by Deforest Day
“What? Wait up. Jesus.” He turned, saw his crew watching him from the living room. Yeah, O.K. I’ll find your gear. Shotgun? What the hell you planning?”
“Tell you when we get there.”
“Who's we?” But Nick had broken the connection, and Poppy returned to the living room, told his pals what little he knew.
“Kidnapped? What the hell’s goin’ on, Pops?”
“I wish I knew.”
Kat grabbed a spot on the sofa, same place she and Liz shared last night, playing with Linux. She wasn’t playing now, she was digesting gigabytes of raw data from Geneva’s hard drive. Clandestine HomSec ops, political chatter, files on everyone from Levon to the president himself. She’d study it later, during the ride to rescue Nick’s daughter.
First she concentrated on the hundreds of files tabbed TOP SECRET. Gigabytes of Holy Shit stuff. The men folk carried on in the kitchen, digesting old news. Repeating themselves, as menfolk did, and she ignored them.
Poppy and his pals clustered around the table, and Nick stood, sipping a can of Liz’s Mountain Dew, the breakfast drink of people who hated coffee. “This Camp Catoctin is about fifty, sixty miles from here.” He glanced at his watch. So damn much had happened he needed a moment to sort out the timeline.
“Some Soldier of Fortune asshole took off with Liz and a bunch of streetwalkers, couple hours ago. In a school bus, according to the cops. If I leave right now, push the wrecker hard, I can probably get there in an hour. And hope to God I’m in time.” Images he didn't want to see swam into his imagination.
He’d changed into his old army cammys, was armed to the teeth with a pistol and Poppy’s Remington pump shotgun loaded with bird shot. Lethal at fifty feet.
“Hold on a sec, Son,” Poppy said. “Don’t go off half cocked. I know you see it as life and death, but it’s not. And you have no idea what you’re going up against. That Rambo stuff only works in the movies.”
He swept his eyes across his three friends, knew they were with him. All had known his granddaughter since the rug rat stage. “The four of us will go along. We do have some experience with combat, you know.” He gave Nick a look. “A hell of a lot more than you do.”
Nick emptied the soda can in the sink, and took a turn around the table. Took a deep breath, cleared his head. He’d been chasing shadows since he’d learned Liz was missing. Poppy was right; and he was a man who had lost both of his daughters.
“All right, you have a point. I can drive to this Camp Catoctin with the wrecker, and you guys can ride in Tran’s Escalade, if I tow it. I know, it’s slow, but it’s the only way we can move on the roads, with this curfew.”
Poppy gave Fred a slap on the arm. “Remember those midnight beer runs? And this time you won’t have to cut any papers.” He looked up at Nick. “We can fly. At 135 knots, we’ll get there before we leave.” Poppy climbed to his feet, poured out his beer. “Assuming you know where the hell this place is.”
Nick pointed to the living room. “She does.”
Kat appeared in the doorway. “She does what?”
“Have the GPS on this Camp Catoctin. Give it to Poppy. He’s flying me and his crew there.”
She came further into the kitchen. “Sky Six is a six seater, isn’t it, Poppy?”
“Too dangerous, kiddo. I lost too many FNG’s in ‘Nam to have any desire to add another one. You stay here, hold down the fort, man the phones.”
“Or, I could rip up my petticoats, roll some bandages. Maybe knit a sweater for the Boys at the Front.” She gave Nick a look. “From what I hear, I’m not the only Fuckin’ New Guy.”
She turned to the four old guys. “My Dad was over there, in seventy-one. Like all of you, he was an FNG when he arrived In Country. But not when he came back.” She grinned, pointed at Nick. “Ask him to tell you about my last gun battle.”
“Already did. At least I told them about the two agents. Speaking of guns, Poppy. If you guys come along it would help if you were armed. We need to find weapons for you.”
Poppy chewed his lip for a moment. “Old man Thomas, across the street, has a pretty fair collection. A Garand, couple of hunting rifles. A bunch of shotguns. I suppose he’d let me borrow them. How much ammunition he has is another thing.”
