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33
Tory fought a sense of panic as the men in yellow-and-blue fatigues closed in around her. They hadn’t spotted her yet; had not identified her in the crowd; yet. There were hundreds of people, civilian and military, and it would take a while to sort through all of them. She estimated there were maybe fifty of the commandos, busy herding their armed regular military counterparts out through the barbed wire gates.
Tory knew it would be minutes before someone compared her face with one of the broadsheets; minutes before the yelling, the pointing, the scuffling that would quickly end in her detention. And in her pocket was the most deadly list of names in the world. Half of it; Jet was still looking for the rest—if the 3045th hadn’t gotten to her already.
She looked longingly up into the gray-wet sky. Scudding ash-colored clouds suggested freedom. The air smelled wonderful, the way it must in the last minutes for a condemned person. The three towers of the Atlantic Hotel & Convention Center loomed sullenly, their glassy surfaces hard and cruel. She looked down in disbelief at the scene in the concourse outside Tower One. Civilians were being herded out one gate, uniformed men and women in regular green fatigues out several other gates. Civilian traffic—a flower truck, a U.S. Mail truck, taxis, buses, a food delivery semi—was being hurried out through the zig-zag tank traps. Commandos holding assault rifles appeared on the walls of the concourse, on the lower-story window sills, on the steps leading to the lobby in Tower One. Most people maintained a stunned silence; others exchanged rumors and opinions. Out of all of it she gleaned a pastiche of untruths and half-truths: two big generals had a disagreement and one was taking over the convention complex; there had been another political murder and the complex was being sealed until the murderer was caught; a plot by liberals was being foiled; a plot by radicals was being foiled; and so on.
Tory did not have time to speculate. She was desperate for a way out. Then she spotted a group of scraggly looking enlisted persons in rumpled fatigues, unarmed, and shuffling along. From the sniffles, crutches, bandages, and coughing she realized immediately it was the daily sick call. Her gaze darted a few meters ahead, where she spotted the deuce and a half that would take the dozen or so troops to a dispensary in Rock Creek Park. Perfect! If they didn’t look at the sick troops too closely, she’d make it out of here and into General Devereaux’s headquarters. Sidling through the crowd, she joined the tail end of the shuffling group. She quickly read they were all strangers to each other, and nobody questioned who she might be. Several commandos laxly oversaw the group; the commandos treated the sick soldiers with extra contempt. None of their number presumably would lower himself to display such weakness. What an arrogant bunch, Tory thought as she mussed up her hair and tried to look under the weather.
In pairs, the sick soldiers clambered up into the back of the 2 1/2 ton truck. Tory joined them, huddling under the canvas roof that stretched over steel ribs. There were four rows of hard green benches, in pairs facing each other. The two rows along the middle were back to back.
“All right, load ‘em and roll!” shouted a commando outside.
The tail gate slammed shut, and there was a rattle of chains. The truck’s engine coughed into life. A canvas flap slipped across, closing the back and making the truck bed dark. To the front, another canvas separated the bed from the cab. The rear of the cab was open, and she could see the outline of two regular-military reservists—a driver and another person, perhaps his assistant or his supervisor.
“Did anyone check these turkeys out?” someone yelled in an authoritative voice.
Tory’s heart leapt into her throat.
“We took a head count, Sarge.”
“You counted sixteen, but my list says fifteen.”
“I mighta counted wrong.”
“Have him turn off the engine. I’m going up in back.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
Tory bit her lip. She stayed huddled, not knowing what to do. There were a few really sick troops around her; a woman doubled over holding her stomach; a thin young Puerto Rican with sunglasses in the gloom, head back and mouth open in sleep; several unhappy looking boys with casts on legs or arms. And Tory.
The chain rattled, the tail gate crashed down, and the canvas was torn aside. Three commandos stood on the steel bumpers looking in. Two held Uzis; the middle one, an NCO, peered around with a sharp, suspicious gaze. His lips moved as he counted silently. Tory cringed as his violent eyes raked the troops, closer and closer to her.
A voice shouted outside: “What’s the holdup?”
“We got a miscount on the goldbricks,” the NCO yelled inside the truck.
“Move them over to the side. You can count ‘em there.”
“Yessir,” the NCO yelled. “Okay boys, let’s move these turkeys like the man said.” The three men jumped down.
The truck coughed into life, shuddered, and began to roll. Then it stopped again, jerking its passengers. The inside smelled of burned motor fuel. The air brake whistled. “Now what the hell?” someone said.
Tory’s heart beat so she could feel it. Her mouth was dry. She heard footsteps, conversation, a muffled curse, as someone stepped onto the running board to look into the cab, check out the driver and the other man. She heard the NCO’s sharp voice. That man wasn’t about to let up in his pursuit of details. This truck was not going to roll out of the complex until he’d checked and double-checked his list against the bodies on board. The NCO shouted: “OK!” Tory could feel the vibration as the sergeant jumped clear. The air brake whipcracked again, the truck lurched, and they moved forward with clattering engine.
