Polar Shift

Margrave knew the legion's psychopathic tendencies better than Gant, which was why he had insisted that Doyle keep an eye on them. Doyle had removed the stick-on metropolitan transit authority letters from the van. When the motorcycles pulled up next to the vehicle, Doyle stepped out of the van and inspected the odd crew dismounting from their bikes with a friendly grin that masked his disdain.

Doyle was a cold-blooded murderer, but with their glassy-eyed stares, fixed smiles and quiet-spoken voices these guys gave him the creeps. He hoped Gant knew what he was doing. He had worked, reluctantly, with the group from time to time. His own deadly expressions of violence were controlled and calculated. He killed for business reasons: to remove a competitor; to silence an informant. The undisciplined behavior of Lucifer's Legion offended his sense of order.

He pointed at a turquoise Jeep in an adjacent row. "Austin and the woman are headed to the battlefield. We'll have to find them."

The legion's members seemed able to communicate with each other without speaking, moving in unison like a flock of birds or a school of fish. Acting like a unit, they fa

They shoved the unconscious man into the back of the truck and rummaged through the collection until they found what they wanted. They carried their loot back to Doyle's van and changed into the costumes. In a short time, the bikers dressed in jeans and T-shirts were gone. In their place were three Confederate and three Union soldiers. They tucked sawed-off shotguns in their belts, then got back on their motorcycles and spread out like hungry wolves in search of prey.

Doyle left the van and joined the flow of foot traffic. As he moved through the stream of spectators and costumed participants, he sca

He unclipped a hand radio from his belt and sent a quick message to Lucifer's Legion.

Austin had found the steamer cars. There were about twenty antique Stanleys lined up along the edge of the field. A middle-aged man with a clipboard in hand was moving along the line of cars.

"I'm looking for someone with a little authority," Austin said, purposely setting himself up for the old gag.

The man gri

"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 ru

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.