by Ed Miracle
Lying on her side, Marcy gathered Philip’s computer from the dirt and onto her belly. She opened it for Everett and his camera. A magenta blip departed the red circle, pulsing toward the center of the screen. Overhead, scores of Furies shrieked to a frenzy, tightened their spiral, and jetted upward—an upended tornado. Higher and higher they snaked until the vanguard sparkled in a cluster of flashes.
“Cover,” Tanner shouted.
The magenta blip winked out, and the sky flashed, its radiance searing every sliver of exposed skin. A fist of air struck them, and its impact reverberated. Dirt spattered Everett’s back and huffed into his face. Then flaming debris rained from the sky. Incandescent metal match heads alighted in his hair, stung his neck, hands, and ears. They sizzled into his clothing and burned his back.
He stood, swatted embers from Marcy’s hair and shoulders, brushed them from his own.
“Furies saved us,” Tanner said.
Philip unfurled himself and shouted, “Get them off the mountain.”
With smoke wafting from his filthy hair, Tanner sprang from the trench, scrambled in a crouch, and rolled in behind Everett. He gripped Everett’s collar and belt and heaved him up and out. Then he bent to Marcy.
“Hurry, Ms. Johnson.” He swatted his scalp. “Get to your plane.”
She hugged Philip’s computer to her chest and shut her eyes. Tanner boosted her onto her feet and set her beside Everett. Philip lay in the trench, fumbling with his Cambiar.
“Get them out,” he said. “I’m good.” Then to the ringing phone, “Philip here.”
Everett aimed his camera at the fireball, hotter than the sun, that was devouring the eastern sky. Gouts of flame twisted through its vortex. Against the radiance, he braced himself. First, his forehead, then his ears, then his knuckles, could no longer endure. He tripped over a step and blundered to a sheltering wall.
Tanner vaulted from the trench and seized Marcy’s arm.
“Run to your plane,” he shouted. “Get out of here.”
But a withering blast, as foul and furious as dragon’s breath, drove them to the wall with Everett.
“We are not leaving,” Marcy cried.
Karen Lavery rode behind the men, in her jail coveralls, sprawled on her stomach atop a plastic tank that reeked of weed killer. She hugged a brace behind the pilot and crowded his ball cap to see ahead. Beside him rode Agent Parker, who had threatened the man earlier this morning to get him to haul them to Mt. Diablo in his crop-spraying helicopter.
Karen was phoning Philip when half the sky flashed to arc-light brilliance. She clamped her eyes and raised a shielding arm, but as the heat dissipated, a concussion punched the helicopter. Behind her, as if it had been switched off, their turbine engine wound down toward silence. The pilot yanked the controls and did something she couldn’t see. They fluttered toward the streets below, their main rotor windmilling. They weren’t very high to begin with, so the question became how hard would they strike.
Her Cambiar rang feebly as suburban rooftops swirled up to meet them. She squeezed her phone and willed it to connect, to inflate a cushion beneath them, anything to save them. Chemicals in the tank sloshed left then right. A fastener snapped, sending the spray boom on Parker’s side whipping fore and aft. The pilot wrestled his machine, restarted the engine, and forced it to lift them once again into the sky. Karen’s stomach hit bottom while her phone continued to ring.
“Philip here.” He coughed and cleared his throat.
“We are coming,” she shouted. A monstrous fireball was sweeping half the mountain. “By helicopter.”
“Don’t come. Tiffany is . . . Wait one.”
Parker glanced back at Karen, noticed her Cambiar. “Are they alive?”
She nodded, covered one ear, heard only muffled shouting from the phone.
“We are coming,” she said. “Call off your drones.”
“Go back,” Philip warned.
“I’m with the FBI. We are coming for you and Tiffany. Is she there?”
“She went . . . . not sure . . . I’ll send Tanner. Don’t come. They’re trying to kill us.”
“Call off your drones so we can land.” More commotion. “Philip? I want Tiffany out of there. No matter what you say, we are coming. Do you understand?”
