“Please, just call me Thomas.”
Autumn rises from her seat and moves to the nearest window. Smoldering remnants of sunlight struggle through a dark band of clouds on the horizon. “We all have a time, Mr. Zed; and for you and me, that time has come and gone.”
“You can’t be serious. Look at yourself in the mirror.”
She turns to him and smiles with a conviction he finds unnerving. “You think you’ve beaten the clock because you can bring your body back around. But nothing goes on forever. Everything has a beginning and an end.”
“So what do you say to all those who believe you have a soul?” Zed counters. “Because along with a soul comes life everlasting. No time limit. No expiration date.”
“Not really,” Autumn says. “You’re assuming that your mind and your soul are the same thing. They’re not. Your mind has to die for your soul to move on, which means your body has to die, too. We all come with an expiration date. It’s built into the rhythm of life, and there’s nothing we can do to change it.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Zed says. “And just how would you prove such a thing?”
“An experiment. And that’s precisely what you and I are. We’re that experiment. And when it’s complete, it’ll show that we all have a time, and that once that time has come and gone, we go with it.”
Zed rises from his seat and circles to Autumn’s side. “All right then, we both believe in an experiment. Mine offers hope. Yours offers oblivion. I suggest we try mine first.”
“As you wish,” Autumn says. “It won’t change the outcome.”
“We’ll see about that. In the meantime, I want you to go home and pack up and be ready to leave. You won’t need much. Everything will be taken care of.”
Autumn turns to face the last remnant of dusk out the window. “I’m sure it will.”
Zed finds Green waiting for him at rigid attention in an anodized aluminum chair in a guest room at the north end of Zed’s residential complex. The politician watches a big video display where the Feed replays the attack on the Bird’s penthouse from a wide variety of angles and perspectives. Any event in the Trade Ring and its periphery now falls under the paranoid gaze of at least a dozen cameras, and the Feed is expert at ferreting them out and flinging them over the broadband in record time.
Green turns toward Zed’s entrance. “You missed.”
“Mistakes do happen,” Zed admits.
“The Bird will come after you, you know that? He’ll take us both out if he gets the chance.”
“Then we won’t give him the chance,” Zed explains as he sits down on the couch. “We have options.”
“Such as?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, it would take a major military action to get in here. I doubt that your friend has the means.”
“You’re underestimating him. He has thousands of fighters at his disposal, and he’s very resourceful.”
“I’m sure he is. And if it looks like he’s going to pose a serious threat, we can always evacuate by air.”
“And what about my career? How do we keep that from going up in smoke?”
“You’re a man of peace,” Zed declares calmly. “You’re a man on a diplomatic mission who just made a big breakthrough. For the first time, real progress has been made to heal the differences between business in the towers and people on the street. On the other hand, the Bird would seem a madman who’s hell-bent on extreme violence that threatens to undo all that you’ve worked so hard for. In the end, justice will prevail. And somehow, I doubt that your avian friend will survive the experience.”
Green purses his lips in thought, then speaks. “And how might we expedite all this?”
“At the first sign of real trouble, we’ll evacuate you to one of your offices in another city, where you can make a heartfelt plea for peace and reason. It’ll be a good move for you. For the most part, your campaign has been pretty much rage-based. Now you’ll be seen as much more balanced and nuanced.”
“Balanced and nuanced,” Green repeats. “That just might work.”
“Of course it’ll work,” Zed reassures him.
But it won’t, as Zed well knows. Not with the Bird out there on the rampage. Green has betrayed him and Green will pay. The Bird will pursue him relentlessly and do whatever it takes to get his revenge. And that includes telling the whole world about the miracle technology hiding up on the mountain under the stewardship of Thomas Zed.
On the other hand, if Green were no longer in the picture, the Bird might quickly become a very reasonable man, especially if he were to take Green’s place on the short list.
