by Deforest Day
She trailed her hand down the chest of the taller trooper. “Oooh. Not only handsome, but ripped, as well.”
She took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back, and faced Howie's camera. “We’re here at Camp Catoctin, going live, to interview two of the brave and patriotic Americans, protecting the United States Congress.” She thrust the microphone at the men, and demanded, “Where are they, anyway?”
—o—
”We still locked in. How we s’posed to get out, Miss Genius?”
Liz pointed to the soldier on the floor. “Same way he got in? He must have the keys.”
He had the keys, and LaDonna handed them to Schoolgirl, the brains of the band. Liz led her posse out the back of the building, and toward the school bus.
They found their bus blocked by two big charter coaches with smoked windows.
“Now what we do, Little Miss Jeopardy Champeen?”
“Maybe you don't need to hot wire anything. Go ask if those two men are the bus drivers.”
The two men, one young, one old, both wearing ill-fitting tuxedos, sat on up-ended milk crates outside the rear door of the dining hall, sharing a blunt. Norelle asked, “Wassup, homes?”
The younger one said, ““Fuck if I know.”
LaDonna pointed to the coaches. “Them buses yours?”
The older one said, “Fuck no. We're waiters. What's a bunch of fine lookin’ bitches like you doin’, way out here?”
“Fuck if we know.”
Liz tried the kitchen door, found it unlocked, slipped inside. The kitchen was state of the art, for a concentration camp. The HomSec Executive Restaurant staff, assisted by a handful of hastily-employed workers from the Greater Washington Second Chance Employment Opportunity Association, were cleaning up the remains of dinner, and prepping for breakfast.
Liz stopped a passing busboy, laden with a tray of dirty dishes. “Excuse—”
“Not now. Can’t you see we’re short handed?” He dropped his tray with a crash in front of an already backed-up commercial dishwasher.
She tried again, with an older man in a better fitting tuxedo. “Sir, can you—”
“Don’t stand there, child. Those swinging doors are swinging for a reason.”
“Sorry, I—”
A fat man in a white apron shooed them away from the door. “If you ladies are looking for work, you’re about two hours too late. How did you get in here, anyway?”
“Shit,” LaDonna said. “Show ‘em your gun, Schoolgirl. Get us a little R-E-S-P-K.”
Polite wasn't working. It looked like in this grownups world, at least the one of soldiers and prostitutes, action trumped words. Two men walked in her house, killed Aunt Patty, and kidnapped her. And just a few minutes ago Norelle killed a soldier with a pool ball, just so they could all go home. Liz drew a deep breath. It was time she showed them some action.
She jumped up on a stainless steel counter, kicked a pile of dirty pots and pans into the sink, and fired a burst of FMJ’s into the ceiling. Everybody froze, and the clatter and commotion of the kitchen died. Busboys, waiters, sous chefs, and hoes waited for orders.
The only thing that came to mind was a line from a movie Daddy wouldn't let her watch. “Any of you fuckin’ pricks move and I’ll execute every one of you motherfuckers!” She lowered her weapon. “Where are the bus drivers?”
—o—
The swarthy man stayed low in the drainage ditch beside the runway. He shoved the silenced Ruger down inside his waistband, and covered the butt with his shirttail. He slipped the blade of the Ka-Bar up his sleeve, cradled the haft in his palm.
The Gulfstream seemed a long way off, and every step on his injured knee was sheer agony. The wet weeds in the ditch slapped against his trouser legs. They were torn from the crash, the escape from the cockpit, the explosion. But he was alive. He felt alive. This was what it was all about. Doing the Lord’s work. No position papers, no speechifying. Talk, talk, talk. Talk you to death. His way was faster, cleaner. He was a Terrible Swift Sword.
He crept up the side of the ditch, stole a peek across the fresh macadam. A high fence, a gate, and a guard were opposite the Gulfstream. Beyond the fence he saw a green Sea King and beyond that, a smaller Bell, with SKY SIX on the tail, and a cluster of people beside it. He assumed the almeja was one of them.
Looking as he did he couldn’t get past the guard, get into the camp to finish his assignment. He clambered out of the ditch, and limped to the rear door of the corporate jet. The macadam was warm from the late afternoon sun.
“Sweet Jesus! What happened to you?”
