Knave's Gambit

by Deforest Day

  Nick guided Kat through field stripping and cleaning her Glock. “Congratulations,” he said. “You just survived your first gunfight.”

  “Covered myself with glory, didn’t I? Ten shots and I didn’t hit him.” She reloaded her magazine, returned her pistol to her carryall.

  “Gun battles are like airplane landings. If you can walk away, it’s successful.”

  “Successful? Al escaped, so we still don't have a way to get into HomSec.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Secretary Edgerton called DEERSLAYER, who called Mason Drubb, who interrupted SHORTSTOP's enjoyment of the Yes, Sir, Mr. President marathon. They met in the Oval Office to watch the images beamed down from a Keyhole satellite.

  A growing number of citizens had ignored the martial law, the curfew, and were congregating in Lafayette Square, across from the White House. A Bearclaw Stryker and a phalanx of troopers confronted the mob. A hairy man in a Dire Straights T-shirt threw a bottle of Fiji water.

  They watched the eerily silent images, captured from hundreds of miles overhead. SHORTSTOP said, “Will you look at the hooters on that one.” The Stryker had responded to the water bottle with its water cannon, and there were a number of hi-def wet T-shirts.

  Edge said, “Don't worry, Mr. President, we also have tear gas capabilities.”

  The vice president glared at HomSec; this was no time for half measures. It was time to seize the moment, to steer the ship of state. “You realize, Mr. President, these people are assembling in direct defiance of your presidential edict. You need to nip this in the bud, before it spreads to other cities.”

  “Spreads? You told me we shut down the cell phones. If a bear shits in the woods, does anybody hear it?” The president turned away from the screen. The disorder, the confusion, taking place right across the street, made him nervous.

  He scanned the Oval, searching for his Protective Detail, and was relieved when he found them, lurking in the shadows and talking to their sleeves.

  “By the way, First Lady is muy pissed, she can’t use her smartyphone. Granddaughter is having a birthday party in Tulsa, and Momma can’t sing many happy returns.”

  Mason Drubb said, “You can tell the First Lady the cell systems are back up, Mr. President. It was a mistake ever shutting them down, and we have been suitably chastised by the markets.” He glanced at the vice president. “It seems someone forgot to take into account the impact on the GDP. Phone voting has become an integral part of our economy. I’m told that the populace contributes over two hundred million dollars a day, just by democratically voicing their choice on the various television shows. It's second only to the purchase of lottery tickets by senior citizens.”

  “Well, doggy doo-doo.” SHORTSTOP pointed at the window, forgetting Lafayette Square was on the other side of the White House. “You’re telling me these folks outside can call their friends, braggin’ on what they’re doing?”

  Secretary Edgerton said, “Worse. They can post images on the internet. Apparently there are web sites where anybody can post anything. Totally anarchistic. Things called My Tube, Instapix, Pornotopia. This civil disobedience will spread like a virus.”

  The vice president hammered the lesson home. “You can’t let that happen.”

  The president asked, “But how do we stop it? Isn’t there that a congregational right to peaceable assembly?”

  “As a wartime president, you can set that aside. I think it’s time to substitute some hot lead for cold water.” The vice president turned to Edge for help.

  “Bearclaw’s not part of the military, Mr. President. They’re HomSec contractors, under my authority. And, by extension, yours. Just tell me to order them to fire a few of their machine guns into the crowd, and it’ll disperse PDQ.”

  The president shrieked, “Whoa. These are American citizens you’re talking about. Isn’t that going a little over the top?”

  The vice president gave him a dismissive sneer. “A stroke of the pen, and they are enemy combatants. The whole damn lot of them. The names can be filled in at the morgue.” DEERSLAYER leaned down to the president's ear level. “This mob is openly challenging your authority. What did Lincoln do, when they fired on Fort Sumter? We are on the cusp of history, Mr. President. Do you want to go down in the books as a hero or a wimp? Millard Fillmore, or Chester A. Arthur?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. It’s ancient history. Stuff best left to Edge and his ivory tower colleagues. Mr. President, you make history.”

