by Blair Smith
"Jesus, what is it with these names? Bubba or Jeffro, won't do? Everybody's a nickname around here. These hillbillies are going to get us killed. I just came along as a reporter. I don't want to get in the line of fire when the Feds crash in the door. Have you seen the Dixville site? Trees were blasted in half. Boulders were chipped away like plaster. As rugged as these guys think they are, they haven't a chance against that kind of automated technology." Seeing her face, Steve suddenly realized what he had said by mentioning Dixville.
Helen jammed the bloodied wraps in plastic bags and savagely tossed them in a trash can below the table. She slowly wiped the table down with a strong bleach solution. "No, I haven't been to the site."
Steve's comment loosened stark images of that day. She continued fussing with supplies. Steve noticed Helen's mood shift. "I'm sorry. I just want to do my job, that's all. Could you see if Chaos would let me have my camera back? Those guys can censor everything I send out. In fact, they can E-mail it to my editor. I don't have a problem with that. I could at least write about the North Country, we're not there anymore. I wouldn't blow your cover here. Keep in mind, if it wasn't for our break in the Dixville story, the Feds would probably have attacked the North Country by now."
Helen relented, "I'll say something to him, but no promises."
"Thanks. And one more thing, got any gum?"
Two other packs returned that afternoon. One had cased the JFK Federal Building off New Sudbury Street and taken digital photos of it. Using spotting scopes, they had located Max on the fifth floor. The intelligence encouraged Chaos: Security was lax at the Federal Building and short-manned. He concluded the easiest way to manage the escape was the most direct approach: Infiltrate the Federal Building and cut communications. Then get Max the hell out of Boston during the rush of the St. Patrick's Day parade. They would disassemble the motor-gun they had captured and make duplicates of it when they returned to the North Country.
A third group searched the city for Tumult. They knew he was here because they found his calling card, an African-American spiked to a sheet of plywood, dead. Chaos decided to continue with the plan without a rendezvous with Tumult.
Chaos met Helen that evening in a room on the second level of the church; it had served as the priest's residence at one time. Though starkly furnished and filled with musty traces from neglect, a single oil lamp created a romantic glow. It was quiet in this part of the city. The blocks surrounding the church were crisscrossed with narrow streets bordered by rundown townhouses.
Helen and Chaos had been attracted to one another since their first meeting in the sugarhouse. Chaos was good looking all right, his soft brown eyes his most defining feature. And he was solid, without a stitch of fat. He was capable of charming the pants off a woman, literally.
But the foreplay was more verbal than physical, with the Southerner asking about her personal life, the food she liked, what clothes she liked to wear. Until then, Helen hadn't thought of herself as a catch; the image of a chunky mom was still engraved in her psyche. Chaos made her feel beautiful again. More than that, in the midst of a decimated city, his quiet persuasion engendered a feeling of security. The tender romance that ensued helped her forget the tragic loss of her son, if only for a moment.
"You're not going to stay through the might?" Helen asked as Chaos got out of bed and began dressing.
"I have to sleep with the men. It's good for morale. It's hard to explain. I don't want to put myself at a higher level or anything. I'm the commander, yes, but if I'm not with them, I'm not one of them." Seated in a straight-back chair, he began buckling up his shoes.
She accepted his explanation but found it awkward bringing up the next subject. "I spoke with the reporter today. Did you know their news agency was the first to publicize the Dixville Massacre as it really happened? That's what postponed the Feds immediate invasion of New Hampshire and Vermont."
"'Postpone is the operative word, too." The Southerner caught himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's been a long day."
"Morrison said we could check his pictures and report before sending it out. He wants his camera back."
"I don't have a problem with that as long as one of our men is with him at all times. He can stick with Wolfenstein's group. But you let him know that tagging along with an attack pack can be dangerous."