Chapter 28
Go Tell It on the Mountain
Rachel points to the big green rectangle of Mount Tabor, which dominates the video display in her office. She shows Lane the road that comes in off Sixtieth Avenue and winds up the former park’s western slope past the drained reservoir. “This is the road Harlan and I took to the top after going through the gate. We looped around the reservoir and went on up to a little parking area in front of what looks like a huge bunker set in the side of the hill. If they’re hiding something, this is definitely where they’re doing it. If your Johnny’s up there, that’s where you’ll find him.”
Lane nods at the image. “Sounds like it.”
“I still don’t know how in the hell the Bird thinks he’s going to get in there,” Rachel says. “The gate on Sixtieth looks like Fort Knox, and they’ve got bunkers all the way up past the reservoir.”
“Plus they’ve cleared the trees back around the entire perimeter,” Lane adds. “Anybody up above has a clear field of fire on anybody coming up from below. It would be a suicide charge. Even if you got through the clearing, you’d have to fight uphill on foot to get to the buildings.”
Rachel studies the map. “The only way that makes sense is to break in through the main gate so you can use the roads. But then they’d really have you in their crosshairs.”
Lane’s handheld buzzes. He reads a text message and looks up to Rachel. “The Bird has just put out an order for his forces to assemble along Seventy-second Avenue on the far side of the mountain away from the gate. Now why would he do that?”
***
The Bird carefully steps around an oil spot on the cement floor of the hangar. It might soil the leather soles of his chapel-buckled loafers crafted from hand-chosen calfskin. The big structure’s front door is rolled up to reveal the single runway of Troutdale Airport, located several miles to the east of the city. A crop duster points its propeller-driven nose toward the door. Its single-seat cockpit pokes up from a fuselage painted bright yellow with blue trim. Underneath each wing hangs a linear array of spray nozzles.
Gary Jacobs, who serves as both the plane’s pilot and its mechanic, withdraws his head from under the open engine cowling to greet the Bird. “So you’re the guy, huh?” Jacobs is short and stocky underneath his greasy coveralls, and sports an unruly shock of grizzled gray hair.
“Yeah, I’m the guy.”
Jacobs looks over the Bird’s shoulder at his two henchmen standing behind him. “And who are they?”
“They’re nobody, and they like it that way.”
Jacobs knows better than to press the point. “Well, each to his own, I guess.”
“So can you do it?”
Jacobs scratches his head and looks at the plane. “Yeah, I can do it, but it’s going to be real tricky. I’ve got to rig some kind of ventilation and wear an oxygen mask, just to make sure. Most likely, it’s going to ruin the aircraft.”
The Bird snorts. “Come on now, is that going to be a problem?”
“I suppose not. Especially with what you’re payin’ me.”
“You have to be ready by later this afternoon. You’ll go on my command. Is that understood?”
Jacobs grins. “It’s gonna be a helluva show.”
“It better be.” The Bird turns and heads for the hangar door. On the way out he passes a relic of the dist
ant past tacked up to an exposed stud of aging fir. A centerfold spills down, an image whose colors have gone nearly to sepia over time. A woman with blond hair and enormous breasts smiles out upon the hangar and all who dwell there.
The Bird finds it vaguely erotic, but not nearly as stimulating as his plan to take down Mount Tabor.
***
The sky is heading toward a tarnished dusk by the time Lane walks south down Sixtieth Avenue. The wooded slopes of Mount Tabor loom to his left as he approaches the security gate on Salmon Street. Johnny’s up there somewhere, his brilliant and hopelessly compromised brother. Lane wants to shout up the hill and tell him to hang on, that he’s on his way, just like always. Now and forever. They’re all that’s left, just the two of them. Without each other, they are lost in some inner space both dark and boundless.
There were once numerous entrances to Mount Tabor, but now there is only this one gate. Brilliant floodlights bathe the streets and sidewalks here. Twin bunkers of concrete and blast barriers flank the big hinged gate. The big guns in turrets atop the bunkers have the power to turn the street into an instant butcher shop.