  “Right.” SHORTSTOP hurried to his desk, found a pen. Time to get serious, defend the nation against enemies, foreign and domestic. “These are the times that try men’s souls. We got to strike while the iron is hot.” He rapidly clicked the ballpoint, eager to put pen to paper. “It's time to shit, or get off the pot.”

  “Exactly, Mister President. Make like that bear in the woods.” DEERSLAYER nodded to SAP. The door opened, and several people from the Communications Office rushed in with their equipment.

  “Hey. What’s the video crew settin’ up for?”

  “Recording this moment for posterity, Mr. President. There will be no Signing Statements hiding this moment from history. No locking the archives away for a hundred years, like LBJ and Nixon did. You don’t want to share their chapter in some future book called White House Blunders: History’s Greatest Failures.”

  —o—

  Nick rolled Ern over, removed his credentials and HomSec ID. Kat said, “His ID may get you past the Gestapo in the lobby, but you haven’t a clue of what to do, once you make it upstairs. And I can’t get in.”

  “Suppose we use the basement entrance?”

  “How do we get through the turnstiles? My palm print doesn’t work any more.”

  Nick walked over to Ern, bent down, got a grip on his arm. “His does.” Once more the big saw whined. It was loud enough to mask the sound of metal on flesh, on bone. “YUK!” Kat said, and turned away.

  Nick shoved the severed hand in an empty box, one that recently held a hundred rounds of ammunition. “Aren’t you glad your building doesn’t use iris scanners?”

  The streets were empty. The basement was full of cars, but fortunately, no people. Nick opened the box, uncurled Ern’s fingers, and pressed the palm on the reader. A solenoid clicked, and he pushed through the turnstile. From the other side he passed the hand back through the bars.

  Kat stared at it. “Aww, shit,” she finally said, and grabbed the hand, repeated Nick’s entrance strategy. “You owe me, big time,” she said, and handed the hand back to him.

  In the elevator she watched him use Ern’s finger to push 5. She said, “It’ll take more than that to gross me out. I worked summers for the township. Part of my job was to clean up road kills. You ever smell a dead deer in the summer sun? But if you use his finger to pick your nose, I’ll use my Glock to finish Brother Al’s assignment. From a whole lot closer than seven yards.”

  Nick thought about some of the ‘roadkills’ he’d seen in Bosnia, but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to play can you top this, not when the game pieces were the body parts of young children. Nightmares weren’t for sharing. He put Ern back in the ammo box.

  She hung her ID around her neck, told him to do the same with Ern’s. “See that slot? When we get to Five, stick it in, pull it out. Fast, like a credit card at the gas pumps.” She pushed in front of him, and her finger hovered over the CLOSE DOOR button. “And if things look screwy, we beat a hasty retreat.”

  Things looked screwy, at least to Kat. The door was only open a foot when she closed it again, punched SIX. “One of the Bearclaw goons was standing two feet from the door. Maybe doing nothing, maybe checking ID, up close and personal. We’ll take our chances in God’s Country.” She answered his look with an explanation. “There's nothing on Six but Secretary Edgerton’s office, a bunch of conference rooms, and the finest restaurant I’ve ever dined in.” When he didn’t say anything she added, “But then I’ve never been to Paris. Or Venice
. Or Athens.”

  Nick once more put the ID in the slot and the door opened. Like the other night, it was cool, dark, and empty. They stood on the deep pile carpet, listened as the elevator door whispered shut behind them.

  Kat crept along the hallway to the Secretary’s office, listened for a moment at the closed door. She dropped to her knees, put her cheek on the floor, looked for light. She shook her head, took his hand, and led him back toward the elevators. All of the conference room doors were open, and all were empty.

  Only the restaurant showed signs of life. Wait staff were loading linens and silverware into hampers, cushioning stemware with bubble wrap. Sous chefs were wheeling kitchen equipment into a service elevator. The Maitre d’ was overseeing the operation with the pomp and circumstance of Hannibal crossing the Alps.

