Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  “Whatever else I—you impudent young joeykid! What’s that supposed to mean?” I wheeled around the desk, planted my chair inches from his legs.

  “You’re a—I’m sorry, sir. I’d better keep quiet.”

  “Far too late. Finish the thought. I’m a what?”

  “A bigot. You hate your political enemies. You hate all enviros, without thought.”

  I was more scandalized than offended. “Bevin, don’t you see that working with the SecGen is an honor? Well? Don’t just gape, answer!”

  “Is that why you hauled me from Academy? To watch you play favorites, trample public rights, bully your staff—”

  “ENOUGH!” I turned to the desk, clawed for my caller, thumbed it to the upstairs speakers. “Anselm! Get down here!” I waited, seething.

  The thud of racing footsteps. A knock, and the door crashed open. “Sir, Midshipman Anselm repor—”

  “Take this lout and thrash him! I want him to remember—Now, Middy!” If I’d had the use of my legs, I’d do it myself, with joy.

  Bevin shot me a look of contempt. “Truth is no defense?”

  “Not for an insolent, cocky—what do you mean?” Anselm had the cadet nearly to the door. I raised a hand to stay him.

  Bevin rubbed his pinched forearm. “You canceled surveillance on Mr. Hazen because he was Navy, but you didn’t on Sara because she was a civilian, and Booker’s cousin. That’s playing favorites. You’re sending a girl to P and D for talking about groceries. They’re bastards, whoever killed Santini and the others, but they have rights too. You couldn’t get away with that with an honest judge.”

  “Go on.” My voice was ominously low.

  “I’m staff, and you bully me. My thoughts are my private affair, but you order me to tell them to you. Then you punish me because you don’t like them.”

  “You were insolent beforehand.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes teared. “Because I wanted to believe better of the SecGen!”

  A long time passed.

  I said, “Anselm, let him go.” I wheeled to my desk, got myself behind it.

  Now what?

  You’re the SecGen, come up with answers.

  Sighing, I picked up the caller. “Get me General Donner.” I waited. “This is Seafort. Cancel the P and D on Booker’s relatives until you have more evidence. No, you heard me.” I listened to his protest, repeated my instructions, and rang off.

  “Middy, get me a coffee, if you’d please.”

  Anselm left.

  “Are you satisfied, Cadet?”

  “That’s not for me to say.”

  “Modesty, at this stage?”

  He opened his mouth, thought better of it, bit his lip. “How should I answer? I’m in trouble if I keep silent, and in trouble if I speak.”

  “Arghh.” There was a certain justice in that. I asked, “How is it you’re not afraid of me?”

  “I am!” He squirmed. “Do you think I like a caning? It hurts!”

  “I know.” I too had been a cadet. “Yet you don’t hesitate to reprimand my conduct.”

  “I’m sorry.” His face was red. “But ... isn’t that why you chose me?”

  We eyed each other warily.

  Anselm returned, bearing coffee. I sipped from the steaming cup. To Bevin, “I’m several times your age, and SecGen. Don’t you think it inappropriate to admonish me?”

  “Yes, sir. Please send me home.” His eyes beseeched me.

  “Very well, if that’s what—”

  Again, the caller buzzed.

  “Branstead here.” His voice was tense.

  “Not now, I’m in the middle of—”

  “There’s been an incident in London. They attacked the Victoria and Albert Museum.”

  “Christ Almighty.” I didn’t know I said it, until Anselm’s eyes widened. “Amen,” I added quickly.

  “They weren’t well armed, thank the Lord. Still, eleven casualties, and they managed to set the place on fire. The enviros left two of their own among the dead.”

  “The London garrison—”

  “Details are still sketchy. It seems U.N.A.F. was caught off guard.”

  “Typical. Keep me informed.” I rang off, keyed the caller to Mark Tilnitz, told him the news. “Ready my plane. I’m off to Britain this afternoon.”

  “The hell you are.” His voice sharpened. “Mr. SecGen, you’re not mobile. You can’t fly into a war zone when—”

  “Yes, I can. We’d better show the flag, and I need a firsthand look at this mess.” I set down the caller. “Anselm, find Arlene, help her get me packed. Bevin, gather your gear.”