The guards at the gate eye Lane as he walks on by but don’t appear overly curious. All seems peaceful here. A lawn sprinkler spits its wet rhythm down the block. A puppy yips in the distance. Automated porch lights wink on here and there. Whatever the Bird is planning apparently doesn’t involve this side of the mountain. In a phone call earlier in the day, Lane had asked the Bird about his plan of attack. The big boss smiled into the video and simply said, “Surprise!”
In this fleeting moment of calm, Lane thinks of Johnny as he walks, of the perfect day on Fuller Bay, of the green water, the kelp, the perch, the old docks, and the skiff manned by two little boys. Before he knows it, he’s reached Division Street, where the streetcar is just pulling up. He hops on.
The Bad Boys that sit all around him don’t even bother to conceal their weapons. They sit in pairs, with vacant eyes and heads that bob slightly to the streetcar’s motion along the tracks embedded in the pavement. Their combat rifles sprout as phallic totems from their laps. Bandoliers of ammunition drape from their shoulders. In all his years, Lane has never seen a display of civil anarchy this brazen. Up until now, the Bird operated in the way of urban gangs worldwide, by strategically applying violence in limited engagements at opportune moments.
The streetcar squeaks to a halt where Seventy-second Avenue crosses Division. The Bad Boys all get up and head out the doors at either end. Lane follows at a distance as they start up the sidewalks on Seventy-second to the north. All sport the forearm tattoo of the Hoodoos, a north end gang with biker lineage. They strut along the sidewalks at a leisurely pace, laughing and punching one an
other on their deltoids. To their left, the sylvan slope of Mount Tabor rises just a few blocks away.
Modest homes line both sides of the street, some boarded up, some still occupied. The growing glut of Bad Boys doesn’t distinguish between the two. They camp on parched lawns, they sit on porch steps with upright rifles; they emerge through front doors, eating pilfered food. A woman’s scream spills out of a back room somewhere up ahead. Lane has to stifle his professional instinct to intervene. Cops are no longer cops here.
The Bad Boys from the streetcar spot a pair of yards filled with their own and peel off. The streetlights cast them in long shadows. Lane continues on, block after block. More of the same, maybe a thousand men in all. Above them, the lower slope of the mountain reaches down to the street, all cleared of trees and brush. It forms a no-man’s-land heavily favoring whatever firepower dwells in the darkened tree line above.
Lane reaches the house the Bird has commandeered as a command post. A long line of pickup trucks and SUVs stretches for blocks. The guards on the porch grudgingly part to let him enter. He recognizes several from his days on the street.
The Bird sits at the kitchen table next to Rachel. He holds a steaming mug of coffee in the tradition of military commanders everywhere. He looks up from a laptop at Lane’s approach. “So, you have a nice little evening stroll? What’s happening on the far side of the mountain?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
The Bird nods agreeably. “And that’s as it should be.”
“I don’t how you’re going to pull this off, but remember I go in with the first wave and pull my brother out before it gets ugly. That was the deal, right?”
“Right. See those vehicles outside? You get the one at the head of the line.”
“Is that a good thing?” Rachel asks suspiciously. “To be at the business end?”
“It’s a very good thing.” The Bird pulls out his handheld. “So let’s do it.” He taps the interface and puts the device to his ear as he speaks. “You ready? Good. Let’s go.”
***
Zed and Arjun walk across the cement surface of the empty reservoir near the bottom of the western slope. Up ahead, a matched pair of choppers awaits in silence with drooping rotors and doused lights. An idling engine would attract attention, giving outsiders time to arm antiaircraft missiles. After watching video of the sudden congregation on Seventy-second Avenue, they initiated the second phase of the evacuation plan, which calls for Zed to depart in one machine, followed by Arjun in the second after he confirms that the demolition is successful.
They reach the choppers as the twilight thickens. Zed shakes Arjun’s hand. “See you later.”
“Yes,” Arjun replies absently. “Later.” He feels the strength of Zed’s grip as they shake compared to the frailty of his own. He sees the clarity and intent in Zed’s eyes as opposed to the apprehension and doubt in his own. Such was the power of youth regained, or so it seemed.