“Karen, tell your pilot . . . approach from the southwest . . . altitude three-eight-eight-zero. I marked you . . . friendly. Furies will ignore you.”
She repeated his instructions, then relayed them to the pilot. The man nodded and adjusted course. Her Cambiar clicked off.
“Philip?”
FORTY-EIGHT
The tracking camera on the C-130’s belly swung through its arc as it passed over Mt. Diablo. Nick Brayley’s screen in Washington showed the flash and the shock wave striking the summit, while the fireball, too high and off-target, did not reach it. Nick swept the STU-5 from his desk and shouted into its handset.
“Dammit, Clint. How can you miss a whole damn mountain?”
General Holmes replied, “Payload was intercepted by drones.”
Nick scoffed. “This was supposed to be another faulty Powerpod, not target practice. Never mind. We gotta hit ‘em with something drone-proof, whatever you got, and make it fast. He’s still there.”
“Wait one.”
“No. Don’t wait.” Nick slammed the glass top of his desk, smashed it with the handset, and shouted, “Kill him, Clint. Kill the bastard.”
On the mountain, Everett hammered Marcy’s instrument panel, kicked it to clear more space, ripped the video screen from its frame, and cast them aside. The inferno had scorched GG’s paint and warped her canopy, but she could still fly.
“Try again,” he said.
He gathered Philip to the cockpit sill, helped him over it while Marcy steered his injured leg. The angle remained too acute, his wooden splint caught again, and Philip howled. His free arm lashed at the canopy, at the sky, at Everett, who heaved him free of GG’s confines and laid him, panting, on the pavement. Everett’s back spasmed. For the second time, he had failed to get the man into his plane. They should have skipped the damned interview. They should have evacuated him when they first arrived. So ditch the splint and try again.
Instead, a helicopter was approaching. Everett shielded his eyes from its whirlwind. The bug-like silhouette settled toward him flailing a broken appendage, barely under control. As it bore down, Furies swooped past it but did not attack.
“Leave me,” Philip called. “Save yourselves.”
Just below the summit, on a steep north slope, Sergeant Bobby Aboud of the Concord Militia lay on his stomach, catching his breath. A sandstone boulder had shielded him from the blast, yet the concussion had knocked him down the trail headfirst into a thicket of rosemary. The sling of his Winchester had snagged on a branch, and his helmet lay nearby. Now he scrambled to put his size tens back on the ground.
One side of his face prickled from flash burns. Thank God he was watching his feet and not the sky when that thing went off, another damned Powerpod going kaboom. He should have brought his gas mask to filter the fallout. All around him, junk was fizzing out of the sky, igniting shrubs and grasses, while behind the eastern ridge, a firestorm raged.
He stood to brush himself—surprised to be alive—and grinned.
When the Militia moved onto the mountain at dawn this morning, Major Barrett had sent him on his dirt bike to scout a trail to the summit. Two hundred yards from the top, he encountered a maze of boulders and abandoned the motorcycle. His orders were to reconnoiter and report, but he knew what had to be done. Everybody knew Philip Machen was up there.
“We dodged a nuke,” he bragged. “But we gotta beat those fires to the top.”
With that, he collected his rifle and doubled his pace, scrambled up the trail, and did not look back. Over the roar of the flames and the crunch of his boots, a distant flutter grew distinct. A helicopter was coming his way. He stopped but could not see it, even as the racket echoed from the rim a
bove. He threw off his rucksack and charged for the top.
Sonofabitch is trying to get away.
Flames scoured the mountain on Agent Parker’s right, baking outrage into his bones. This was no accident. This was a planned attack, punishment without trial, attempted assassination. It was Coalinga redone, and those murders confirmed. The whole bilious spectacle shimmered with madness.
As the helicopter closed with the summit, a defiant thumb of rock appeared at its pinnacle, seeming to hold off the holocaust, unaided. In its lee waited a Maker and a slender red airplane, undamaged. Somewhere in that penumbra, Philip Machen had also survived, the instigator, the fugitive. Though not a terrorist like the maniacs who did this. Parker swallowed his revulsion. Justice should protect the innocent, he believed, though sometimes it must also protect the guilty. From righteousness run amok.