Washington, D.C. (The evening of March 16)
What had been the East Room of the White House was now the Arabian Room. The influential politicians of Washington showed up at the reception and passed through a replica of Babylon's Ishtar Gate--the entrance to the temple of Bel built by Nebuchadnezzar in 575 B.C.. The hand-hewn trim made by American forefathers had been removed, replaced by graven images of the bull of Adad and the dragon of Marduk. The beasts were scattered symmetrically across the tiled wall. Security personnel, dressed as sheiks, stood indignantly at the entrance. Beyond studded doors made of Lebanon Cedar, were crowds of cordial people smiling deceptively.
The White House had been remodeled during Harry S. Truman's administration--also a time when they shored up the original sandstone walls and added one hundred and thirty-two rooms to the existing sixty-two. The total cost by the end of 1952: $5,761,000.
That wasn't uncommon. Other administrations added pools or spas or jogging tracks. Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy completely refurbished the interior in the early 1960s, followed by a permanent art collection assembled in 1964 by Lyndon B. Johnson.
But the executive quarters had to be brought up to the times, representing the Global Village the U.S. had become a part of. Lyndon's collection of American art had been taken down. The Early American furnishings collected by Jacqueline Kennedy had been replaced by 18th century furniture from France or Germany or the Orient--always authentic. Every room had a national theme.
"Look at that bitch," muttered Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett to President Winifred. "She's working everyone. You were wondering where she got her info about Dixville, well there you go." They looked across the breadth of the tiled room to see Vice President Sorenson and Secretary of Defense Kyle Paz chatting with drinks in hand. The two smiled and nodded to one another. "He's the one who told her. He's gotta be."
Winifred responded, "Sorenson has access to a lot of confidential information, if she only knows where to look. We can't trust her. And I wouldn't sell Paz short. He might be working her." The President scooped some black, Iranian caviar with a cracker and held it just inside the cage for the falcon to snatch. "Kyle's too much of a political animal to go taking off on his own. He was in charge of the Dixville operation. We only told him to stop the smuggling. He knows he could be hung out to dry with the rest of us. You're making too much of this, Luc." The President sipped his sherry as he smiled and nodded at Senator Chavaza of California passing by. Both the President and Lucas Bennett looked again across the room at Kyle and Vice President Sorenson who now looked back at them. The two parties forced smiles and raised glasses to one another in a distant toast.
"I don't think there's a damn thing they can do. We're talking impeachment here," Sorenson vented absolutely. "Of course, my ass is in the same sling." She paused thinking, "What do you see as a next step?"
General Paz cleared his throat before speaking, "I think we need to act rather than react. There are a number of scenarios that could be played out: All this could be delayed and Winifred could get reelected. Or, due to some negative press, you could lose the election. In which case, the party in power would most likely call for an inquiry and indictments. And seeing how I was in charge of the Dixville operation, I would take the fall as well, I suppose, justifiably so," Kyle added regrettably.
"Don't you find it a little suspicious," Lucas continued as he rubbed the tattoo on his cheek, "that Kyle has been unable to squash the backwoods rebellion in the North Country, or even put a stop to the CB broadcasts coming out of there. Jesus, CB broadcasts! We're dealing with a
bunch of woodchucks! There's been unrest other places, and we've pinpointed the leaders and brought them in. I think you need to consider getting rid of him. If you replaced him there's nothing he could do about it."
"I'll need to think about it," said the President. "What bothers me is that he has no motive to jump ship, and everything to lose. He'd be all but admitting involvement in Dixville. I don't understand that. Even Sorenson would be implicated." He turned his gaze from the other side of the room back to his Chief of Staff. "Well, she could be implicated. Just her knowing and not doing anything smells of cover-up."
"Lucas looks somewhat distressed over there," Sorenson placed her empty glass on the tray of a passing sheik. He stopped and offered her a second. She shook her head, "No, thank you." He moved on. "Doesn't that queer little man ever unwind?" Sorenson observed of Lucas Bennett. "I'd love to set him up somehow so Winifred had to replace him."
"That would be tough to do," said Paz. "He's always thinking. We'd be smart to make our move before they make theirs."