Tory sized up the situation. In less than a minute, the truck would stop on the sidelines. The head count would take another minute. She edged closer to the front and looked at the cab. Army combat field vehicles were capable of being reconfigured in any number of ways. This truck, outfitted for hot Virginia summer days and not yet converted to winter hard-top, featured a canvas cab with plastic removable windows. The side windows in the cab were in, but the rear window was not. It was now or never.
As the truck already slowed, Tory brushed the canvas aside and swung herself, in one smooth motion, through the foot-wide gap between cargo area and cab. The driver just happened to apply the brakes at that moment, and her momentum carried her jarringly into the front seat. Didn’t this thing have seat springs? She braced herself against the dash to break her momentum. For a moment, she had to catch her breath.
Neither the driver nor the other young man betrayed any emotion. The driver said softly: “Lady, where the hey did you come from?”
“Don’t give me away,” she begged in a whisper.
Their hard, angry faces did not register any change in expression. The shiny, opaque surfaces of their sunglasses did not hide the resentment they felt toward the commandos who were treating them like third-class citizens. Not only were they not part of Montclair’s elite; they were reservists, weekend soldiers. No matter that most weekend soldiers carried years of valuable experience and mature work habits; such subtleties would be lost on the blue-and-yellows.
Tory sat between them, trying to be as small as she could, chin tucked in. They could not guess she was an officer, and she decided to leave it that way. “Guys, please don’t say anything or I’m cooked. These are really bad guys, and I’ve got to see General Devereaux.”
“Who?” the passenger, a corporal, asked.
“She means that old guy from Iowa,” the driver said. The driver looked like a tough kid, with brawny arms and part of a front tooth chipped off.
The corporal stifled a laugh. “The old man with that voice?” There was respect in his tone.
The driver spat out the window. “Yeah. Old guy’s been in every war you can think of. Been shot, pissed on, puked on , crapped on, killed and come back to life. Still swears like a freaking grunt. You a friend of his, lady?”
“My grandfather was his best friend. In ‘Nam. Rocky Devereaux came back. My granddad didn’t.”
“Holy shit,” the corporal said.
The driver ground out in a harsh, low voice, never losing his veneer of toughness: “Here, pull this over your freaking head, lady.” With an oil-stained, calloused hand he covertly extended an old arctic cap with wool flaps on the front and sides.
“Thanks,” she whispered. She pulled the cap on, smelling in it his sweat, his tobacco, his brawls, his curses, his hard work keeping this 2 1/2 ton behemoth moving.
“Pull over here!” shouted another commando.
“These blasted muckers,” the driver said, slamming gears. The truck lurched forward, leaving rubber, and then jerked to a halt. The engine idled.
“Tom,” the corporal said, “keep your cool.”
The driver relinquished his grasp on the door handle. He’d been about to jump out and have a go at someone. “I hate these guys,” he said.
“Another thirty days in the stockade,” the corporal singsonged softly.
“Especially that son of a bitch out there with the ugly face.” He glared at someone.
“Especially him,” said the corporal. “You know he’s a fool, and it’s not worth messin’ up on fools. Don’t get us all into trouble, Tommy. Just shut up and sit still. We’ll meet these assholes in a bar some night, guaranteed. Then we’ll do it our own way, brass knuckles and all. These bastards’llnever know what hit ‘em, and we’ll be gone when they wake up in the hospital.” The corporal laughed. “Ma’am, ya gotta please excuse us, it’s been a rough day, and we don’t speak English none too good even when things are going okay.”
“I cannot screaming wait,” said the driver, gripping the wheel, staring at the man he disliked, and rocking back and forth in his seat. “I cannot screaming wait.”
Tory said: “Guys, I’ve got to get to General Devereaux. These guys are plotting to take over the country, and Rocky Devereaux will know what to do.”
Someone in the back shouted: “There’s fifteen of them. Fifteen. Gotta send you back to kindergarten.”
“I counted sixteen.”
“You counted yourself, Grabowsky.” Tory heard boots on gravel as men jumped off the rear.
Tory took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and counted the butterflies in her stomach as a man approached the cab shouting: “Get the truck outta here!”
Tory let out a big gust of air and opened her eyes. Saved?
She heard the gate slam, the chain rattle. Tom made one slamming motion after another, releasing the air brake with a whine, revving the engine, cranking the big steering wheel around. The truck careened back into line and followed a caravan of civilian trucks. They were among the last to get out. Already, commandos were closing makeshift wood-and-wire gates to separate the convention center from the outside world.
“Thanks, guys,” Tory said as they rolled down a free and open street.
“Anything to piss them dickheads off,” the driver said.
“Where you going, lady?”