Howie said, “I got a cut down twelve gauge and a Beretta nine at the restaurant. We could swing by, pick ‘em up.”
Tran said, “There’s a Chief’s .38 Special in my glove box. Just the five bullets, though.”
Fred said, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear about these flagrant violations of the District’s gun laws. From what I saw on the way here, it looks like these Bearclaw people have us outgunned.”
Nick said, “Granted. But you fight with the weapons you have, not the one’s you want.”
Kat asked, “Why can’t we pick up those SWAT guns at the Cannon Works?”
Four heads at the table slowly swiveled from her to Nick. Who looked at her, and felt his ears burn. “Of course. I have a locker full of brand new assault rifles, and enough ammo to start our own small war.” He circled the table, told Poppy, “We better bring her along. Her brain seems to work a damn sight better, and faster than mine.” He grabbed her arm. “You can’t go to war in a skirt and heels.”
He led her to the basement. “Liz’s clothes are too small, but my wife’s gear ought to fit you.” He opened a footlocker. “The rest of the family has been after me to get rid of this stuff. Except, it’s like the last link with her. I guess you think I’m a sentimental fool.”
“Nah. You’re not the least bit sentimental. And if it’s any consolation, Dad bronzed my baby shoes.”
Nick sorted through the clothing as they talked. He tossed her a tunic and pants, looked at her feet. “The boots ought to fit. I know the clothing will; Army issue comes in two sizes. Larger and Larger.” The clothes were desert cammo, a newer pattern than his.
She stripped out of her skirt and blouse and pulled on Mary’s BDU's so fast she did it before he realized she was doing it. Full frontal undies. He guessed the generational gap was wider than he’d realized.
He handed her a ball cap in the same tan and brown pattern. “Your hair’s not reg, but I guess your friend the major wasn’t, either. Put it in a pony tail and no one will notice; it’s not like we’ll be standing inspection for the brass hats.”
“Nick. Quit babbling. She’s a tough kid.” Back upstairs at the shrine he fitted the MP brassard on her sleeve. She looked down at the U S ARMY tape on one breast, MARTIN on the other. “I feel kind of weird about this.”
“How do you think I feel? But we need the uniforms if we get stopped on the way to the Cannon Works.” He took both her hands in his, stepped closer. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes I do. Liz is my new best friend, remember?” She worked a hand free, put it on the back of his neck, and pulled his face down for a smooch. “Rock and Roll.”
Chapter Twenty Nine
Secretary Edgerton and DEERSLAYER were back in the Oval, dealing with the blizzard of information National Security Advisor Fletcher Bainbridge had spread across the desk during their arm twisting in the Cabinet Room. The symbolic red telephone and Einstein’s quip had been unceremoniously tossed in a drawer filled with presidential pens and cufflinks.
The top of the growing stack was a paper-clipped accretion of frantic email communications from a Great Plains governor. Originally fired off to FEMA, they had been forwarded to HomSec, and Edge had hand-carried them to the White House.
In RE President Carter’s Executive Order Number 10998, directing FEMA to take control of all food resources and farms. We are in the midst of the soybean harvest. Are we expected to turn over its operation to a twenty-three year old twerp wearing tasseled loafers and a seersucker suit? Or should the Governor’s Office accede to the local Grange’s itch to string him up from a lamp post, and get on with their business? Urgent reply requested.
Dozens of similar demands for clarification and executive guidance co
vered the desk. It seemed a critical component of REX 84, turning state and local government over to FEMA, was not proceeding with the anticipated speed and efficiency.
The developments at Camp Catoctin were judged the most pressing, and the constitutionally-mandated acting president handed him Woodrow King’s TOP SECRET: EYES ONLY missive. Herding cats was a breeze compared to controlling five hundred and thirty-five monumental egos. “You may regret giving the contract to Bearclaw.” Just as I may come to regret telling Shorty to name you Secretary of Homeland Security.
“Hey. Woody was Shorty’s acolyte. All I did was observe his Most Favored Zealot status.”