Sorenson looked at the Secretary of Defense and slithered her lips to a smile as she strolled to mingle with First Lady Patricia Winifred's group in another part of the Arabian Room. She knew enough not to ask; she didn't want to know what Kyle was going to do.
Lucas Bennett received a micro disk from an aide and promptly pulled out a pocket computer from his breast pocket to load it in. He grinned as he read the note. "This is interesting. It's a letter to a sweetheart from one of the Tobacco Boys. Evidently, they write their own eulogy." Lucas jumped windows on his computer and beeped a message to the aide who had delivered the disk, to return.
The aide had just left the Arabian Room and had nearly passed through what had been the Green Room, now the Greek Buffet Hall. He heard the beep from the computer in his jacket, opened it to read the message, and returned to Bennett.
"How did they come by this?" Lucas asked the aide.
"The young lady it is addressed to in South Carolina received the letter and called us. Then she transferred the file online. She said she 'felt it was her duty to let us know.'"
"Thank you," Lucas replied. The aide turned on his heel and left.
Lucas handed the computer to the President, "This is interesting, Cliff. This says they're a thousand strong and growing--and they're down in Boston."
Winifred studied it for a moment, but became distracted nervously, brushing his fingers through his hair. Seconds earlier, he had glanced to the side of the room to find Nancy Atherton watching him. She was a bystander in a group engaged in their own conversation. Dressed in a tissue thin, pink and purple dress, Nancy shot a seductively long stare across the room at Clifford. The overacted display pulled a smile out of him.
"Mr. President?"
"Oh. Yes, Lucas. Let's go to the Map Room. This could be the break we need."
"You want Kyle to meet us there, of course?" Lucas watched the President's face for a response, testing him.
"I think not. We'll hold off on Paz's reaction on this one."
They went through the same door as the aide had, crossing through the Greek Hall, eventually down narrow stairs that led to the Map Room.
The room hadn't adopted the international flavor as other chambers in the White House--basic, but modernized. In Franklin Roosevelt's day, leaders plotted war strategies using color-coded pins on a large world map stretched across the wall. Now the room was totally electronic with a giant screen replacing the maps. A small portable computer controlled the larger display.
President Winifred closed the door behind him, all the while looking at the computer note on his pocket PC they had intercepted. "I don't quite understand this note, Luc. 'Now, we are over a thousand strong and growing.' How did this rebel die? There's nothing going on in the North Country right now. But there were some Mountain Boys killed above Boston, and rumors of some in Boston. But a thousand? How could they hide a thousand white guys in that city?"
"I'll get some FBI agents to try and trace the source of the letter through the Internet service provider. The rebel might have written it long before. The sheriff in Lexington also reported a number of large trucks pulling out of his town. Whether the trucks were full of men or equipment or empty was uncertain. We should assume they were armed rebels. I would presume they're in Boston to either get cash or get one of their Covenant leaders out; the convict's name is Max Sessal. We thought he was The Wizard. But now we know he's not." Lucas turned to the map and zoomed up New England, typing in numbers on the portable computer. "Assuming the rebels were divided evenly, there might be about three hundred in Vermont and three hundred across the river." He typed the numbers in on the large map on the wall as he spoke.
"And now three hundred in Boston," Clifford Winifred finished the theory for him. "The question is, Why so many to get one man out, unless your assumption was wrong and that the man in custody in Boston is The Wizard?"
"One of the compound officials overstepped his bounds and used a drug to loosen Sessal up. Ah, the official was reprimanded for it of course. Somewhat. You know what I mean." A smirk at the corners of his mouth formed as Lucas typed.
"That leaves a lot of unanswered questions, Luc. I think they're looking to get weapons or ammo in Boston. Check with the military on this and find me someone who dealt with this bunch before; we need to know their tactics. The last thing we need are the casualties we had in the Tobacco War. That little run-in above Boston with only one van-load was costly as it was. We'll take out their group using overwhelming force."
