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35
Specialist Owens drove Tory to Rock Creek Park, where thousands of tents reminded her hauntingly of another terrible time. Maybe Union troops had camped there long ago. Owens’s car inched through checkpoints manned by Iowa reserve infantry, and he parked it among military vehicles. An adjutant led them to Devereaux’s large tent. Tory had a sense, somehow, that ghosts watched in the faintly foggy air, this dark night in the hollows of the park. She walked among canvas walls and parked infantry vehicles, past shadowy sentries who were little more than a cough or a glint of steel or the glow of a cigarette in gloom.
General Devereaux’s headquarters consisted of several large, dimly lit tents joined in a cross shape with connectors to other tents all around. Inside, the floors were raised wooden slats over nylon tarps. Rows of desks were empty, except one occupied by a night clerk. The long tables with their rolled charts and maps were quiet. Gas-burner stoves hissed comfortingly, and the air had a dry smell of books, hay, and machine oil. Rocky Devereaux came forward with his hand extended. A cigar loomed in the other hand. “Hello, what have you gotten yourself into?” He pumped Tory’s hand. “I want to hear your story—the whole thing, beginning to end. I have the feeling it’s going to be a long night. Trust an old warrior’s sixth sense.”
“Sir, this is Specialist Owens. He did a remarkable job out there.”
“Specialist, I am personally giving you a commendation and a promotion. Step inside the office and see the Command Sergeant Major. You are now a sergeant.” He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”
Owens stammered: “Sir, that’s—why, I’m—my wife will be so—”
“What do you want, a parade? Go see the sergeant major, sergeant.”
“Yessir.” Owens shook Tory’s hand. “Good luck, Ma’am.”
She squeezed his hand. “Good luck, Sergeant Owens. I’m glad I’m the first person to have the privilege of calling you that.”
“Go on, Sergeant Owens,” Devereaux said. “I’m glad to be the second.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Owens saluted and hurried off.
The General led her to a separate wing of this tent headquarters, to a large office with desk, long table, wall map of Washington, and chart-easel. “Sit down,” he ordered. He called for refreshments, sat behind his desk with his feet up, and sucked on the cigar.
Tory handed him the list.
Devereaux put on his reading glasses. He shouted over his shoulder: “Bielicki!” As Devereaux read, a young infantry major rushed into the office. “Yessir!”
“Bielicki, this is a list of the names of some of the people who have decided we need to be saved from ourselves. I want you to make me a copy, just a hip pocket kind of thing. I want you to put the original in the safe. Then I want you to start broadcasting this all over the world. Don’t stop.”
“Yessir.”
“First, I want it to go on world wide military communications. Then I want it to go to every news station in town, with a press release from me saying this is a list of conspirators against CON2 and against the people of the United States, drawn up by Vice President Cardoza an hour before he was murdered by agents of the people whose names are on this paper.”
“Yessir!”
“Write it up. Send it out. Keep sending if it takes all day and all night. I want everyone on earth to have those names so they can’t cover this thing up any longer.”
“Yessir!” Bielicki saluted and jogged away to another office.
“Now I want to hear your story,” Devereaux said. “First you’d better take a shower, put on some dry clothes.”
A female sergeant took Tory to a tent reserved for women, where Tory took a hot shower. The sergeant had the quartermaster issue her a sweat suit that fit her fairly well, though it was a little baggy in the hips. Tory regarded herself in the mirror and realized she must have lost ten pounds today. The sergeant poured Tory a cup of hot tea, wrapped a blanket around her, and escorted her back to the General’s office.
Devereaux listened with half-closed eyes, nodded occasionally, and did not betray any emotion until Tory had poured her heart out.
“Okay,” Rocky said, cigar clenched in his teeth.”You want to surrender to me?”
“I guess so,” Tory said. Her heart was on an elevator, going down.
“Okay, I’ll take you into custody.” He winked. Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out an old .38 Special in a chapped holster. “Go get some rest, okay? There are some cots in the orderly room. Blankets. Take what you need. Be ready when I need you.”
Ten minutes later, in a darkened room under an Army blanket that smelled vaguely of floor polish, Tory’s thoughts raced and she could not sleep despite her tiredness. Mentally, she still ran for her life. As she lay in the dark, she listened to her heart beat. She heard the hiss of a gas burner and watched the flicker of its glow under the shadowy canvas ceiling. She drifted into a half sleep in which she could almost hear the neighing of long-ago Army horses. She smelled cigar smoke, maybe General Grant’s, amid the sweet smell of oats.
