"They tried a reenactment there some years ago. Things got kind of crazy, so they're holding it on private land."
Karla looked around. "I see what you mean about 'crazy.'"
Austin grinned.
"As old Stonewall might say, 'Save your blood. The South will rise again.' "
The six men who pulled their motorcycles up to the parked van looked as if they had been cloned in a lab. They all wore goatees, and their widow's peaks had been trimmed to arrow-sharp points.
Lucifer's Legion was an extreme group of neo-anarchists who felt that violence in advancing their cause was not only justified but necessary. Like their wild-eyed, bomb-tossing predecessors, they were the fringe of the mostly nonviolent anarchist movement, which wanted nothing to do with them. They traveled from city to city on their motorcycles, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake.
When Margrave became part of the neo-anarchist movement, he enlisted the legion's help. He reasoned that since the Elites had the police, who were empowered to use physical force, and, in some situations, kill, he and his supporters should have a similar option. He bankrolled the legion, using them as his personal Praetorian Guard. He was amused at first when they grew beards and cut their hair to affect a satanic look that Margrave had come by naturally. After several anarchist protests they were involved in became unexpectedly bloody, he realized that they were out of control.
He kept them on the payroll but used them less and less. He had readily accepted Gant's recommendation that he hire the security company for day-to-day operations. Margrave was initially surprised when Gant suggested that he use the legion to kill Austin and Karla, but he accepted the argument that in case anything went wrong the authorities would think that this was a rogue gang acting on its own.
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 fanned through the parking lot. They sighted a panel truck owned by a company called Gone with the Wind Costumes. A company employee was unloading a rack of period outfits for the more casual reenactors who didn't own their own uniforms. He found himself surrounded by six grinning clones. One clubbed him unconscious with a telescoping blackjack while the others used their bodies to screen the assault.
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 scanned the crowd like radar. Doyle had near-perfect vision that was a valuable asset for a hunter and his sharp eye picked out Austin's white hair. A second later, Doyle saw the attractive blond woman by Austin's side. Her face was the same one the computer in the van had identified as Karla Janos.
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 grinned. "I've got as little authority as anyone." He proffered his hand. "Doug Reilly. I'm president of the Virginia Stanley Steamer Club. What can I do for you?"
"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 al
l 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.