|
28
Tory took Jet aside. They were alone in the basement room with CloudMaster. It was cool and semi-dark in the room, but Tory knew the cameras watching over CloudMaster scanned every person, every face near the precious machine, so she whispered: “Jet this is very important.”
“Oh, okay, Ma’am,” Jet said in bright puzzlement, looking at Tory’s fists clawing into her uniform at the shoulders.
“Jet, Tabitha Summers was just killed.”
Jet’s expression flew apart. “Oh no.”
“Listen carefully. Captain Gordon is out there walking wounded, trying to get a message to Mattoon. I’m going to find Chairman Mattoon and give him the same message in case David doesn’t make it.”
Jet wailed in disbelief: “Why...?”
“I’m going to find Mattoon and talk to him.. I want you to start looking for a copy of Ib’s list of the conspirators’ names.”
“But I’ve been looking everywhere!”
“I know. Keep up the good work and don’t lose hope. The list has got to be in the net someplace, and we need to get it to Chairman Mattoon or General Billy Norcross.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jet said. “Good luck, Tory.” It was the first time she’d ever called her immediate supervising officer by her first name. Tory was grateful for the personal gesture. They shook on it.
“Good luck, Jet. If you find the list, call me right away.”
As Tory looked for Chairman Mattoon, CON2 was on break. The corridor around the main hall was jammed with delegates, security personnel, members of the press. Tory threaded her way through. She sidled into the hall to the podium area. A young page told her that Mattoon had gone back to his hotel room, Room 1861 in Tower One, for an hour.
After a moment’s hesitation she decided to go up directly, rather than call first. She had no idea how she would broach the incredible subject. She entered a quiet, carpeted corridor on the eighteenth floor, found Number 1861, and knocked.
The door opened, a thick voice said “Yes?” and there he was, 6-5, 240 pounds, former halfback in pro football, ex-Air Force officer, retired senator, active on the boards of a dozen corporations, linchpin of CON2, and a pivotal figure in American politics. She stood flabbergasted for a moment, shocked that he had no bodyguards.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, I have something very important to tell you and you’ve got to give me a minute of your time,” she blurted.
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Then he pulled the door open. “Come on in.” He hopped slightly with each step to move so large a frame about. She’d had no idea he was so big. To millions of Americans he was a strong, fatherly voice, a face both powerful and kind. His features, a racial cocktail, were mahogany-colored and handsome. “Want a cola? What’s on your mind?”
“Thanks, no. Well, I don’t know exactly how to go about this—”
“You’ll have to be quick, because I’m due back—”
“Okay. I think there is a plot against CON2.”
He sat down, tired. “Why doesn’t some general tell me that, if it’s true?”
“Because—” she choked up. My career will be down the drain and I’ll have nothing again.
He stared at her.
She felt a wrong chemistry and blurted: “Because there is evidence that General Montclair wants to destroy CON2. There was a computer file, and we had written evidence, but it was destroyed in an explosion—”
He popped a soda can that made a fizz. “You are either out of your mind or very courageous, or both. Are you a flying saucer nut too?”
“There have been disappearances, murders, disturbances. Your own assistant was just murdered. Chairman, you’ve got to believe me. The military, I don’t know why, is against you and they’ll do anything—”
His eyes widened. “Yes, I know that. Do you think I’m blind? These fertilizer patriots killed Vern. Their purpose is to intimidate me to stop CON2, which I shall not do. But these conspiracies gives me a damned headache. When will you people ever—?”
“Sir, I’m not making this up.”
He smiled broadly, and for a moment she was lulled by that smile’s warmth. “Okay.” The smile thinned. “Enough.” Anger seeped into his tone, and the eyes blazed. “Young lady, do you have any idea what thin ice you’re on?” His words whipped around her like cat-o’-nine-tails. “Do you have any idea of the scope and the concerns and the delicacy with which I have to weigh every action I take and every word I say? I have to be careful of every nod, every glance, every betrayed emotion. You know why? Because this convention, if it is to work, has to be a hundred per cent free of influence from the established government, executive, judiciary, and legislative; and especially the military! General Montclair was hand-picked by General Norcross and the President of the United States to head the task of protection for me and my convention. Do you know what my inclination is? To ask you to hand over your gun. To call Montclair and have him come over personally, arrest you, and throw you in jail.”
Tears stung her eyeballs. “I wish you would not do that.” She felt herself badly failing here, and unable to save the situation.
He rose and jabbed a huge finger in her face. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll think about it. Out of all this stuff that’s going on, reshaping this country, I will take a few minutes over the next day or two to deliberate within myself if I want to help you finish ruining your career or not.”
“Yessir.”
“This could mean the end of your career. You hear me?”
“Sir?” Her knees knocked together. “I hope I’m wrong. I felt I had to warn you. I have a friend who—” She started to tell him about David and the Task Force, but he wouldn’t listen. He moved toward her, waving his arm dismissingly. “You poor crazy woman. Get out of here and hope I decide to forget this conversation. Go!”
Tory walked out woodenly, pulled the door shut, went to the nearest ladies’ room, began to cry. Then she vomited. For a moment she felt utterly beaten and helpless. Then she remembered David. And hoped Jet had the file she needed. Her duty was not done. She was needed in many places, and she shoved the bathroom door open in a running start.