"What about Kyle?"
"Yes. Get him immediately. We need to keep the Tobacco bunch there in Boston."
Chapter 11
Washington, D.C. in the early morning (March 17)
The last foreign encounter that had taken place in mainland American was the War of 1812. The British invaded Washington and burned the White House. From that point, all other threats to the American way of life came from within. At the turn of the 21st century little wars raged throughout the world. A nuclear flare-up occurred between India and Pakistan. The combined populations of the two countries dropped from 1.5 billion people to nearly half that.
And then the Israeli conflict. Just before dusk on April 9, 2011, three short-range, nuclear missiles were launched from Lebanon at the cities of Haifa, Nazerat, and a military base in a valley near Afula, biblically referred to as Armageddon. The Israeli anti-missile system hadn't had time to react quickly enough, the missiles obliterated their targets. Israel retaliated by launching an array of warheads from submarines in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. Nuclear blasts flashed cities in Syria, Lebanon, Libya, Jordan, Iraq, and Iran within the hour. So came the reputation of the long-range sniper rifle: the Masada. The Israeli policy of appeasement vanished. Terrorists bent on the destruction of the Jewish people were identified and targeted for extinction by the legendary weapon that fired silently from miles away. Israelis developed special bullets with propellant and tail-fins and a sensor tip that followed a laser to its target.
Colonel Francis Greely, 20th Special Forces Group (Airborne) had been at most global conflicts concerning U.S. interests, advising, heading covert operations, arming rebels to topple tyrants in Third World countries. He stood resolute before President Winifred and Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett twelve hours after their discussion at the White House reception the night before. He was a much older man than they had envisioned; wrinkled skin and gray, thinning hair, he was thin to the point his back and shoulders hunched. Greely did not look like typical soldier stuff. But he had served in countless global conflicts throughout his career.
President Winifred asked Greely why Paz had resisted ordering an attack on the rebels in Boston. "General Paz didn't order his soldiers into Boston because it would have been a bloodbath for our troops, worse than a replay on the Tobacco Wars," the Colonel explained.
Lucas objected,
"But we've got the technology and the manpower."
The Colonel corrected him, "We have the technology."
A gap in conversation widened as the President and Chief of Staff looked at one another. This man wasn't what they had expected: a curt, opinionated, son-of-a-bitch, he didn't even look military.
"You were in command of the Okefenokee campaign, correct?" Winifred asked.
"Correct, sir, and that's how Paz and I know this isn't a band of hillbillies with shotguns. They are well disciplined and dedicated to a cause. The Media blew things out of proportion down South. They are not a bunch of rednecked racists. Oh, you have individuals with their own opinion on things, but overall, they think of themselves as freedom fighters. That's the worst kind of enemy you can go up against. They had a number of things going for them in the Carolinas: They had the support of the people in the region and an erratic, unorthodox fighting style, which accounted for the high kill ratio they inflicted on us. And they had advanced weaponry. Most of all, they have topnotch fighting men."
"We have elite troops, Colonel," Lucas' tone changed to a more defensive pitch. "Our military is the best in the world. We protect our vital interests on every continent."
"They're the best in conventional fighting," asserted Colonel Greely. "And you're absolutely right, they're all over the world fighting terrorism. Not here. See, when the Tobacco Boys break the line and when they're shooting it out with our troops only meters away, they have the upper hand. They are not afraid to get close and personal. They don't panic under fire. Our troops haven't seen man-to-man combat in so many decades, kids nowadays freak out in close ground fighting. The Tobacco Boys thrive on that. They're also equipped with the Israeli Masadas, the most advanced sniper rifle designed to date. It has an extensive range and with the right bullet, can penetrate light armor. In the Carolinas they used 'em to shoot out our vision blocks and sensor ports on our Abrams tanks. They literally blinded us. When a trooper opened a hatch to see, Tobacco Boys launched a bullet inside the thing. Do you know what a loose bullet does inside a tank?"