The swarthy man pointed to the smoke in the woods. “Plane went down. I was lucky to get out before it caught fire.” He examined the middle-aged man perched on the folding stairs. White sidewalls, black suit, silver stripe on the cuff. Retired military, now wearing a generic pilot’s uniform. “Who does this fine aircraft belong to?”
“Bearclaw Security. You need an ambulance? Cell phones don’t work here, but I can make a sat connection from the cockpit. Anyone else in your plane?”
“Just me. I’m fine; the usual bumps and bruises when you make a rough landing.” He pointed across the runway. “What’s that?”
“Camp Catoctin. Bearclaw runs the place, for the Department of Homeland Security. Speaking of which, the head man himself just dropped in, on that big green helicopter.”
“Head man?”
“Secretary Edgerton.”
What had the vice president said, just a few hours ago? Senior slots will become vacant. He smiled at the pilot. “Can I use your onboard bathroom? I’d like to wash up.”
“Sure. Come aboard. There’s a first aid kit in the head, if you need it.”
The swarthy man followed the pilot up the stairs. The interior was opulent, nothing like the G-5's his people used for its non-sched flights. Lots of leather, lots of dark wood. Lots of quiet. No stewardess, flight attendant, whatever the fuck they were calling them these days. “Where’s your copilot?”
“Just me, on the short hops. The head’s in there.”
The swarthy man laid the Ka-Bar on the counter, stripped off his shirt, washed the soot and blood and dirt from his face, chest, arms. He pulled the Ruger from his waistband, racked the slide, loaded a Hydroshock round into the chamber. He took off his shoes and trousers, found the first aid kit, and used strips of adhesive tape to fasten the knife to his calf. Then he opened the door, and shot the pilot between the eyes.
—o—
A tall man, with the crest of L’Academie D’art Culinaire on his tunic, and a hat that looked like a cream puff, broke the freeze-frame. “Bienvenu á Chez HomSec.” He put a hand on his hip. “If this is a robbery, you are in the wrong restaurant, honey bunny. We have bus boys, but no bus drivers.”
He decided to diffuse the moment with the offer of food. “However, if you ladies are in search of gourmet leftovers, Dame Fortune smiles upon you. May I offer you un peu de Boeuf Bourguignon? With a side of Pommes Frites? Perhaps a glass of wine?” He rolled his eyes. “California, but drinkable, nonetheless.”
“Speaking of drinkable,” LaDonna said, “Where’s all that beer at? Them cases we brung, couple hours ago?”
The Executive Chef called to a waiter. “Garçon! Escort this young lady to the walk-in cooler.”
—o—
On the other side of the swinging doors Edge sensed a brewing constitutional crisis, one which might climb all the way to the Supreme Court. He snatched the slim black folder from the irascible old man. It was time to get back to the White House, brief the others on this new development.
He grabbed Woody, told him to alert Marine One, and turned toward the kitchen. “What’s all that racket?”
Woody feigned ignorance, an easy task, and swam through the crowd in search of Gunny. He found him heading for the kitchen, and grabbed his arm. “Are there any of your people in the kitchen? That sounded like gunfire!”
Gunny pulled his arm free. All of a sudden they were his
people. But he had to admit it did sound like a burst of nine millimeter, mixed with the cacophony of clattering pots and pans. “I’m on my way to check it out. You stay here, keep the cadre under control. We don’t want to frighten the old folks.”
“Bullshit!” Woody saw this ad hoc joint session of congress as a rare opportunity, and he wasn't about to waste it. This was a chance to show five hundred and thirty five movers and shakers that Bearclaw was the company to call when it came to defending America from all threats foreign and domestic.
He drew his Desert Eagle fifty cal, racked the slide. God, but he loved that snicker-snack sound. His Bearclaw troopers were the only people in the building carrying firearms, so he didn’t see any danger in taking command of the situation. Show that sissy Edgerton how a man handles a crisis. He pushed through the milling crowd, yelling, “Make way! Make way!”
Congress took one look at the little man with the big gun, and made for the exits.
Woody hit the swinging doors with his left shoulder, burst through sideways, and turned ninety degrees, holding his pistol at eye level in the prescribed two-handed grip, muzzle safely pointed at the ceiling. Knees bent, eyes sweeping right, left, right, in what they called a Situational Awareness Sweep at Combat Camp.
