Read Online Undeclared War by Dennis Chalker - Free Book Online Page B

gloves, the fingers of which were wrapped in layers of worn tape to insure a good grip. A solid grip was important not only to make sure that the steel was guided properly across the rapidly moving cloth wheel, but also necessary for safety as any observercould quickly see that the object being so carefully buffed and polished by the man was the long blade of a broadsword.
    In his dark blue shirt, jeans, and black boots, the man was almost completely still except for his hands guiding the steady passing of the blade back and forth across the wheel. His concentration was on keeping the shape of the blade distinct, smooth, and even—while not allowing the sharp edge to dig into the cloth wheel. The power of the spinning wheel would tear the blade from his hands and drive it into the floor, wall, or possibly something that could bleed quite a bit.
    Watching silently from the doorway, the stocky, gray-haired man sitting in a wheelchair knew not to interrupt the man standing at the buffer. He waited quietly until the man at the machine stopped and straightened up. After looking along the edges and body of the blade to be certain he hadn’t missed polishing a spot or blurred the lines of the blade’s edges and corners, the man switched off the buffer and the wheel whined down to a stop.
    Pulling down his respirator, the man turned to the doorway and noticed the individual sitting there. “Oh, didn’t know you were there,” Ted Reaper said as he pushed the safety goggles up to his forehead.
    â€œSomehow, it didn’t seem to me to be a really great idea to bother a man either while he was buffing, or holding a yard of sharp steel,” Keith Deckert said with a big grin spreading out under his bushy white mustache, his teeth splitting the features of his face. “But you did want me to remind you when it was coming up to lunchtime.”
    â€œThanks,” Ted said as he looked at the watch onhis left wrist. “I’ve got just enough time to clean and box this thing and get back to the house before Ricky gets home.”
    â€œYou might want to take a moment to wash up as well,” Keith said with a chuckle. “You look like a reversed raccoon.”
    Catching a glimpse of himself in the glass front of a cabinet, Ted could see that the goggles and respirator had protected his eyes and lungs, but the greasy residue from the buffing wheel had spattered the exposed parts of his face with gray muck. The only parts that were clean were his mouth, mustache, nose, and eyes.
    â€œHere, give me that pigsticker,” Keith said. “I’ll get the tape off the grip and pack it while you clean up.”
    â€œThanks,” Reaper said as he handed over the blade, hilt first.
    Deckert turned his powered wheelchair and ran it over to a tall workbench on top of a large parts cabinet where he laid the sword down on a carpeted surface. Turning the armrests inward across his chest, he moved a control and his Life Stand Compact Model LSC wheelchair began to unfold and extend the back and seat upward. In a moment, Deckert was in a standing position, secured to the chair by the armrests, which had formed a padded brace against his chest. In an almost straight up-and-down standing position, the muscular arms of the man could reach the top of the workbench and manipulate the materials there easily and skillfully.
    â€œAnd a mighty big pig you could stick with it, too,” said Keith as he started stripping off the dirtymasking tape that had been protecting the finish of the blued-steel cross-guard and wire-wrapped grip.
    Reaper stepped away from the grinding room and walked to a small workbench where he kept his own toolbox and materials. He unclipped the small Uncle Mike’s pocket holster he had in his right front pants pocket and placed it and the stainless steel Taurus Model 445 five-shot .44 Special concealed-hammer revolver it held into a large central drawer in the toolbox.
    Since he had