“Rock Creek Park.”
“We’ll have you there in a minute,” the corporal said.
“Oh shit,” the driver said. As the truck slowed, Tory saw the traffic jam ahead. They were halfway between the convention complex and the park. At Dupont Circle, traffic was in chaos as a column of military vehicles headed toward the convention center, while dozens of civilian and military police cars blocked cross traffic. She looked over a sea of flashing dome lights from the relatively high vantage point of the canvas-shrouded cab. “They’re turning us around,” the driver said.
A policeman in yellow slicker waved them by. The driver leaned out and shouted: “I got sick people in back there.”
“You can take them to Walter Reed,” the cop yelled. “I don’t have time to argue. Keep moving.”
“Aw F—” the driver started to say, then kept his upper teeth clamped on his lower lip in an endless f-sound.
Tory quickly calculated: That would take her several dozen blocks out of her way, but it opened endless possibilities. Still, she must personally deliver this scrap of paper to Rocky Devereaux. She reached into her right front pocket and felt the oft-folded wad of paper there. This was her mission now: get directly to Devereaux and personally hand this list over to him, and nobody else. She took the paper out, lifted her right trouser leg, and tucked it as far down into her thick wool o.d. sock as she could, until it was snug under her boot.
“You want to get out here?” the corporal asked. “Maybe you can walk.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said.
The driver jammed on the brakes.
Someone behind them honked.
“Gotta make up your mind!” the corporal said, holding the door open and half-stepping out onto the running board. He grinned as if they were old friends.
“Good luck!” the driver said.
It was the first time she’d seen him smile, a faint flicker of humor in a mean young face.
Several horns blared. Cops stepped in on all sides. “Get that truck outta here!”
“Thanks guys,” Tory shouted and jumped onto the wet, slick pavement.
“Good luck!” the corporal said good-naturedly, looking baffled.
The truck roared into motion and thundered away, leaving a cloud of blue-gray smoke. Then a thousand civilian cars and trucks took its place, and Tory hopped up onto a curb. She had almost no money—just a crumpled five dollar bill—no I.D., but Rock Creek Park was still blocks away. Already she could see a United States flag luffing on its mast outside Devereaux’s command post in the tent city.
The sky turned blue-black angry, and the air smelled of impending rain. Tory felt raindrops on her bare neck as she hurried along. Past Dupont Circle, the sidewalk was clearer of pedestrians. Traffic on the street seemed to be moving again, albeit slowly. She was well past the barricades and police cars, thinking only of what to say to Devereaux now that she was so close, when she heard squealing tires.
She turned, then froze. Two police cars mounted the wide, empty sidewalk, one behind her, the other in front. The cars rolled to a stop and their doors opened. Tory had time to realize that she could not escape. There was a six foot retaining wall, topped by a steep embankment, on her right. On the left was the street, filled with rushing traffic. By the time she’d taken all this in, there were a half dozen uniformed police officers around her. All of them eyed her with anger and hate, as though she’d done something terrible. It all happened so quickly, she hardly had time to gather her thoughts and protest.
Sprinting lightly, she heaved herself over a low wall, dropped about ten feet through some tree crowns, scratching herself, made a bone-jarring landing on a grassy hill, rolled down another ten feet, and sprinted across the back lawn of a hotel.
She could hear policemen and women hollering as they climbed over the wall. Several bodies made thudding sounds, but they sat still in shock for a few moments before trying to run after her.
On her long legs, Tory ran as fast as she could through the lobby.
Phones were just ringing, and people in ritzy security jackets were innocently lifting their lapel coms.
She was out the front door when the first shout rose in the lobby.
A police car was screeching around the corner up the street.
Tory ducked through an alley of bushes, ran blindly on the other side of the sidwalk, a blur to startled pedestrians who glanced through the bushes.
She ran until the sounds of pursuit dwindled behind her.
Then she walked.
A ragged figure, no longer a military officer but a street person, she wandered tiredly in the direction where she knew her only hope lay. She could try calling General Devereaux, but surveillance was so sophisticated that she knew if she even touched an electronic gadget of any kind, there would be cops of every stripe on her. Of all the tumult taking place at the convention center, why me? She knew the answer: Bronf and Bentyne and the rest of them needed scapegoats. Having the authorities chase her would buy them an hour or two of time while they finished taking the entire CON2 hostage. The incredible horror of what was happening would begin to dawn on the media, the White House, the Congress, the general public sometime today when they figured out what the generals were up to.
Tory’s path kept taking her to roadblocks. If she tried to pass any of them, she’d be taken into custody. The day quickly passed, heading into afternoon. She used her crumpled five dollar billto buy some cheap but filling fast food from a burger joint. She chewed hungrily in the shadows while police cars prowled past. They were looking for an attractive female Army officer, not a ragged tramp.
Finally, toward evening, she found the break she was after.
