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43
Tory coughed. For a moment she panicked. Her eyes were glued shut and sightless, and she touched them fearfully to see if she’d gone blind. She heard moaning as she sat up. She rubbed her eyes, removing a sludge of blood, oil, and dust. Her ears still rang from the explosions that had rocked through the underground garage. Now, as she and the others slowly picked themselves up battered and with bleeding nostrils, she began to blurrily see again. Nobody in her vehicle had been killed.
Then Tory began to hear gunfire. She peered through a wire-guarded window and saw small arms tracer fire coming from the rebels, who seemed to fire into a brightness in the dust.
Rocky Devereaux jabbered on the phone. His nostrils were clotted with blood, his forehead was bruised, and he had machine oil smeared on one cheek.
The haze of white dust drifted so thick she could barely see. The blast had moved LXs around like toys, and blue-yellow commandos began to pick themselves up from the garage floor. The indistinct brightness grew. Clouds seemed to drift about.
People in Tory’s LX shook their heads, wiggled a finger in an ear, tapped a forehead, squinted. The air conditioning seemed to have cut out, and the air was thick. Devereaux shouted: “Mark? You out there?”
Then—the ground started to shake. Tory felt her teeth rattle. What now? Would she live to see David Gordon again? She clung to a metal shelf with both hands as her body got shaken around like a reed. The vehicle itself started groaning in protest, and loose panels inside vibrated loudly. Objects fell from shelves and crashed to the floor.
“My God! Look!” someone shouted.
The dust outside the portholes began to drift clear. Tory saw now what the brightness was: Devereaux’s men on the outside had sapped a 50-foot section of the garage wall, and daylight streamed in through the drifting dust.
A huge mass hovered somewhere in the mist, and the mist lightened as daylight penetrated through a fine powder of concrete gone aerosol in the explosion. It seemed to be a constellation of glaring round lights.
A monster shape loomed up, then rolled over the rubble and into the garage, almost too big to fit: an “Ike” MBT-2010 Eisenhower main battle tank with 175 mm. gun, a rack of missiles, a Vulcan III gatling gun capable of firing thousands of rounds per second, two mortar tubes, a flame thrower, and two Winchester rapid-fire armor-piercing cannons. The leviathan’s quad turbo-nitro-diesel engines howled and whined with dinosaur glee. The long barrel had pointed backward as the tank crunched through the broken walls—now the tube swung from back to front; the tank never even faltered. The twin Winchesters rapid-fired, tearing lightly armored rebel LXs like paper. Rebel gunners fell by their weapons. Other commandos scattered, dropping their light arms as they ran. Those who were too stubborn to quit died in the next few dozen seconds.
Another tank rolled in behind the first.
And another. The ground shook. The floor of Tory’s LX chattered audibly, and fallen objects bounced around.
Like primordial giants, the Ikes rocked and rumbled over the mound of wall-debris. Everything shook. The rebellious commandos turned from their intended attack on the Iowans and shot at the tanks. The air filled with fireflies as the Vulcans opened up. The commandos became a bloody soup, washed against the opposite wall in a tangle and mangle of boots, helmets, and bits of yellow and blue cloth. Another Ike rolled in, and another.
One rebellious officer ran into the open, knelt, and aimed a shoulder-fired rocket. Before he could fire, an Ike’s main gun coughed. The tank rocked gently and kept coming. Where the officer had been was a patch of dusty daylight. The officer and his rocket had been pulverized. There was a hole in the garage floor. From a hole in the ceiling hung a five or six ton palm tree upside down in a dusty glow of lobby daylight. Its thick trunk came to rest standing up on the garage floor, while its car-sized rootball rained fine soil down in a rain-like torrent.
In all, six MBT’s drove down the line of commando LXs. It was not a battle but a rout. It was over in about five minutes. Their Winchesters barked. The rebel LXs, and anyone foolish enough to stay in them, became burning junk. Vulcans stammered in smoky bursts. The tanks continued on their foray, and reduced the 3045th’s supplies and vehicles to blazing cinders.