  A man in a tall white toque said to no one particular, “I did not train at L’Academie D’art Culinaire to prepare campfire cookouts!” and threw a napkin on the floor, walked back into the kitchen. Kat wasn’t sure if he was contemplating quitting, or suicide.

  Nick said, “OK, we're in. Now go track my daughter's cell phone.”

  Kat blushed. “I don't know how. I said Levon can do that.”

  “Then let's find him. I don't want her entertaining any damn troops.”

  “I know, I know.” Feeling in charge for a change, she took Nick's hand, and led him to a sweeping spiral of chrome and glass and burnished teak, and descended to Five.

  There they discovered life. Business as usual. Turmoil. Shirtsleeves, ties at half mast, or altogether gone. Nobody challenged them. Levon's door was open, the office was empty.

  “Maybe he's with Major Machler. She knocked on the major's door as Lannie passed in the hallway. “At your peril, girl. They've been in there over an hour.” He used his fingers to make air quotes. “In conference. If you get a response, tell Levon that Secretary Edgerton wants an update on the Bearclaw deployments. The camps are screaming for more storm troopers.” He started down the hall, then swung back for a catty addendum. “Some people panic when the world crashes down.” He sniggered. “And some people just get horny.”

  She answered Nick’s puzzled look after Lannie left. “I think there’s talk that Levon and Geneva are an item.” She rapped harder at the door. “Which is total bullshit.” She punched in 4-2-2-6, turned the knob. “The two of them are as unlikely a pair as you and- OH, JESUS.”

  Major Geneva Machler, United States Army, was very naked on her sofa, and very dead. As was Levon Longstreet; on the floor, with a 10mm Glock in his hand, and his brains on the wall. Nick quickly closed and locked the door.

  —o—

  Poppy's poker pals arrived as the coroner left. Tran parked his Cadillac Escalade beside Nick’s fire hydrant. Poppy stood in the doorway, watching his daughter Patty leave home for the last time.

  Tran bowed to his old friend, then gave him a silent hug. Howie and Fred climbed out of the Caddy, skipped the bow and hug, and climbed the steps, filed into the house.

  Fred said, “We couldn’t get ahold of Jack. You’re son-in-law didn’t give me any details. Didn’t need to, and neither do you. What can we do?”

  Poppy had aged a decade since they’d played the last hand last night. “Put me out of my misery?”

  “Bullshit,” Howie said, and hurried back to the big Cadillac. He carried an industrial-sized cooler into the kitchen, began putting food and drink on the table. “Times of tragedy, it’s the Jews and the blacks know how handle it. Food.”

  Poppy smiled for the first time since he’d come home to learn he’d lost another daughter. “Faith and begorra, ya dusky heathen, but you’ve never been to an Irish wake?”

  Tran said, “You buncha heathens. In Vietnam we bury first, then eat.”

  The four men were experienced in dealing with death, and over the years they’d come together to mourn both friends and relatives. Poppy had flown an unauthorized trip to Norfolk, and picked up Howie’s daughter the day her mother died. Tran flew his five friends—First Class— to Texas for their unit’s 25th reunion, even though he and Jack were not members.

  So they settled in front of the TV with food and drink and a desire to find out what the fuck was going on.

  BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS. “A series of horrific pickup truck explosions across the nation have left the motoring public in a panic. No one, no place is safe. It appears the alien invaders are using cell phones to trigger the blasts. A reliable source has exclusively informed this reporter, via bicycle messenger, that all cell phone communications have been temporarily shut down.

  “We are joined in the studio by a retired FBI profiler, a retired Army Colonel, and a retired psychic medium. They tell us the bombs have most likely been placed in vehicles at shopping malls, while innocent Americans are going about their business. What advice do you have for our viewers?”

  The profiler said wear neutral clothing and avoid sudden moves and controversial remarks. The colonel said stay away from vehicles, especially your own, as his long experience with car bombs in the Middle East has told him most people are either blown up in their own vehicle, or on public transportation. The psychic said he had not yet been able to contact the other side, as the ether had been disrupted by the explosions.

  Poppy changed the channel.

  BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS. “We advise you to immediately leave your vehicle, as a report from our field correspondent, using one of the few operable pay phones downtown, reliably informs us it has been rumored it is the actual cell phones themselves that have been rigged with explosives. A gentleman who identified himself as a retired counter-terrorism consultant with the Chamber of Commerce said the safest thing to do is throw your phone into the nearest body of water.

  “Venezuelan passports were found in the wreckage of the pickup trucks, leading analysts to suspect foreign nations are responsible. On a lighter note, there are unconfirmed reports that several people spontaneously combusted on a crowded bus.

  “There is no truth to the earlier bulletin alien spacecraft have landed in New Jersey. The rumor apparently originated in a Secaucus Walmart that was airing War of the Worlds on their forty television sets.”

  Poppy turned off the TV.

  “Well, that explains why my cell don’t work.”

  Poppy’s kitchen phone, a relic of the last century, rang.

  —o—

  Kat bolted for the bathroom as Nick surveyed the scene. The black woman had the wiry body of a gymnast. Looked to be in her forties. Long, beaded dreadlocks in a tangle; Medusa flitted across his subconscious. You could hardly see the single bullet hole in her sternum. Her clothing, such as it was—thong, jeans, T shirt—were on the floor. No bra, but she didn’t really need one. He broke all the rules of police investigation and picked up the Army of One shirt. Kat came out of the bathroom, face wet, face red.

  “Nick? I’m scared.”

  “Good. Scared keeps you alert. And we sure as hell need all the alertness we can muster. You said something about monkey business between these two?”

  “I said it was bullshit. Levon was gay.” His look said tell me more. “At least he was, in Boston. I don’t think he’s switched sides since.” She stared at his naked corpse. “What a waste.”

  “That doesn’t help explain why he shot her, then took her clothes off.” He answered her look by showing her the T-shirt. “That’s a bullet hole. Close range. See the powder burns?”

  “Help me out here, Nick. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Someone wanted this to look like a murder-suicide. Someone who heard the rumors, but didn’t know him as well as you do. They shot her first. Because they knew she was Special Forces. A Snake Eater. Then wrapped your friend’s hand around the gun, stuck it under his chin, and blew the back of his head off. While he was alive and kicking. Someone big, someone strong. Maybe two someones, big and strong.”

  “You think-”

  “Remember what he said, at the Cannon
Works? About that Chinese lawyer?” He spread the Army of One shirt over the dead woman’s face. “You have any idea why they were ordered to do this?”

  Kat slipped behind the Major’s computer. “In the few days I’ve been here I found out our government has ordered assassinations on foreign soil. Well, duh, you say. Everybody knows about the drones, and UAVs, and SEAL teams in the Middle East.

  “But what everybody doesn’t know, and I’ve only picked up whispers, is that the same stuff happens, right here. And Al Moran confirmed it when he said the Chinese lawyer told them to get rid of you.”

  She stared at the computer monitor. “I'll hack our way into the deepest secrets of HomSec, find out where the hell this Camp Catoctin is.” She pointed to the credenza. “Bring me that can of coffee.”

  She logged on with the latest password, started going through Geneva’s files, talking as she read. Multitasking. “If anyone’s to blame for this, it’s me. Because of my big mouth Geneva contacted someone from the CIA black ops world, trying to track ‘José Martí’.” She clicked a video link. “What have we here?”

  Nick came around the desk, looked over her shoulder. She had opened a video file of several men in a conference room, one with lots of monitors on the walls. A wrinkled old man with a metal hand was saying, “Drop some ordnance on guyana, blame it on the commie prick.”

  Kat looked at Nick. “Who’s Guy Anna?”

  “Don't ask me. I don’t even know those guys.”

  She pointed to a man standing beside a map of South America. “I’m pretty sure that’s the vice president.”

  Who said, “No problem, indeed, general. I’m told that two thirds of the population believe in Divine Intervention. Anyone that stupid can be led to believe anything. As Herr Hitler said, ‘The bigger the lie, the more people will believe it'.”