Page 117 - Brokenclaw - John Gardner

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back here in the Bay area. We do know the homers they had concealed on them

were still operating in New York. We can but presume they’re still sending
signals, but these could be weakened if they’re hidden among buildings. Mr
Grant’ll tell you what we feel should be done.’
James Bond OO7 - printing disabledo looked tired and washed out. ‘It is true they might well have been James Bond OO7 - printing disabled
Grant als
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brought back into the Bay area,’ he began, ‘but it seems far more likely that
they’ve been taken to some kind of safe house outside the immediate vicinity. If
I were a betting man, I’d say the natural place is somewhere near Big Sur. We
now have six electronics vehicles square-searching the Bay area, tuned to the

homer frequency. As you tracked them some of the way in New York, we’re
putting you in a helicopter at first light. The chopper’s being fitted with a pretty
powerful array at this moment. You’ll scan an area of forty by forty miles with
Big Sur as the furthest western point.’
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‘You got a chopper that’ll do that?’ Rushia growled, poker-faced. ‘Forty by
forty comes to around sixteen hundred square miles in my book, leastways it
used to, though I haven’t any idea what it might work out if you went metric. I
mean . . .’

‘Ed,’ Grant’s voice exuded enormous patience, ‘there will be refuelling
points. The crew will be experienced in square searches, so leave all that to
them. You just sit there and twiddle the buttons, trying to get a fix on one or
both of the homers. Okay?’

‘Time was when Homer was all Greek to me.’
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They gave him a spare cabin and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. At one
point he dreamed of his childhood in Jewel Junction and thought he heard his
father calling him to get out of bed. ‘The doctor’s nearly ready, Ed. Come on!’

But he woke to find one of the CIA juniors shaking him and saying, ‘It’s past
five thirty. The chopper’s nearly ready, Ed. Come on!’
He rolled out of the bunk, washed and shaved, then drank scalding coffee
brought to him together with hot cornbread rolls and butter in little foil packets.

‘And I expected butter in a lordly dish,’ he said quietly to himself. Then he
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thought of his wife and muttered, ‘Well, she’s a lordly dish and no mistake.’
Good ole Ed Rushia, he reflected, just keep up the homespun, a bit eccentric
cover and everyone’ll treat you right.

In the helicopter crew room, they gave him warm flying clothes and a heavy
white rollneck sweater. He put the big protective helmet on and thought he must
look like a Martian, but once inside the helicopter, in front of the scopes and

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