  The two scurried off. I began putting away my holochips.

  Mark met me at the helipad. His voice was maddeningly reasonable, as if dealing with a small child. “We can’t arrange secure travel on short notice. The plane has to be fueled and prepped, we have to run security sweeps, arrange logistical support for forty people—”

  “And make hotel reservations, gather my far-flung staff. I know.” Suddenly I was fed up. For twelve years I’d traveled trailing a flock of joeys I didn’t need, or even like. Some, I barely knew. Now that I was paralyzed, perhaps for life, I would do as I wished. “Skip the lot of it.”

  “What nonsense are you—”

  “This heli.” I jabbed at the fuselage. “It’s got Valdez permabatteries, right? It could fly to London, or around the world.”

  “So? We couldn’t all fit—”

  “We won’t need to.” I cast caution to the winds. “Darius of Persia didn’t travel with as huge a retinue as mine. No more, do you hear? I’m done with it.” I forced myself to stop pounding the chair arm. I wouldn’t get his help by sounding a spoiled child.

  His voice was scornful. “Whom will you leave behind? The press crew? Security? Your therapists?”

  He’d goaded me beyond endurance. “All of them! Help Anselm and Bevin lift me into the heli. I’ll take the two boys to help with my chair. You can pilot. That’s it.”

  “You’re out of your mind.” Mark folded his arms.

  Again, I pounded the chair. “Put me in the heli! Middy, take one end. Jump when I give an order!”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Anselm struggled with the chair.

  “Wait, slide me in first, lift the chair after. Mark, help me, or find another job!”

  Abashed, Bevin stood aside, trying to make himself small.

  “You’re asking for my resignation?” Mark withstood my glare. “Damn it, I’m responsible for your safety.”

  “A fat lot of good you’ve done.” Immediately I was sorry, but it couldn’t be helped. “When we sally out in force, in a huge jet swollen with staff, the whole world knows. We’ll be just as safe traveling incognito. Who’s to know I’m in this heli?”

  “It’s a breach of protocol. Go abroad with only one security man? Donner would fire me, and he’d have cause.”

  “I suspend the protocol. We’ll put it in writing to protect you.”

  “You’re risking more than your life!” His face was red. “If you’re assassinated, there’ll be chaos.”

  “Let it be so. Mark, you know me. I tell you, I’m going, and I won’t let you persuade me otherwise. Will you help or not?”

  He wavered, but convincing him wasn’t that easy. It took nearly an hour before he strapped me in. Even then, he passed our first hundred kilometers trying to persuade me to turn back to Potomac Shuttleport.

  Anselm sat beside me during the long sullen ride.

  I sniffed. “What’s that I smell? Alcohol?”

  The middy flushed. “I ... had a drink.” Seeing my look he blurted, “I was off duty, sir. You told me last night ...”

  “Very well.” I folded my arms. I had more on my mind than a miscreant middy. The Eco League’s attacks were escalating at an alarming rate. First cadets at Academy, then a bold attack on my plane that failed, then a bomb that nearly killed me. Now an outrage on civilians, in broad dayligh
t. What next?

  It also troubled me how well organized the ecos seemed. We’d run into a wall, tracking them. How could such a well-knit organization have formed under our very noses? Where did they get their arms? Rifles and lasers weren’t readily available; mere possession of an unlicensed laser warranted the death sentence.

  We droned on over the Atlantic. From time to time Mark made calls over the secure line. Lord God knew what sort of fit Security was throwing.

  “Do we return tonight, sir?” At least, Mark’s tone was civil.

  “It depends what we find.” I wasn’t sure why I had to visit the bomb site, but I knew it was so. If Londoners had endured their first taste of war in over a century, my presence would be reassuring. Or perhaps not; the sight of my chair wheeling itself through the rubble of a national monument might give them pause.

  “Sir?” Bevin sounded timid.

  Anselm’s voice was sharp. “Don’t bother him.”

  A boy who drank in daylight, presuming to tell the cadet his place? I’d have none of it. “What, Danil?”

  “We’ll be so near Devon ... while we’re there, could you post me back to Academy?”