“Shorty’s no longer here, and you are. As soon as Mason returns in Marine One you need to get your ass to Camp Catoctin.” He reached for a slim black folder. “Take this with you. The attorney general pointed out a small constitutional point that needs attention.”
He opened the folder, glanced at the single page, replete with cabinet signatures. “It seems that Section Four of the Twenty Fifth Amendment requires us to transmit to both the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives a written declaration that the president is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office.” He slapped the the folder against Edge's chest. “How convenient for you both men are at Camp Catoctin.”
Attorney General Oxenhammer huffed into the Oval as Marine One lifted off. “Jesus H on a crutch! Have you seen this thing on the internet?”
“Been a tad busy for surfing the web, Gabe.” The former vice president used his famous silent stare to quiet the AG. “I’d assumed you were, too.”
“Wasn’t me personally, Sir. Or do I now address you as Mr. President? Maybe Your Excellency?”
“Settle.” DEERSLAYER turned to the window and admired the big green helicopter climbing above President Jackson’s Magnolias. He made a mental note to discuss a new code name with his protective detail. SHOTGUN had a succinct ring to it.
He recited a bit of verse that had served him well during his political career. “If you can keep your head when others are losing theirs and blaming it on you; if you can meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two impostors just the same, yours is the Earth and everything that's in it.” He turned back to the AG. “Rudyard Kipling. Now that was an empire.”
The AG opened his laptop and accessed the internet while his new boss showed off his goddamn Yale education. “Good to know, Mister Acting President. Here’s your chance to employ those skills.” He aimed a blunt finger at the screen. “Take a look.”
Sixty seconds later DEERSLAYER exploded. “That's the Situation Room! God damn it, I told that son of a bitch Drubb to turn off the video and audio recorders. I'll kill him.”
AG Oxenhammer had watched the video often enough to see something else, and he'd prepared for this moment. It was payback time. He lowered his voice, even though he and DEERSLAYER were the only ones in the Oval Office. “I don't think you can lay the blame for this at Drubb's feet.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Watch it again, and tell me whose face is missing.”
DEERSLAYER pushed the AG aside, and peered at the laptop. “Where the hell is Edge?”
The attorney general laughed. “Behind the camera. I showed this to one our FBI techies, and he said the herky-jerky images mean it was made with a spy camera.”
“That cock sucker! How the fuck did it get on the internet?”
The AG smirked. “Glad you asked. HomSec isn’t the only agency with computer wizards, and I tasked the techie to answer your very question. He hadn’t a clue. But he directed me to the NSA, and the folks at Fort Meade tracked it to a server in the old Soviet Union. Belarus. From there it came back to. . .” He grinned.
“Don’t fuck with me, Gabe.”
“HomSec. Fifth Floor. A computer assigned to a Geneva Machler.”
“And who the fuck is Geneva Machler?”
“Dead.”
“If she’s dead, how did this thing get on the internet?”
“Someone hacked her computer. Anticipating your next question, there is a very small pool of possibles who have the access, knowledge, and skills. We used keystroke analysis to narrow it down to a single name. Katherine Sinclair.”
“Gabe, quit playing Jeopardy. Who the fuck is Katherine Sinclair?”
“To quote Edge, the ‘whiz kid’ he hired. And to quote you, a gal you told him to ‘terminate with extreme prejudice’.”
“Son of a bitch. Edge is perilously close to becoming a liability.” His rippling cheek muscles telegraphed the grinding of molars; evidence of seething anger. “I need you to go remind the Supreme Court the right to vote is nowhere mentioned in the Constitution.” He turned back to the window. “Call Edge on Marine One. Tell him he’d better craft a public explanation of this Situation Room video. Or else. And send Drubb in on your way out.”
This Geneva Machler must have been the Snake Eater worrying José Martí. And now someone called Katherine Sinclair has taken her place. As in every other aspect of life, it was the women causing the trouble. Two ex-wives and a current blowjob virtuoso were proof positive.
“Mason. Get me a bio of this Katherine Sinclair, at HomSec.” He moved out of earshot, and punched up the contact number for José Martí. It was time to remove this annoyance before she did any more damage.