“Lieutenant Breen!” a man said. “Lieutenant Breen! General Devereaux wants to see you right away!” Tory swung out of her bunk groggily and rubbed her mussy hair. The man speaking was elderly, with white hair and round glasses, as he held out a clean fatigue shirt, a folded field jacket, and a helmet. “Hi, I’m Joe Ciampi. You remember me from the Pentagon last week?” She did—the tall, rumpled command sergeant major who’d seemed more like a tailor or bookkeeper than a warrior. Ciampi continued: “One of the lieutenants looked in his duffel bag. We figured you’d like to be in proper uniform to go back to the hotel.”
“Back to the hotel?” Tory asked. A pain, like pliers twisted tightly, grabbed her gut. “He’s going to send me back?”
“Not exactly,” the sergeant major said gently. Tory donned the shirt, jacket, and helmet, and followed Ciampi out of the orderly room. Instead of MP insignia, the shirt lapels bore crossed infantry rifles. Devereaux was on the phone in his office. “Hello, General Montclair?—Yes, how are you? This is General Devereaux, 399th Infantry Division.—Glad to hear it.—Fine, fine. Hey listen, I’ve got one of your lieutenants here in front of me.—Breen—Told me a godawful story.—What’s that?—No, she’s been disarmed.—No problem at all. I’ve got four guys holding her down. She’s got a kick like a horse, that girl. If it’s okay with you, I was gonna toss her in my car and stop by.—That’s right, maybe you and I can chat and sort things out. That okay with you?—Great. I should be there in about an hour. What’s that?—Sure, front steps of Tower One.” He hung up. Another phone blipped, and he picked up. “Devereaux.—Oh, Ernie. How are you?—Yeah, Joey says hi. Hey, remember that little chat we had the other night at poker? You were right. Montclair is an asshole—yeah, you win; will you take a check?—Same to you, buddy.—This might be it. I’ll see Montclair in one hour.—Okay, buddy, break a leg.—Yeah, yeah, same to you.” He hung up and noticed Tory: “Ready to roll?”
“Sir?” She felt her teeth chatter.
“Stop shaking, Lieutenant. If you’re in the Army, you get paid to be bored most of the time but scared shitless at least once in your career.”
Joe Ciampi brought coffee and donuts. “Rocky, want me to come along on this?”
“Naw. You hold the fort. If I call you, get Colonel Bibbs out of the sack, but I think we’ve got all the bases covered.” He frowned a moment, then added: “Joey, I need to speak with Senator Mattoon.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Moments later Ciampi popped back in. “The cellnet is out of the loop, and the land lines are down.”
“Dammit,” Devereaux said. “I know they’ve got a field phone someplace in there. Could you see if you can raise Montclair’s staff? Who’s the Acting?”
“Someone named Colonel Bronf,” Ciampi said.
“Get me Bronf,” Rocky said, rubbing his hands together in cruel anticipation. Tory saw a look in his eyes that suggested he might order steak sauce with his request.
“Yessir.” Ciampi hurried out of the room.
Minutes later, the phone blipped. Devereaux picked up. “Yes?—Colonel Bronf? This is General Devereaux. I need you to get me in touch with Senator Mattoon.—What’s that?” He gripped the receiver in both hands and hollered into it: “—Chuck your chain of command.—You hear me?—Are you deaf or something? Chuck you and chuck your chain of command. You get a runner up there to Mattoon on the double”—he looked at the receiver and said in amazement, “that hair ball rang off on me!” He slammed the phone down. “Who else do we know in there?”
Ciampi suggested: “How about Bellamy, the Provost Marshal?”
“See if you can raise him.”
“Sure, Rocky.” Ciampi spoke softly into the phone, then waited for his request to be forwarded through the Emergency Satellite Command. Devereaux, waiting with his phone, put his palm over the speaker. “Breen, have some coffee. You’re shivering.” He moved his cigar around, rose, and went to a closet. Out came a long, wool Army greatcoat with Iowa markings. “Put this on. I hate to hear your teeth rattle like that.”
Tory put the coat on. “Four stars on each collar end. Have I been promoted?”
Devereaux pointed his cigar at her. “You might get there one day.”
Joe Ciampi came back. “You got it, Rocky. Bellamy’s on the com.”
“I’ll talk to him. Bellamy? Yes, this is General Devereaux. What the hell is going on in that building? What? Oh for Chrissake. Have they lost their minds? Years ago, I’m afraid. Builds up like ring around the tub, you see. Can you move around in there? No. You what?” He put his palm over the phone. “His ankle’s bent or broken or some damn thing. He’s got someone with him. A David Gordon.”