  “I’m fretting about terrorists, and you whine to go back to Academy? Joeys died!” I grabbed his collar, hauled him close. “I need your help to get about. Not another word or—” I shook him.

  “Aye aye, sir! No, sir!” Almost, he raised his hand to mine, but he came to his senses. “I’m sorry, sir!”

  “Four demerits.” As a civilian, I wasn’t sure I had authority to log them, but he wouldn’t contest the matter.

  “I’m sorry.” Bevin’s voice was small. He stared at his lap. I stole a glance; he was near tears. It served me right for snatching a callow youngster out of school. In my desk I’d had a list of perfectly suitable middies.

  We let the heli guide itself to Kensington. I’d have preferred navigating my way via the Thames, but I sensed Mark Tilnitz was at the limit of his endurance.

  I’d intended to set down at the V & A’s imposing entry on Exhibition Road, but the street was filled with military and emergency vehicles. We circled.

  I’d expected more damage than was visible. A section of wall was shattered, a number of windows were in shards, and the east facade was badly smoke-stained. But the building still stood.

  “Set down there, on Cromwell.”

  “And then what? Wheel up and announce you’re the SecGen?”

  “Why not?”

  Mark seethed, but did as he was told.

  A uniformed jerry bustled over while Mark and the boys manhandled my chair to the pavement. “Move that machine, mate! You’re in a security zone!”

  “Help me out.” I clutched Anselm’s shoulder, slid myself from the seat of the heli. “You there, name and rank!”

  The jerry blinked. “By what authority?”

  “Take a good look. I’m SecGen Seafort. Chair, back up.” I wrapped an arm around each boy’s shoulder; together they dragged me to the waiting chair. “Careful, Bevin!” They eased me down. “Name and rank, I said.”

  “I—Sergeant Rourke, uniformed division. Are you really the Sec—let me see some ID.”

  Mark bristled.

  “No, it’s a reasonable request.” I leaned to one side, managed to extricate my wallet, flashed him my chipcard. “Satisfied? Chair, to the front door, that’s to my right. Find a ramp and take me in.” We rolled forward. “Come along, Sergeant. You’ll help explain.”

  Tilnitz loped alongside. “Sir, this is insane. How can I watch for—”

  “Don’t bother. You think assassins are standing by, in case I show up? Go lock the heli; I don’t want my suitcase stolen. I have the boys if I need any—whoof!” The chair lurched over a chunk of debris. I hung on. “While you’re at it, reserve three rooms at a decent hotel.”

  “Government House is—”

  “The atmosphere’s like a tomb. A good hotel, I said. Chair, halt. Mark, we’re doing this my way. Glare again and I will accept your resignation. On, chair.”

  “On what?”

  “On. Forward. Continue.”

  “I think I bent a wheel.” The chair’s tone was plaintive.

  We wobbled on our way.

  The bodies were gone, but the inside remained a scene of carnage. When my wheels skidded in a sticky pool of drying blood, Anselm turned green. I swallowed bile over and again, battling not to disgrace myself and dishonor the dead.

  The survivors among the staff clutched at the reassurance of my visit. Over and again they repeated their ghastly tale.

  Five joeys, hooded and armed, had burst through the front gate. They’d cut down the guards with lasers, set off an incendiary bomb in the principal exhibit, Colonial Dress Through the Ages from India to Belladonna. Sprinklers went off and alarms clanged.

  Perhaps the din unnerved the invaders, or perhaps they’d intended a bloodbath all along. For whatever reason, they barred the front lobby and fired indiscriminately at fleeing visitors and staff. Among the slaughtered were a five-year-old boy and three nuns from Lahore.

  When the first sirens wailed in the distance, their leader blew a whistle. They escaped to the street, where they met the heroine of the day.

  Her name was Indira Raj. A museum guard, she’d crouched behind a parked lorry, waiting for reinforcements. When the gunmen raced down the steps, she’d come to her feet, coolly opened fire. She downed two terrorists, winged another before their comrades snuffed out her life. They fled to a waiting car, drove off.

  I heard out the grisly recital. By now the lobby was full. The Lord Mayor had arrived, along with several MPs and the local U.N. Assemblyman.