Nick turned off Shepherd Parkway two blocks before the Impound Yard and headed down the tracks between the buildings. Kat tightened her seat belt. “Scenic route?”
“We’ll go in the back way. With a dead body in the Cannon Works, I don’t want anyone at the Impound Yard to see me or the wrecker just now. Sooner or later the cops are going to be involved.” He bounced the truck off the railroad ties and stopped next to the big sliding door.
Tran said, “I think you owe me new shocks, Paloma.”
Climbing out of the Escalade, and trying without much enthusiasm to touch his toes, Howie said, “And a session with the chiropractor.” He was forty years older and forty pounds heavier than his fighting weight, hanging out the door of a UH-1 with an M-60 machine gun.
Fred said, “Friend of yours?” and pointed to a man slumped against the wall at the end of the loading dock.
They gathered around the corpse, gun in hand, and a thick dark pool beneath his body. Howie, no stranger to ugly death, squatted for a closer look. “Gunshot.” He pointed to a small hole in the white shirt. “Looks like it hit a vital. Crawled over here, bled out.”
“Aw, shit,” Kat said. “it’s Al.” She turned away, walked back to the wrecker, climbed inside.
Nick said to the men, “One of the two guys I told you about. The other one’s in the building. Hang on a sec.” He went to the wrecker, slid behind the wheel. “You OK?”
“I wonder which one of us—”
“Hit him?” He shoved his hand in his pants, offered her his pocket knife. “Here. Go do an autopsy. When you dig the bullet out, bring it to me, I’ll tell you who gets to carve the first notch on their gun.”
She pushed his hand away. “Never mind.”
“Good. There are some things both of us are better off not knowing.”
Nick led them into the locker room, handed everyone an assault rifle.
Howie said, “Some serious deja vu goin’ on here, troop. These look enough like the ones we carried that I can’t see a difference.”
“Got that right,” Fred said. “Since the only time I carried one was during a week of weapons familiarization. As an officer I wore a pistol in a holster, and both lived in my desk. Until I swapped them for some serious weed.”
“Don’t look at me,” Tran said. “I was devout capitalist.”
Poppy said, “I carried the same sidearm as Fred. Howie, looks like you get to do the heavy lifting.”
Howie had bypassed the banter; he was duct taping magazines back to back, and paused long enough to examine one of the weapons. He toggled the selector switch between SAFE SEMI and BURST. “Wha
t? No full auto? Shiiit.” He put the rifle down, went back to his task. “I don’t suppose you got a bloop tube somewheres, a bandolier of M79 grenades? A few smoke canisters?”
Nick stowed the night vision scope and a laser range finder in a hard case. “In your dreams.” He pointed to the O.D. ammo cans. “Everybody grab one of those. We can load magazines on the way. Kat, police up some extra ammo for your weapon. And get me a box of Tactical Bonded two twenty-three ammo for Goldilocks. Look in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.”
She put hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. “Are you calling me Goldilocks?”
“Goldilocks is the hunting rifle I built for my wife. It’s too little for me, too big for Liz. It's also a tack driver at four hundred yards.”
Howie asked, “Since we talkin’ weapons, you got any idea what these Bearclaw dudes carry?”
Nick pictured the men lounging around the Stryker. “Submachine guns. Looked like the Heckler & Koch MP-5.”
“Well, fuck all. Then we ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. Just stay outside their range; what is it, ‘bout a hundred yards? And you can’t hit shit with those stubby little barrels.”
Poppy said, “Right, except this isn’t a fire fight, it’s a rescue operation. And that means we have to get a goddamn heap closer than a hundred yards.”
Kat found a twenty-round box of Nick’s Tactical Bonded ammo, and was filling her cargo pockets with several dozen of her own whatchamacallits. She noticed as the testosterone level rose so did the profanity quotient. Pretty soon they’d start spitting and scratching their nuts.
Men, god love ‘em.
Chapter Thirty
The swarthy man, who had been José Martí, then Ramon Chibas, Angel Ruiz, and Jesus Diaz, was now Teodoro Cruz. He and his partner were using the living room of an empty safe house for a brief diversion.