by Tim Curran
They thought and scratched their heads for a while until Bertie gripped his hand in her own—made Johnny feel kind of fuzzy and warm inside, that did—and said, “Well, we sure as hell aren’t getting out. So, if we can’t get out and can’t go down below…”
“Means we gotta go up above.” Johnny tapped a finger to his temple. “You got some brains, sister. That’ll make up for my lack of ‘em.”
They chuckled over that and found themselves staring at each other and it wasn’t long before they had found a broom closet to hide in and were sharing stories of their lives like a couple school chums that hadn’t seen each other nigh on twenty years. A lot of those memories were a bit yellowed, distorted, and half-ass topsy-turvy from all the alcohol they’d been bobbing in all these years, but it was good to tell them and especially to a set of ears that were generally interested.
“I figure if I’d given up them cigarettes thirty years ago, I wouldn’t be here,” Bertie admitted. “Problem was, I always did like a taste of the old medicine to calm my nerves. And when I had a taste, I had to have a smoke. After a while, that smoking and saucing, well, it was like they were married in July under the sour-apple tree and decided they wanted to spend their lives together. Every time I had a drink, I’d light up. Every time I’d light up, I’d have a drink. The damnedest thing, Johnny.”
“I know how it is, I know how it is.”
“If we get out of this mess, I’ll buy you a round.”
Johnny smiled in the darkness, thinking that the last time he’d been in a broom closet with a girl was back in the eighth grade at Our Lady of the Blessed Heart. That was in 1959, he was guessing. He’d got a couple kisses off Missy Pedulla and then she’d surprised him by pulling his hand up under her school uniform shirt. And that girl, Jeez, for fourteen she sure had a set on her. He did some exploring that afternoon. That was, until Sister Mary Patrice caught them—ratted out by Bobby Farlane, no doubt—and gave them both a good taste of the paddle.
Johnny realized at that moment, though his mind certainly had a bad habit of drifting like a stray leaf in the wind, that he was not in the second floor broom closet at Our Lady. He was at Holy Cross with Bertie and damned if she wasn’t holding his hand.
He was glad there were no lights in there because he was blushing bright red and what a state that would have made of him with his purple nose where all the blood vessels had blown like soap bubbles from the sauce.
“I’ll get you out of here, Bertie. Or I’ll die trying. You got my word on that.”
Bertie gave him a peck on the cheek and Johnny felt his toes tingle.
They left the broom closet and made for the stairs. No commandos in enemy territory were more stealthy, more secret, more silent than they. And sneaking about like that reminded Johnny of when he’d joined the Marine Corps back in ’66 out of high school. He wanted bad to be a commando. When basic was finished, the drill sergeant gave them the pitch like they did with all boots, that the Department of the Navy was beefing up their special ops units, the SEALs and Marine Force Recon. Johnny jumped at the chance until he learned that Force Recon Marines had to jump out of airplanes (he hated heights), had to go through frogman training (almost drowned when he was six, hated water), and had to go through extensive demolitions schools (he’d blown part of his pinkie off when he was seven and hated firecrackers). That was how he went to infantry school instead. Still, creeping about like this, hell it was almost as good even though he was in his sixties leaning hard towards seventy.
When they reached the stairs, they moved up them slowly. Each set they climbed required something of a rest period afterwards because neither of them were exactly kids anymore.
On the third-floor landing, Bertie peered through the square of window and said it looked okay out there. Johnny went out first, then she followed. The corridors were empty. Some of the rooms were offices and some were for patients. But all deserted.
They came around a bend in the corridor and a voice called out, “Oh, help me, please somebody help me…”
“You hear that?” Bertie said.
“I sure did.”
“Should we…”
“I think it might be proper.”
They tracked the voice, which never stopped calling out, to a room across from a nurses’ station. They went in and some woman, maybe thirty or so, was crouched in the corner by the bed.
“I don’t know where I am,” she told them. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Well, you’re lucky we found you and not the Martians,” Bertie told her, giving her a hand to stand up and when she did, that’s when they saw that they had waltzed into a trap. Hell, not even waltzed so much as did the old two-step right into the arms of death.
The woman seized Bertie. Her face was yellow, jaundiced-looking, her eyes like green moons riding in black gulfs. Right away she began to hitch and convulse as Bertie screamed and fought against her. Johnny waded in and gave her a couple devastating shots to the face that used to floor his opponents in the ring and that worked. The woman tossed Bertie aside and came right at him.
“That’s it,” Johnny told her, bringing his fists up. “Come and get yours.”
The woman lunged and Johnny hit her two or three more times, knocking her back, but his hands were aching and his arms hurting and she was coming back for more.
Then Bertie got into it.
She snatched a fire extinguisher off the wall and brought it up over her head and brained the woman with it. That put her to one knee and she convulsed again and made gagging sounds, drool hanging from her mouth. That’s when the worm came out. It slid out between her lips like a rat snake from a gopher hole.
About the time its head-bulb opened, Johnny had the fire extinguisher. He popped the pin and hosed the woman and her parasite down with Co2. The woman screamed and the worm retreated and Johnny kept at it until the room was a thick white fog.