Zed climbs into the seat next to the pilot in the nearest chopper as Arjun walks back toward his parked vehicle on the reservoir’s edge. Zed twists around to the helicopter’s passenger compartment, which holds Harlan Green flanked by two security people, men of great strength and little compassion. An emergency light bathes the trio in a pale red, which mercifully softens their features.
“I don’t get it,” Green says. Growing anxiety drives his voice into a higher register. “I need to contact my people and let them know I’m on my way.”
“What we need to do right now is get out of here,” Zed says. “Then you can pick your destination at your leisure. We’ll drop you at the airport with some cash and you can take it from there.”
A mechanical cough issues from behind them, and the chopper’s turbine engine comes to life. The rotors come out of their torpor and start a lazy spin. The pilot looks at the multiple displays on the instrument panel and scans the numbers, vectors, symbols, and graphs. He turns to Zed. “Ready.”
“Go,” he orders.
The turbine winds up and the rotors beat savagely against the evening air. The aircraft rises, the nose dips slightly, and they head southwest. A dull orange sliver of light over the West Hills marks the end of day. Safety lights on the broadcast towers call out to the night with their abrupt winks of red and white. Zed feels a tap on his shoulder.
“We’re not headed toward the airport,” Green shouts over the roar of the engine.
“Patience,” Zed responds.
Gary Jacobs reaches the end of the taxiway and rotates the AT-400 Air Tractor onto the main runway of Troutdale Airport. He faces due west, into the last glow of dusk over the distant hills. The plane’s 680-horsepower turboprop engine mutters and growls, waiting to be set loose into flight. He speaks into the microphone in the oxygen mask to get clearance for takeoff. An affirmative reply comes back through the earphones mounted in his crash helmet. The mask feels odd and restrictive. It clings to his cheeks. He acquired both it and the helmet just this afternoon, and hurriedly installed them in the dilapidated cockpit.
For this particular mission, oxygen is a must to avoid being poisoned by the fumes. The aircraft’s 400-gallon hopper, which sits between the engine firewall and the cockpit, no longer holds pesticide. Instead, it’s filled
to the brim with ethylene oxide. If he inhaled or touched it, the compound would twist his chromosomes into a mutagenic nightmare.
Jacobs pushes the throttle all the way forward. The engine roars and the plane sprints down the runway under full power and lifts off. The pilot can feel the vibration of the tires, which continue to spin freely on their fixed struts. Ahead, the dark void of Blue Lake interrupts the sprinkle of residential lighting. Off to his left, the freeway cuts a luminous path through the cityscape.
Navigation will be simple enough. Just follow this freeway to where it intersects with the north-south route. Take a left and follow this second freeway for about two miles to a big black bump rising out of the glittering matrix below: Mount Tabor.
You can’t miss it.
In the chopper, Green taps Zed’s shoulder again, this time more insistently.
“Where in the hell are we going?” he asks over the noise. “That’s Lake Oswego down there.”
Zed looks out the window at the long finger of water embedded in the luxurious landscaping. He turns back to Harlan, who is leaning forward to hear his answer. “You’re right.”
The security man to Green’s right sees the opportunity. He brings out the hypodermic and stabs Green’s neck from behind. Green tries to twist and face his attacker, but the other security man grabs him around the chest and holds him fast until he collapses into terminal relaxation.
Gary Jacobs pushes the throttle all the way forward and banks tightly to his left. He is flying five hundred feet above Sixtieth Avenue along the western base of Mount Tabor. He pulls back on the stick. The turboprop engine ascends in a banshee scream. The propellers bite into the cool nocturnal air and pull the plane skyward.
Jacobs glances at the smattering of light coming through the trees below. The plane is locked in a tight spiral, an upward corkscrew above the mountain. He reaches over to the spray valve mounted on the instrument panel and twists it all the way to the right.
Liquid flows out of the tank behind the engine. It floods down to a pump that forces it under pressure to an array of nozzles under the wings and fuselage. Long, parallel trails of mist spew from the nozzles and merge into an elongated fog, a spiral vapor trail heading toward the promise of heaven.
The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller Page 30