The helicopter surged, its spray boom flailing, while three figures beside the airplane squinted up at him. If only today, he must be the hard justice on this mountain, the unyielding bulwark of due process standing against murder. At the first shudder of contact, he peeled off his headset, released his seat belt, and leaped into the downwash.
Not there, you idiots.
Everett couldn’t believe they were landing smack in front of him. At least they weren’t military. Then he recognized the suit hopping down and knew GG was blocked for as long as it would take.
“Camera, Everett.” Marcy crouched under the whistling rotor blades and hustled to the cop.
Everett shouldered her Sony but did not follow. He recorded the FBI shouting at her. Then a woman in faded orange coveralls clambered from the chopper. Everett focused on her flamboyant auburn hair, wild in the turbulence, and recognized Ms. Powerpods herself, Karen Lavery.
Agent Parker led the women toward him, and Everett rubbed his arm. Even his follicles knew James Bond was about to capture Philip Machen. Marcy would scoop the world, and they would witness another slice of history. Maybe the FBI could save the Great Man.
“Go back,” Machen rasped. He waved the newcomers away.
Agent Parker let go of Ms. Lavery’s wrist, and Everett framed them together.
“Where’s Tiffany?” Ms. Lavery demanded.
Parker displayed his badge and drew his pistol.
“Philip Machen, you are under arrest.”
Philip ignored the cop for the irresistible sight of Karen Lavery. Who shouldn’t be here. Who was as lost to him as a missing finger, yet none of his parts or particles would ever stop wanting her. Whose green eyes frowned and then winced.
“Karen,” he groaned. He struggled upward, and she helped him stand.
Ms. Johnson thrust a microphone toward them, but a two-legged commotion stormed across the asphalt.
“Stop!” A helmeted soldier, breathing hard, waived his sniper’s rifle. “Hold it right there. Nobody move.”
The FBI canted his pistol for the soldier to see and held up his badge.
“Special Agent Parker, FBI. Stand down, Sergeant. This man is under arrest.”
The soldier’s hesitation allowed Philip to hobble between Karen and the rifle.
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” said the gunman. When he raised his head, Marcy’s assistant cried out.
“Dad? What are you doing here?” The kid edged to Agent Parker’s side and faced the soldier. “He’s the cop from the ranch, Dad. He’s the FBI.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” The elder Aboud recognized them both but jutted his chin at the cop. “Wrong jurisdiction, officer. Martial Law says these prisoners are mine, not yours. Holster your weapon and stand aside.” He flicked his barrel for emphasis.
Agent Parker raised his SIG Sauer, cupped it in both hands, and aimed.
“Stand down, Sergeant. You are interfering with a federal officer.”
Sergeant Aboud snugged his aim at the cop. “Write me a ticket.”
“Dad.” The kid thrust his camera into Ms. Johnson’s startled hands. “Don’t be an idiot. Put down the gun.”
“Stay out of this, Freemaker.”
The kid scoffed. “I don’t own a Maker.”
His father sneered.
“You eat Maker food, burn Maker gasoline, and fly a goddamn Maker airplane. Honest people are losing everything while you help yourself to counterfeit. Now you’re defending the bitch and the bastard who started this shit. Get out of the way. I’m running the show now.”
“Dad—” The son’s hand slipped to a pocket. “Dad, let the man do his job. He’s a cop. He’s got handcuffs. Everything’s under control.”
Sergeant Aboud snorted. “Get out of the way, jackass.”
In one smooth arc, the son drew a tiny silver pistol and fixed it on his father, a sightless little belly gun staring down a big-bore Winchester. The long barrel tracked right, to align with the boy’s eyes.
“Mr. Aboud.” Agent Parker spoke firmly, deliberately. "Put down your weapon. I will commend you to your commanding officer. You assisted in the capture. You were instrumental in making the arrest. No hard feelings, no harm done, Mr. Aboud—Sergeant Aboud. Just put it down, and nobody gets hurt."
Philip nudged Karen to back away.