As she did so, her com button sounded. “This is Dispatch. Lieutenant Breen?”
“Yes?” She felt a thrill of fear.
“Colonel Bentyne orders you to report to the Provost Marshal’s office right away.”
“Sure—what’s up?” Tory’s heart began racing.
“You’d better come up here, Lieutenant.”
“All right, I will.” She forced a bright tone. “Connect me with Computer Ops?”
“I’m sorry.”
Tory rang off and tried Jet’s personal com. The dispatcher cut in again: “I’m sorry, that unit is out of circulation.”
“Is it broken?”
“I have no information.”
Tory slowed to a walk. “I’ll be up in a minute,” she lied. She needed time to think. Was she imagining things? Had she really just spoken with the former Senate Majority Leader and put her career on the line? Surely this was a bad dream and she’d wake up any moment. She felt again the terrible sense of loss when she’d been 15. Could she endure ruination again? But she had sworn to do right for her country, for the Constitution. Did she trust David enough to believe him? Could this be a lie, a cruel hoax? She pictured David walking down a rainy street with blood on his forehead, and realized she loved him. She would do as he asked. There was no mistaking the tone of menace in the dispatcher’s voice.
There seemed to be a lot of activity in the common areas of the hotel. Burly young men in distinctive blue-and-yellow camouflage uniforms waited in knots here and there, at corners and elevator doors. No females in that outfit! They wore subdued rank markings and carried weird assault guns that might have been designed by insect engineers. Some had unit patches on the right shoulder, indicating past combat service. All wore airborne-qualified patches.
As she waited for the elevator down, she glanced outside hoping to see David. She saw only coils of barbed wire, parked trucks, troopers with rifles. The sea of olive green was spattered with endless repetitions of the words military police in black letters on white background, as in some schizophrenic dream.
In the elevator, she took out her 9 mm. automatic, checked the clip, and put the gun back in her holster. She checked to make sure she had extra ammo on her belt.
She met Jet in the doorway of the computer center. Jet looked scared as she shoved a piece of paper toward Tory. “That’s part of the list. I was printing to a spooler file when they cut the power off. It’s back up now, but I lost the rest of the file and all my other work.”
“Thanks,” Tory said. She glanced down the list, saw Montclair’s name on it among others. That was all she needed for now. “Keep trying,” she ordered Jet. “Keep trying until you find the rest of that list!” She hugged Jet briefly, then ran.
“Lieutenant Breen,” the dispatcher said from her collar com.
“This is Breen.”
“Request status.”
“I’m near the elevator on the first floor. What is the emergency?”
“You will be given that information by Colonel Bronf.”
Tory remembered Colonel Bellamy, the Provost Marshal. She hadn’t met him, but David had told her about him. If there was anyone left who might help, it had to be Bellamy. She had part of the list now. Someone must believe her. The MP station and patrol desk were on T-3-12 on the way to Bronf’s HQ. She noticed in the lobby an MP sergeant she knew, and waved. He waved back, looking puzzled at the informality. She motioned, and he met her halfway. “Hi,” she said, “can I borrow your baton?”
“Sure, Ma’am,” he said cheerfully and gave her the baton. She gripped the solid, heavy weapon in both hands, hefted it, tested the feel of its side-grip. The elevator opened for her as she walked toward it, as though some unseen eye guided it. She was alone inside as the door closed. Her mouth felt dry and her heart beat strongly as the elevator began its quiet rumble upward. Her stomach felt giddy, as though she were weightless. She held the baton in both hands and looked up as if she could see through the elevator roof toward her fate. “Lieutenant Breen, status please.”
“I’m on my way up.” Something was wrong here. All the buttons from Floor One through Floor Thirty-Five were lit up. As she passed each floor, the light in that button dimmed momentarily. Someone had rigged the electronics. Was she trapped in this elevator? Would they take her up to the forbidden floors? Maybe they already had David up there.
Impulsively, she poked the baton against the red STOP button. The elevator shuddered to a halt. The cage rocked. The shaft echoed loudly with an emergency bell.
“Lieutenant Breen,” a man’s voice said. “What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?”
“I asked first.”
“This is Colonel Bronf. I am giving you a direct order to report to me personally on the Thirty-Fifth Floor immediately. Do you hear?”
“Yessir.”
“Or it’s curtain time for you and the Army. Release the STOP button.”
She reached over, held the button, tried to think for a moment.
“I order you to release the button.”
When no thought came, she pulled. The bell stopped, and the elevator moved.
“Very good,” Colonel Bronf said.
The Nine button flickered. Then the Ten button.
“Keep coming,” Colonel Bronf coaxed.
Eleven. Twelve.
Impulsively, Tory jabbed the STOP button again. The elevator stopped. It rocked gently. The emergency bell again filled the elevator shaft.
“Lieutenant Breen!”
The door opened, and Tory stepped out into the lobby. Startled Navy and Air Force clerks looked up from behind the thick glass of the patrol desk. Tory stepped to the window. “Where’s Colonel Bellamy?”
A Navy dispatcher, a slab-faced woman with kindly eyes behind thick lenses, looked panicked. “They have him upstairs,” she whispered. “Get out of here because they’re coming to get you next.”
|