A gaggle of half-naked women stood on one side of a serving table, with the HomSec kitchen staff on the other. Everybody turned, waited to see what came next.
Atop the table stood a teenage girl in a school uniform, holding an MP-5 on her hip. One of his MP-5's. Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that. He fired a shot into the ceiling.
The Eagle Fifty packs a wallop, and the recoil dislocated his thumb. Woody dropped the weapon, thrust his hand between his legs, and bent double, queasy from the pain.
Gunny and a pair of troopers pushed through the swinging doors, took in the situation in a glance. The troopers leveled their own MP-5’s at the girl, selectors on BURST, and waited for the nod from Gunny. It had been six weeks since their last fire fight, and they were dying to shoot someone, if only to keep their skills sharp. Use it or lose it. Somebody else could pull KP Detail, swab the blood and brains off the floor.
Woody was down, mewling like a run-over cat, but so far nobody was dead, and Gunny wanted to keep it that way. This wasn’t Tajikistan, or Djibouti, or any of a hundred other unpronounceable hot spots around the world, where collateral damage was the official euphemism.
This was right here in the U.S. of A., and it was a civilian situation, a situation that involved five hundred and thirty five anything but ordinary civilians. He spread his arms. Open, conciliatory, defusing the moment.
“Steady, men,” he said, looking up at the scared shitless kid. One of the damn hookers he’d picked up in DC; the clean one he'd set aside for himself. “Put down the weapon, honey, and you won’t get hurt.”
A voice behind him said, slow and low, “They’s two Colt Forty-fives pointed at yo’ heads. Y’all be the ones need to put down the weapons.”
Norelle and Big Rita scooped up the submachine guns, and turned them on the Bearclaw troopers. LaDonna walked around in front of the men, grinned, handed Gunny a can of Colt 45 malt liquor. She took a long pull from the other one. “Damn! Now we cookin’, Schoolgirl!”
—o—
The swarthy man came down the stairway, walked across the runway. He’d found the pilot’s cap in the cockpit. The pants were too long, but the uniform coat covered the Ruger; tucked, FBI style, in the small of his back. “Hey,” he said to the trooper at the gate. “I need to talk to the boss.”
The trooper said, “They’re all in the DFAC,” and pointed at the big building. Except they weren’t. They were streaming through the doors in a congressional tsunami, surging toward the flagpole. In times of turmoil and confusion Old Glory is a reliable rallying point. He could hear several shouts of “Outrageous!”
He recognized Secretary Edgerton from his numerous appearances on television. The man was headed not for the flagpole, but the green helicopter. The swarthy man also saw the blonde he’d been tasked to eliminate. A job he’d take care of, after he dealt with the fat man. The fat man who’s death spelled Director, Domestic Operations Division.
In the swirl and confusion of the moment both tasks would be estar tirado. Easy as pie. Whatever the hell that meant. Growing up in bilingual Florida, he’d never given idioms in either language a thought. Until he’d hooked up with his recently departed partner. She was intent on adding fluency in English to her handful of other languages, and was always asking dumbass questions. A piece of cake. Duck soup. Pie, cake, soup; what did food have to do with simplicity? He was glad he hadn’t had to deal with a lead pipe cinch.
Nick slowed at the gate, hands at shoulder level. They’d watched the pilot of that sleek corporate jet go through, hardly pausing. It didn’t look like the guard was checking ID. Tran poked him in the back. “Keep moving, asshole.” He turned to the guard as they went by. “Caught this asshole, up on hill.”
The Bearclaw trooper looked at Nick, looked at Tran, grabbed his sleeve. Even with the Wiley-X shades he could tell he was some kind of dink. The only old, pissy Asian he knew was the Korean who owned the dry cleaners at Quantico. “Who the fuck are you?”
Tran swung the MP-5 from Nick to the guard, rammed the stubby barrel into his gut. “The man who gonna shoot, you don’t give gun to my asshole.”
Nick snatched the weapon, told the guard to shove his hands in his pockets, and head for that helicopter. The little one. There was a large crowd of orange-suited senior citizens in the middle of the parade ground. They had coalesced into groups of a dozen or so, and were engaged in discussion with a great deal of gesticulation. He didn’t see any women young enough to be practicing prostitutes, and he certainly didn’t see Liz.