Then they went back to the stairs.
“That was real team work we did in there,” he said to Bertie.
“You saved my life, Johnny.”
She hugged him and he hugged her back and it was funny, real funny, but he hadn’t been sweet on anybody in years—not since Georgia McKane swallowed that quart of grain alcohol and got run over by the train—and now he was beginning to feel real sweet on Bertie. What a time and place for such a thing.
“C’mon, hon,” Bertie said. “Let’s get to that fourth floor.”
Johnny was right next to her. He figured he belonged there.
BOLLING AFB, WASHINGTON DC:
DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
9:34 P.M.
Though he had suspected it for some time, it was now beginning to look like a near-certainty that Robert Pershing, Director of the CIA, was at best a subversive and at worse a traitor. This knowledge brought pain to Walter Sleshing not only as the Director of Defense Intelligence but as a combat veteran. His service to his country was long and distinguished, and although he would have been the first to admit that he had been involved in many black bag operations that left him cold, never could anyone label him as disloyal. He was a patriot.
I have to go slow here. I can’t jump to any conclusions. Bob Pershing is crafty. He’s well-connected. He has many powerful friends.
That was the voice of reason speaking and he tried to listen to it, knowing that the evidence he had was at best circumstantial… yet, he’d had a very bad feeling about Pershing for some time now and it was getting worse. He never liked the man, and it would be hard to find anyone within the intelligence community that really did. As a person, that was. At his job, Pershing was fairly well-respected because he was good at subterfuge, good at playing both sides against the middle, good at playing the game and schmoozing the right sort of people. His appointment as CIA Director was basically a political one, of course, but he had a long career in military intelligence (which was a shark tank on the best days).
Bob Pershing was a survivor.
He was goo
d at it.
But he was also ruthless and ambitious, and now DDI Sleshing was wondering just how far that ambition went. He was not the only one, of course. DCI VanderMissen was suspicious of him and his “gang of confederates”, as he called them—General Mason, the Chairman of the JCS and Admiral Paulus, the Director of Naval Intelligence. To name but two. They had discussed many times now what those three might be up to, but never had there been any clear indication.
Even now there was no concrete evidence, but what Sleshing had made him extremely nervous. There were warning bells going off in his head and a very bad feeling in his gut.
Less than an hour before, Sleshing had received a call on the encrypted line from Gus Costello, the National Security Advisor. Sleshing had long felt that Costello was on the same page with him and Chuck VanderMissen. Apparently, Costello thought the same of them. “Walt?” Gus said. “Stay in your office. I’m sending someone over to see you. You know him. Just be waiting for him. It’s vitally important, I think.”
His visitor was Vice-Admiral Dahn of SOCOM, the Special Operations Command. He did not look pleased. In fact, he looked equal parts angry and frustrated. Sleshing knew Dahn fairly well. He was a career Naval officer, a highly decorated Navy SEAL, and a man with absolutely no sense of humor. He was built like a wire cable and at sixty he was in better physical condition than most sailors were at twenty.
“I don’t like what I’m about to say or admit to, General,” he started the conversation off by saying. He sat across from Sleshing dressed in street clothes as if to downplay his rank and position. “Treachery and duplicity are not things that come natural to me, yet in the intelligence field and spec ops, I’ve had to use them again and again. It has brought me no satisfaction.”
“It never does,” Sleshing told him. “It only brings guilt.”
“And maybe this scenario more than most,” he admitted.
By that point, of course, Sleshing was expecting the very worst. “Okay, Jack. Why don’t you tell me what this is about so we can understand each other? Gus Costello considers it very important and that’s good enough for me.”
So Dahn told him what it was about.
Apparently, DNI Admiral Paulus had been making some discreet inquiries as to the possibility of the SEAL Teams being deployed domestically in counter-terror operations considering the current climate of the country. Groups like Delta Force and the SEAL Teams were not allowed to conduct operations within the country. That was the jurisdiction of the FBI and other federal and state police agencies. Under martial law, it would only take a quick sweep of the pen to change that. As yet, the President had not signed that order. But it was coming and everyone in the intelligence community knew it. DNI Paulus’ inquiries were not unusual. What was unusual was when he began making inquiries, not so much discreet as completely under the table, concerning the possibility that the SEAL Teams be placed under the executive command of the Office of Naval Intelligence. It raised red flags immediately when it was learned that General Mason was making the same inquiries concerning Delta Force as well as several crack Ranger battalions.
“Something smelled rotten about it all, General. We didn’t like the feel of it at SOCOM. So we launched an investigation in conjunction with the ONI and the JCS.”
Sleshing was amazed. Not concerning the collusion between Mason and Paulus, of course, but that within the ONI—Paulus’ own group—and the JCS—Mason’s—there were suspicions that warranted such an investigation. He knew that the ONI orchestrating a clandestine investigation of its own director was nearly unheard of, but according to Dahn they had clearance from “the highest possible levels”. And that went for the JCS Chairman, General Mason, as well. Interesting…but dangerous. Mason and Paulus were both powerful. Their underlings going after them amounted to political and professional suicide if it was found out. On the other hand, if it bore fruit…
Either way it was dangerous.