  I rolled to the waiting mediamen, gave a grim statement sent live over the nets, while Mark Tilnitz, despairing of my safety, had quiet paroxysms. I understood his misgivings; there was no point in arriving incognito, then announcing my presence to the world. On the other hand, there was no way to show my support if I didn’t let Londoners know of it.

  When we emerged, young Bevin was pale and shaken. I felt a moment’s regret at exposing a cadet to such a scene. But still, he was an officer in training, and Naval life had its perils. Sooner or later he’d have to face death. The sight of a sailor exposed to vacuum was every bit as horrific as the carnage in the museum.

  Mark had taken me at my word when I’d said “a good hotel”; he’d booked us into the New Dorchester. We landed on the rooftop heliport and rode down to the lobby. As a security precaution he’d used his own name for all three rooms, but I was recognized immediately.

  There was a brief delay, no doubt to assign us better rooms, while the awestruck middy and cadet peered about at the immaculately uniformed bellmen, the brass rails salvaged a century ago from the old edifice, the paneled and dadoed walls. Then we were ushered to a three-bedroom, four-bath suite strewn with fruit and flower baskets. Jaded as I’d become, it took my breath away.

  Well, I was on U.N. business. The government would cover the bill.

  For two hours I lay on my bed, making calls. There was the family of the slain guard; I made sure they’d be well provided for. I conferred with Metropolitan Police; their investigation would need coordination with ours, but U.N.A.F. had a way of brushing aside local constabularies that left bad feelings.

  I called Moira Tamarov, for the third time since Alexi’s death. I urged her to bring their son and daughter to Washington the next day, to stay a week at our compound. I’d hardly known Alexi’s wife, but perhaps Arlene and I, together, could offer solace.

  The moment I rang off, Jerence Branstead was on the line. “Are you glitched, Mr. SecGen? A private heli? No staff?”

  “Not you too.”

  “A public hotel?”

  As usual, I had visuals off, but I could picture his expression. “Stop spluttering.”

  “Sir, your erratic behavior plays right into the hands of Valera. One of these days the Deputy SecGen will engineer a vote of no-confidence.”

  “Let him. Is this why
you called?”

  “No. Bishop Saythor wants a meeting.”

  I groaned. “The Patriarchs, again? So soon?”

  “Just the two of you, private and unofficial. And promptly.”

  Interesting, but I had no idea why. “I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “I’ll set it up at the Rotunda.”

  “No.” I shook my head, forgetting he couldn’t see.

  “You prefer the Cathedral?”

  “If he’s so anxious, let him come to my compound.”

  “Sir, he’s the Elder.”

  “And I’m the SecGen. Good night, Jerence.” I rang off.

  I glared balefully at my overnight bag, across the room. It seemed too much trouble to work myself into the chair to retrieve it. For a moment I was tempted to let myself sleep as I was, fully dressed, atop the covers.

  Well, why had I brought along the middy and cadet? I struggled to a sitting position, rang their room. “Anselm? Come over, I need you.”

  In a moment he popped through the connecting door. His collar was awry, as if he’d adjusted it in haste. “Yessir?”

  “My bag.”

  “What about it?”

  I pointed angrily to the dresser. “Get it.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He strode across the room, stumbled, caught himself. Face flushed, he dropped my gear on the bed. “Anything else?”

  “Would you hang my jacket, please?” I tried to shrug loose an arm.

  “While you’re wearing it?” He giggled.

  I peered suspiciously. “Let me smell—you’re drinking!”

  “I am,” he said with dignity, “off duty.” A belch. He clutched his stomach, folded slowly, vomited on my shoes.

  “Anselm!” I tried to spin away, could not; my lower limbs were encased in cement. The middy fell against me, moaning. Desperately, I held him off. “Danil, get in here, flank! Bevin!” I could have been heard in the lobby, twenty floors above.’

  The cadet dashed in, wearing only shorts and T-shirt. He stopped short. “Cadet Bevin repor—oh, my God!”

  “Take this—this person out of here! Don’t let—hold him!” Too late. Anselm sagged, upsetting my precarious balance. He flopped atop me, pulling Bevin onto the pile.