you, Miss Janos."

"Thank you," she said.

"How fast did you have her up to?" he asked Austin.

"Around a hundred."

"Impressive," Pitt said. "I've only had her up to ninety."

"Sorry to borrow your car without asking. We needed transportation in a hurry. Someone tried to kill us."

"It's only a replica. Don't worry about it." Pitt checked the car for damage, and, seeing none, said, "Not everyone owns a car that was in the third battle of Bull Run."

Austin's cell phone started playing the blues. He excused himself and put the phone up to his ear. Barrett was calling, and he sounded excited. There was a muffled engine roar in the background.

"I can barely hear you," Austin said. "What's that noise?"

"I always think
better
when I'm riding. I think I've got it."

"Got what?"

"The nursery rhyme.
It was code. I've got the formula for the antidote."

Austin couldn't believe his ears. "Say that again."

"The
antidote,"
Barrett yelled, thinking Austin was simply not hearing over the noise of the motorcycle. "I've got Lazlo Kovacs's antidote for polar shift."

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