Devereaux made fists and laughed. “Great day for the Irish! Charlie, roll this contraption out! To the White House! Get General Norcross’s office on the horn!”
The loyalist LXs wheezed into racketing life and started to move.
Devereaux stuck the cigar in his mouth. “Okay! Let’s go!” An aide placed four-star pennants to flutter on the fenders of the LX. “On to the White House!”
Tory felt grateful to be alive. She held on with both hands as the vehicle surged forward. Devereaux said into the phone: “Nice job, Sherwin. I need an escort, how about it?—I’ve got this guest on board, by the name of Mattoon, ever hear of him? He’s anxious to join up with the President.—What’s that?—Three Ikes?—How I love thee. Be sure and have them run with their turrets turned backward or the boys in the White House will think we’re coming at them. And thanks!” As he hung up, Charley handed him another phone, and he spoke briefly with General Norcross.
“Young lady,” Senator Mattoon told Tory, “I owe you the deepest apology. Believe me, the President and I will have a long chat, and I will mention your name specifically.” He added: “I take it Captain Gordon is your—?”
“I’m in love with him,” Tory stated. “We’re going to get married.”
“He’s a very heroic young man.”
“How is—?”
“He is alive, last I saw. I’m afraid it was touch and go there. You’d better pray.”
“Thank you.” There must be hope! She held her hands over her face and felt faint as she thought about the possibility of his dying. How could her luck always be so grim? God, what have I done to deserve this? Some voice inside her protested at that thought: Why must I always think the worst? I deserve better!
Devereaux hung up. “Norcross is with the President. They managed to pull in some reserve units, Marine guards, odds and ends, and they just barely fought off a dickhead attack. Now they’ve got troops rolling in from everywhere, and the situation is still fluid, but I think we’ll get it under control.” He added. “There is one thing that puzzles me deeply. Why did these guys go out on a limb like this? It couldn’t just be that Mason and Montclair have flipped their wigs. There has to be something more.”
“A foreign power?” Mattoon wondered out loud.
“I dunno,” Rocky said. “They have to be waiting for tactical and strategic support from someone, somewhere, but who or what?”
“A nuclear device,” someone suggested. “A secret weapon?”
“Oh God,” Devereaux said. “Get me Norcross again. I’d better make sure he’s thinking the same as we are.”
At that moment, they crossed one of Washington’s major traffic circles, Logan Circle, and Tory had simultaneous views down two broad avenues. The noisy, bumpy, smoky LX made it hard to see straight and she held on for dear life, but stared out in fascination. It had rained lightly during the night. The slick streets reflected a cold, pearly morning light. The early sun hid behind quilted clouds charcoal-brushed, in other areas milky white. Distant landmarks—the Capitol Dome, the Washington Monument—poked through surly fog.
Vermont Avenue was littered with bodies and overturned vehicles near Logan Circle. Cars sat at odd angles, and a tank burned orange-red framed in black smoke. A skirmish line of infantry moved at a crouch toward the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center, whose blackened walls and window-holes billowed with smoke as guns fired.
New Hampshire Avenue, which also crossed at Logan Circle, was still aflame with battle. Two old M70 Abrams tanks just then fired. They rocked on their carriages and spouted balloons of gray smoke. A second later, plumes of dirt erupted several thousand feet down the street.
Tory’s convoy screamed down a long avenue lined with fresh military vehicles on either side. Untested soldiers awaited their turn at battle, holding their M16’s while crouched behind vehicles. Every face was taut with fear and curiosity. Quite a gauntlet for the commandos to run on their way to the White House, Tory thought.
“Yessir,” Rocky was saying. “I’d get the FBI, the CIA, everyone on it. Something more is going to happen. I got a nose for it. This just can’t be all there is. They would have never—Yessir. Thank you.”
Apparently satisfied with that conversation, Devereaux lit his cigar, popped a ventilator hatch to let out the smoke, and settled back.