“You.” The sergeant ripped off his helmet and assailed her. “You got rich selling treason and counterfeit.”
“Everybody stop,” Philip shouted. He goaded his leg forward and raised his notorious hand. “Just stop.”
Sergeant Aboud shifted his aim.
“I’m the one you want,” Philip said. The unarmed geek who terrifies you.
He stared down the formidable barrel, taking responsibility along the way for its owner’s hatred, for the unholy fires past and present, and for endangering so many innocents. He nodded solemnly and squared his shoulders. “I’m the one.”
From behind her camera, Ms. Johnson implored, “Put it down, Mr. Aboud. Please put it down.”
Everett nodded, too, and held his breath. Put down the gun, Dad. Say okay and put it down. Don’t make me choose.
Bobby’s visible eye flicked to Parker, then back to Philip. His rifle jerked left and fired. Its thunderous report smacked everyone rigid.
At Everett’s side, Agent Parker fired too. Pop, pop. And within his body armor, Bobby staggered, but it was Parker who crumpled.
“Dad, stop!”
Bobby’s glare lashed him, fierce and flinty. Within his tactical vest, Bobby shrugged off the pistol shots, racked another round, and aimed at Philip
Three voices screamed, “Stop!”
Philip wrenched his leg forward, one pace then two, drawing the smoking muzzle away from Karen. He spread his arms to shield her. This is how we prevail, Old Shoe. We do the one true thing, even at the price—
Boom!
A flash leapt from Everett’s hand. Bang!
He hadn’t meant to fire, but the blast from his father’s gun made him flinch.
Bobby stood confused, immobile, as Philip Machen staggered.
“Dad?” Everett trembled from head to toe. I didn’t mean it, Dad. It was reflex. He threw the little Seecamp hard away but could not rescind its bullet. Stiff and silent, his father lapsed toward him and then to the pavement, as did Philip Machen.
“Dad?” Every nerve in Everett’s body jolted. Beside him, Parker curled fetal and moaned. Ms. Lavery stepped forward and steered Philip to the ground.
“No,” she cried. The Great Man gurgled as she laid him down. His arms fell limp, and he tipped onto her lap. She captured the pink effusion huffing from a hole in his chest and tried to press it back.
“No!” she called. Then to Everett, “Help us.”
But Everett was departing the vertical, too, drawn irresistibly to Bobby.
“Dad,” he called. A mewling kitten. “Dad.” A croak.
He fingered Bobby’s stomach, tore open the vest, and fought three buttons to bare a torso without blemish. Below Bobby’s left eye, a dainty red meniscus quivered, .32 caliber.
Everett took his father’s face into his hands.
&nbs
p; One agonal breath escaped as Bobby’s eyes went vacant.
“Dad, stay here.”
He shook his father, straddled him, layered hands over his sternum and straight-armed thirty fast compressions. Two quick breaths huffed back into his face, moist and stale. Thirty more compressions and two more breaths produced no response, no pulse, no life.
“Dad.”
His mother’s voice shrilled in his head: What did you do? What did you do?
Philip sprawled over Karen’s legs, oddly alert. As long as those pesky fluids drained from his mouth, he could breathe. Balanced precisely, he could inhale her ministrations and exhale his gratitude. More than blood or precious air, he needed her to see him, just this once, for real. Heaven could never be a place, a box filled with eternity. It could only be a feeling. This feeling. At last, she was holding him, caring for him, at a moment he could not speak. Tears and stardust gleamed at the corners of her eyes.
He strained to smile, to comfort her. Here is your seeker of truth, the one who loves you.
She stroked his glistening brow and calmed his wayward hair.
He gasped and let go.
She hugged him, kissed him, willed him to breathe. “Stay,” she whispered.
But he was gone.
FORTY-NINE
Behind Everett, someone approached, a misshapen shadow he could barely see.
Tanner Newe shuffled up the footpath and stopped. He surveyed the carnage before him but said nothing. In his arms, he bore a ragged young woman with no red ball cap and no blonde ponytail, no hair at all. Membranous flesh sagged from the curve of her shoulder.