Very Dangerous.
“We went so far as to bug his car,” Dahn admitted and that’s when he delivered a thumb drive to Sleshing along with an accompanying transcript.
And that’s what was eating at Sleshing now. The very fact that SOCOM and the JCS were doing the very thing he had long considered doing himself. It was like a confirmation of his worst fears and anxieties, justification of his paranoia concerning Admiral Paulus and particularly, Robert Pershing. He looked down at the transcript and sighed once again.
Pershing: Our chance is almost here… we just have to wait for it… (unintelligible)… events are coming around nicely. This country is about ten feet from hell and I plan on giving it the extra push.
Paulus: I just worry about repercussions.
Pershing: What repercussions? For there to be repercussions there has to be somebody left in power to initiate them…
Paulus: I suppose, but…
Pershing: No buts. No looking back. This country is going to hell and the man (unintelligible)… he’s no leader. He’s going to fall with the rest. That will create a vacuum of power. People in this country will be starving for leadership… strong, decisive leadership.
Paulus: You’re right. You’re absolutely right.
Pershing: Of course I am. Everything is moving in our direction. We couldn’t have hoped for a better set of circumstances than BioGen going global. It plays into our hands and we’d be fools not to seize the opportunity.
Paulus: Mason said everything is nearly ready on his end.
Pershing: I’m working hard on mine. The list of prime targets (unintelligible)… now it’s a matter of taking them out. The confusion and panic will put us in the position we desire. And we’ll take it. God yes, we will…
That was the gist of the recording. Sleshing hated to think about it, but it sounded very much like Pershing, Paulus, and Mason were considering a military coup of the country. A violent takeover. The problem was that there was nothing absolutely conclusive in the transcript. Regardless, it hinted at the worst possible things. Sleshing didn’t like it and neither did Dahn or Gus Costello. He knew if he brought this to Pershing tomorrow, the CIA Director would not bat an eye. Being the slick professional liar and spin manager he was, he would say they were discussing the overthrow of some Third World country. After all, no names or positions of power were mentioned.
But what if it was true?
What if?
That was the scary thing. The “prime targets” Pershing had mentioned could very well be the chain of command of the United States: the President, Vice President, the Speaker of the House, the Senate President Pro Tempore, Secretaries of State, Treasury, and Defense…a coordinated series of assassinations could absolutely debilitate the country at any time but particularly during a state of crisis as they were facing now. It would leave an immense vacuum in command.
And who better to fill that vacuum than Pershing and his confederates? With their rank and status they could easily bring their respective services into play and that was an absolutely awesome force. And with Pershing having control over the CIA’s Clandestine Service and SOG as well as XI, Mason with Delta Force and several Ranger battalions at his disposal, and Paulus bringing the Navy SEAL Teams in…they could easily vanquish any opposition or threats to their position of power. It sounded absolutely fantastic, but it was not beyond the realm of possibility. And if what Chuck VanderMissen suspected was true, then it was not just the three of them involved in this. Each had a web of co-conspirators.
And who could rightly say how many members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were still loyal to the President?
It was disgusting and went against everything that Sleshing believed in and had spent his life protecting and upholding, but it certainly was not as far-fetched as it perhaps sounded, in fact—
In fact, he stopped himself right there.
What if Pershing and Paulus were talking about nothing more than some shithole banana republic in South America or Africa? What if they were purely speculating about such a place? Jesus, S
leshing did not know what to think. Doubt had a way of flowering into suspicion until it became full-blown paranoia and that was not a good thing. But he knew he couldn’t sit on this. He had to bring Chuck VanderMissen in on it. For if it was true—dear God, he hoped not—then Pershing would see to it that all his adversaries were off the grid. And it wouldn’t just be the President and his cabinet, it would be Chuck VanderMissen, Gus Costello, and Sleshing himself.
You need to proceed carefully, old man. Very, very carefully. Now, here’s what you do. You give Chuck a call and the both of you have a little sit-down, then you give Gus Costello a call in the morning, set up a meeting.
Okay, now that was both reasonable and rational. It was good common sense at work. That’s how it would be handled, one step at a—
His secure cell buzzed. “Sleshing,” he said.
“Walt…oh Jesus Christ.” It was Gus Costello. He was breathing hard. “We’ve got a situation here.”
Sleshing sat forward. “What is it, Gus?”
More breathing as if he were trying to steady himself. “The Vice President was assassinated.”
“Oh, dear God,” Sleshing muttered.
MANHATTAN: TIMES SQUARE
9:53 P.M.
Tourists from around the world came to view the neon splendor of the Square by night and as the sun went down they got a very special treat. With martial law only a few hours away, they knew this might be their last chance for weeks, months, maybe longer. So unprecedented crowds flooded Times Square. The neon was bright, the billboards flashing, cops promenading on horseback, double-decker buses fighting for space amongst yellow cabs. And everywhere, tourists and exhibitionists and ticket-sellers, street vendors and hawkers. A wild funhouse of people and noise and bright lights.