Tory peeked again. Smoke still drifted on New Hampshire Avenue. She saw exploded LXs, tanks, and trucks. Nurses and doctors in field gear triaged the walking, the wounded, and the dying at a field station that consisted of three assorted civilian ambulances and a furniture van. American flags flew everywhere. Sullen, handcuffed prisoners in blue-yellow fatigues were herded into buses. Young GI’s moved about their tasks with glum efficiency, but cheered and made victory signs when the LXs passed.
A half dozen MEAS choppers flew overhead, fast, in formation, rooftop level, and Tory thought of Maxie. She called via com button.
“—is Captain Bodley,” said a familiar voice. Just then something exploded near Maxie. There was a steady noise that sounded like bees buzzing, or was it devils shouting in hell?
“Maxie, it’s me, Tory. Where are you?” She pictured Maxie, stethoscope around her neck, hair flying.
She sounded sad or tired. “Someone just handed me this phone. All our com buttons are out. We need ambulances, nurses, doctors, major medevac.”
“I’ll tell General Devereaux.”
“Who? Tory, where have you been?”
“In the hotel with the 399th.”
“I heard about that. Figures you’d be there. Driving the front tank, no doubt.” Tory heard machine gun fire on Maxie’s end. Three loud crump blasts followed one after the other.
“LX’s,” Tory corrected. “What are you doing?”
“I’m standing here in the rain, up to my elbows in blood, and brains, and mud, trying to tape this guy’s chest back together so he can be moved. The other one here has both legs off, but we taped up the stumps, and wrapped him ready to roll.” Now Tory understood the chorus from hell: it was the moaning and screaming of wounded soldiers in agony, some dying, all terrified. Maxie said: “My chopper was shot down last night. The sons of bitches keep shooting our choppers down. A sniper picked off another one of the nurses during the night. She was my friend.”
“Oh Maxie, I’m so sorry.” Suddenly she realized the hell her friend must be in.
Maxie’s voice was all energy, white-hot, almost inhuman. “I’m down to one doctor and she’s half out of it with shock. Meanwhile, our guys are getting creamed over here. The streets are all screwed up, and we can’t move the wounded out to Bethesda and Reed. I love ya, Vick. If we get out of this alive, let’s disco.”
“You’ll get out alive,” Tory said. “I love ya too, Maxie.”
“Thanks. If you meet a guy named Tom Dash, and if I don’t get out, tell him we’ll have that pizza some other time.”
“You met a guy? A nice guy?” Tears were streaming down Tory’s face as she tried to keep up a false cheer.
“Yes. He’s a nice boy. Last I saw he was trying to lead a bunch of wounded guys out of here. I sure hope they all make it through. This whole thing is such a bummer, Tory. What a drag. I don’t even have time to cry.”
“Did you dump that snake oil doctor yet?”
Her voice came with a throaty little chuckle. “He’s in a straight jacket. That’s another story.”Maxie’s voice suddenly dropped. “Oh Tory.”
“What?”
“This boy just died on me. His name is Tom O’Leary. I thought he was going to make it. He was doing so good. I am holding him here in my arms.” There were five more crump sounds, a long rattle of machine gun fire, and the continuous wailing of wounded. “Bye, Tory. I’ve got some badly hurt GIs here. We need help. Send us transportation! Send us cover and get us out of here!”
“I’ll tell General Devereaux. Where are you?”
Maxie told her, and Tory explained to General Devereaux. Rocky spoke hoarsely on the radio. “Mark? Goddammit, where are you?—Listen, Mark, we got some Army nurses in trouble on the corner of—what’s that?—I can’t! Come on, I’m busy headed for the White House. I’ll send twenty LXs and three Ikes, it’s all I’ve got handy. Do me a big favor, old buddy, drive your tanks over there and cover my boys and those nurses. Anyone you see shooting nurses, back a tank over him a couple times, do you hear? Call Conrad MacIntosh and have him run some trucks over to help those nurses. They’ve set up a temporary field dispensary between some wrecked buses. Got a bunch of wounded soldiers need to get to a hospital.” A minute later, the three tanks, and most of the LXs following Devereaux’s, peeled off one by one, each making a snappy turn with a big roar and a gout of black diesel smoke, and speeding away down a side street. Tory prayed they’d get there in time to save Maxie from harm.
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