Liz climbed down from the countertop. She lowered her weapon. “I guess you’re the man in charge,” she said to Gunny. “I’ve been kind of out of it, most of the afternoon. Ever since I got home from school, since those two men killed my aunt. But I remember you. You’re the man who brought us here, on the school bus.” She glanced at her compatriots. “And we want to get back on that bus, go back to Washington. That’s all. So call the rest of your soldiers in here, and we’ll all put our guns down, and everybody can go home.”
Gunny didn’t believe what he was hearing. What he was seeing. What the fuck had happened. This little tramp was holding one of Bearclaw’s weapons, and the busload of whores somehow got the upper hand on Woody, on a few of his cadre, on himself. Well, bullshit, if he’d suffer the laughter, the shame, if this ever got out. He’d never be able to show his face in an NCO club again.
“Kid,” he said, “I think you’ve seen too many gangsta videos. You’re dealing with Marines, and if you want to get into a fire fight with those combat vets out there, well; be my guest, and it’s your funeral.” He looked at the other whores. “And the funeral of the rest of you sluts.”
Liz felt her cheeks flush. First Daddy got hurt in the Army, then Mom got killed, because of another dumb war. The family didn’t think she knew about Poppy’s nightmares, but she did. As well as his other friends, the ones she’d called ‘Uncle’ since forever. And now this guy was calling her a kid, a child, a slut.
The words were different, but the message was the same one Sister, Father Thomas, and the people she saw on TV were selling. Sit down and shut up and let us grownups handle it. Aunt Patty had their number. And Aunt Patty was dead. Maybe it was time to grow up, to pick up the whatchamacallit. The torch.
“Alice,” she said, “You think you can persuade those soldiers to come back to the kitchen?”
Alice grinned, put down her Forty. “I ‘spect what worked once will keep workin’ until it don’t.” She peeled off her tube top and tossed it to Gunny. “Hold this for me.”
She pushed open the swinging doors, and whistled. Held the doors wide, and did a little bump and grind. A move she recalled from her days as a pole dancer, back before gravity had taken control of the equipmen
t. “Yo, fellas. Can you give me a hand back here?”
LaDonna said, “It’s a shame to let all them cases of beer we brang on the bus go to waste.” They shut the HomSec staff and the Bearclaw troopers in the walk-in. It was dark, it was cold, but there was plenty of beer. Fifteen hoes and a Schoolgirl left the DFAC and squinted into the late afternoon sunshine.
Hundreds of people were kicking up dust around the flagpole. There was a big green helicopter with UNITED STATES OF AMERICA on the side, and a smaller white one, emblazoned with SKY SIX and the NBC logo. “Poppy,” Liz squealed, morphing from Tomb Raider to teenager.
Nick pushed through the crowd at the flagpole. Some of them looked familiar; he guessed it was the Congress that Fred was looking for. The person he was looking for he’d last seen from a half a mile away, through a scope. He turned to Tran. “Watch this guy. I’m going to go look for Liz.”
“Not necessary.” Tran pointed across the parade ground. “There she is.”
Nick yelled, “Liz,” and ran toward the DFAC. Liz yelled, “Daddy,” and ran toward the flagpole.
Kat turned toward the familiar voices. “Poppy,” she said. “Nick’s escaped. And there’s Liz.” She watched father and daughter reunite, and felt a jealous twinge that made no sense. Jealous of who; she hardly knew either one of them. And yet she felt a closeness to both. Sister, Mother? Lover? Get a grip, Sinclair. Doctor Sinclair.
Another Bearclaw trooper walked up to SKY SIX, and the taller trooper said, “Get you hands out of your pockets, Marine. Where the fuck’s your weapon?”
Kat resumed her role of TV star. “Oopsy. Gonna have to bleep that, Handsome.”
Tran leaned in front of the guard, handed his MP-5 to Poppy, and gave Goldilocks to Fred. “Here. You work for Government. Make self useful. Take these men prisoner.”
“The hell you will,” the taller trooper said, swinging his MP-5 toward the civilians as he thumbed the selector from SAFE to BURST.