Tory walked slowly along a wet sidewalk illumined by occasional street lamps. She’d done her crying by now. A bath would take care of her image. She’d soon be back in her Jaguar, flash ten credit cards, and—but why even think about it? She had a mission to accomplish.
It was only a matter of time before she wound up in another police station, and then in the hands of Montclair’s people. She came to an intersection in a middle-class neighborhood, mixed zoning with gas stations on opposite corners, a dark and shuttered church on the third corner, and a small strip mall on the fourth. As she stood contemplating what opportunities this might present, she noticed a police car rolling to a stop at the light as it turned red.
Instinctively, she drew back into the shadow of a tree.
The cop noticed her and stared, but did not do anything.
Then she noticed the markings: It was a Military Police car, so this was not his jurisdiction. Then she noticed the shields on the front and back bumpers: “Iowa Proud And Ready: Your Army Reserve Dollars At Work.”
The opposite light turned from green to orange. The MP noticed the change and got ready to drive on.
Tory ran into the street waving her arms and yelling. The MP stared at her, open-mouthed. He started to roll forward, but she ran in front of his car. He braked to a halt. She whooped and jumped up and down. He opened the door and rose out of his seat: “Lady, are you nuts?”
“Yes! I’m having an emergency, and you are the most beautiful man on earth.”
“Ma’am,” he said in a hushed voice, tucking his chin in, “if you need a taxi or something—”
“No, no, I need you to drive me straight to General Devereaux right now.”
He grinned. “Yeah, and I’m Popeye, and you’re Olive Oyl.”
“No, I’m Tory Breen.”
“Who?” His face darkened.
She waved the list that the generals in the hotel wanted to kill her to get. “I am a personal friend of General Rocky Devereaux. Here is a list of the conspirators who have taken over at the Atlantic Hotel—”
“Ma’am,” he said in a totally different voice, “Drop that piece of paper. I want you to raise both hands and step away from this car.”
“It’s an important list.”
“Drop it.”
She did, and the paper fell down. The wind fluffed it up and it started to roll in ungainly barreling motions. It dawned on her he might be one of them. Her guts froze and she began to tremble. His eyes glittered with deadly plans. He had a .357 Magnum revolver pointed straight at her heart as he stood in a shooting stance. “I want you to walk slowly over here and lie down on the ground.” With a free hand, he jiggled the car’s spotlight, which shone on the ground. “If you make a wrong move I will shoot to kill. This is your only warning.”
Tory swallowed hard and moved to comply. The list was floating down the street. Better that he shouldn’t get it.
“Lie down.”
She lay down on the wet street, smelling stray gasoline and tar, feeling water soaking into her already soggy clothes. Nothing mattered anymore; she’d done all she could. Her fate, and the list’s, were in other hands now. The MP kept the gun pointed at her while he called in on his com button. There was a short, whispered conversation she could not hear. She heard him exclaim: “He will?” He paused. Then: “Put him through.”
After a silence, the MP said: “Lieutenant Breen.” He held his ears as if they hurt.
“Yes?”
“Ma’am, that was General Devereaux.” He squinted and tossed his head in a quick motion.
“Oh, you got through?”
“Yes Ma’am.” He grimaced, holding his palms to his head.
“What did he say?”
“He said do you have dark reddish hair. I said yes. He said did she say she has a list. I said you said you do. He said bring that woman here now, Specialist, and guard her with your life. So I guess I owe you an apology, Ma’am.” He holstered the gun and helped her up. “I’m truly sorry.” Poor guy, he trembled. “Where’s the list?”
“That’s it down the street there, that tiny speck.”
He ran after it. For the first time in a while, Tory laughed.
ALLISON MIRANDA: There is so much news coming in right now that our servers have trouble keeping up, and we have every available reporter working around the clock to sort the different parts of this giant story out for you. Here is just one of a thousand news stories we are triaging for you right now. This is the American astronaut Linda McGregor, aboard the German orbital shuttle Deutsche Raum-Hansa R.S. Horizont speaking a few minutes ago:
LINDA: We are 300 miles above Kansas at night, moving rapidly east into the Ohio Valley area. It’s an amazing sight below. Because a major power outage of suspicious origin has crippled most of the U.S. and Canada, it is pitch dark on the continent below. Only the capital still seems up and running, probably on Civil Defense backup power. The other urban centers are blacked out, but they seem to be glowing with a dim orange light. Our pilot, Klaus Gittermann, radioed Transit Control in Mannheim about it, and they in turn queried Houston. It turns millions of ordinary U.S. citizens, who are so worried and scared about the developments in Washington, have gone to their local places of prayer to hold candle-light vigils, or are just standing outside their homes holding flashlights and candles. There are so many millions of these tiny lights all across America, that they are visible from outer space. It looks to us like a dim glow of hope during a very dark hour indeed.
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