Tory jumped up. “My David Gordon? Is he all right?”
Rocky said: “I got a Lieutenant Breen here who wants to know if Gordon’s in one piece.” He nodded to Tory. “He’s fine.”
Tory sped through a series of emotions, from rejoicing through fear, to mortal concern for David. Rocky, however, appeared to see things differently. “Okay, if you got a bum leg, then Gordon can do the walking. You know where Mattoon is? Then get him to the tenth floor service elevator in Tower 1. Tape his big goddamn mouth shut if you have to. I don’t care how he feels about his little pet convention; we can’t let these buzzards have him. We’ve got to get him to the White House so he can issue a statement and cancel this godforsaken stupid idea. You think you can do it? You gotta do it. You have no choice. I am giving you an order, Colonel. You get Mattoon to that spot as fast as you can, and I don’t care if you have to kill everyone in the hotel to do it, yourself included. Just so Mattoon comes out alive. Got it? God bless you, son. And tell David Gordon there’s a girl here named Tory who’s waiting for him. If I know young men, the boy will carry Mattoon in his arms if he has to. Hang on a sec.” He handed the receiver to Tory.
“David?” she whispered into the phone. “David?”
“Tory. Darling. I love you.”
“Oh, I love you too, David. Are you okay?” She choked up. “I want you back in one piece—do you hear?”
“I’m gonna do my best.”
She sniffled. “That’s not good enough. I’m giving you an order, do you hear? I don’t care if you’re a captain and I’m just a lieutenant. I’m wearing four stars here, come to think of it. I love you and I want you back here because maybe we can sorta hang out, you know, get married, adopt a few kids. Want to do that?”
After a moment: “I’ve been meaning to ask. Tory, will you marry me?”
She froze, smiling coldly, feeling threatened. He was saying that now, but afterward...it would be like the others. “Yes?” she whispered.
His voice sounded distant, but full of passion and desire: “I fell in love with you, Tory, right there while those idiots were waving smoky weenies.”
She laughed warmly at the memory, then choked up at the terrifying physical distance between herself right now and the man she loved. “I love you, David.” There, she’d said it. There wasn’t just the possibility that he’d leave her, but that they might never see each other again if something happened to one or both of them. And there was always that lingering iota of doubt because of what they’d talked about in Arlington. Things were happening too fast, and she decided it was silly, under these dangerous circumstances, to worry about getting hurt again in romance. “Yes!” she said firmly, “I want to marry you.” Her voice cracked with a sob she fought to keep in: “Come back in one piece, please.”
“I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” She repeated her unanswered question: “Are you okay?”
“Yes. A little bruised around the edges of my ego, that’s all. That general there with you—he’s on the level?”
“I can vouch for him,” she said. She thought of Granddad, and Vietnam. “He’s our only hope. He and General Norcross.”
“Okay, Tory. I’ve got my orders. I’m getting out of here, and I’m bringing Stan Mattoon with me. Mouth taped up if necessary. I’m going to think about how I want to share a pillow with you tonight, and we’ll just talk, talk, talk all night like a couple of love birds.”
David always has that sense of humor, she thought. “I want you here in my arms, David Gordon. Do you hear me? As soon as you can. I want you here.” Tears rolled down her cheek at the thought she might not see him again. Through the blur, she noticed Devereaux and Ciampi had left the room, probably to give her some privacy.
Shortly, Rocky Devereaux strode in. “Breen, you were right. Those idiots are trying to bargain with the White House right now. Not another minute to waste. Let’s go!”
Joe Ciampi brought a .45 caliber antique with canvas holster and belt. He offered it to Tory. “I won’t need this tonight, but you might.”
“Thank you.” It was all the words she could get out. She belted it on.
Devereaux said: “I hope granddaddy is watching, because he’d be mighty proud of you.”
At that moment, the lights went out. There was a tangible sigh as computer systems shut off, lights faded, generators died. A blackness descended, silvered by moonlight. Gas heaters guttered eerily. Tory heard distant explosions.
The phone blipped, and General Devereaux picked up. “What the hell is that?” A minute later, he hung up. “That was the Pentagon. It’s gone a step farther again. A couple of generals in the hotel have started a coup d’etat. They’re not just out to kill CON2. They’re taking the country over. At least that’s what they think, before I wrap my hands around their stinkin’ adams apples. Those sounds are the main power lines and road intersections getting blown up by these altar boys from hell. So far, the President is still safe, and General Norcross will join him at the White House.”
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