The kak had been positioned on the third level of the temple facing west. That put the enclosure above and behind the temporary speaker’s platform from which Franklin would address the crowd.
The task was relatively simple. Lock the .300 Winchester onto its rest, center the crosshairs on the back of the politician’s head, and squeeze the trigger. The 176-grain Sierra bullet would handle the rest.
There were details to consider of course . . . The wind that blew in from the southwest, the deflection involved, and the persistent need to pee. But those things could be compensated for, would be compensated for, and the certainty of that made Farkas feel good. Horsky would owe him, his position within her organization would thereby be strengthened, and his rep would grow. One of the few things worth having anymore. The Fon blew air through their wide flat mouth pieces, the horns groaned, and the assassin made his final preparations.
Jill Ji-Hoon heard the horns, knew the seconds continued to tick away, and felt completely helpless. Yes, she could have approached Manning, could have told the security officer about her suspicions, but to what end? Would he believe her? Or pooh-pooh the whole thing as he had before? There was no way to be sure—and no time in which to find out.
Ji-Hoon knew what she had seen through her binoculars, however. While off on what he described as “a health break” Amocar had escorted a suspicious-looking man into the temple. She lost sight of them after that, and was surprised to see the twosome appear on the third-level terrace, and stroll toward the kak. That was the point when the ex—FBI agent noticed the long, cylindrical package tucked under the stranger’s arm and guessed what it might contain. Shortly thereafter, Amocar left, and the stranger entered the fabric-enclosed kak. The perfect place from which to shoot Alexander Franklin.
Unsure of what support she might or might not receive, Ji-Hoon left her post, pushed through the steadily growing crowd, and sought one of the temple’s side entrances. Now, having arrived, the agent found herself face-to-face with a belligerent Kan. He saw that Ji-Hoon was armed and placed a pincer on his t-gun. His voice had a grating quality. “Slaves are not allowed.”
“Master Har-Dee sent me,” Ji-Hoon extemporized. “An unauthorized human was sighted on level three, and I was sent to investigate.” It was a good bluff, or so it seemed to her, but unbeknownst to Ji-Hoon, the Zin named Har-Dee had been killed in a shuttle accident just two weeks before. On top of that, the Kan had been a member of the ceremonial guard that carried Har-Dee’s body to its final resting place and took part in the jump dance that followed.
Convinced that the slave was lying, the warrior started to pull his weapon. It was only halfway out of its holster when Ji-Hoon fired a single shot from her .9mm Beretta. The slug passed through the lens of the alien’s left eye, nicked the bottom of his brain, and severed his spinal cord. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.
The agent turned, weapon raised, prepared to die fighting.
But the side entrance was hidden within heavy shadow, and the sound of the single gunshot had been lost in the groaning of the horns, the crack of the overseers’ whips, and the crowd noise.
Her heart racing, and her breath coming in short adrenaline-fueled gasps, Ji-Hoon struggled to get a grip on the insectoid body. The Kan was heavier than he looked, and it soon became apparent that none of the carries she’d been taught was going to work on the insectoid body, so the ex—FBI agent used brute strength to drag the Sauron in through the door.
Once inside Ji-Hoon felt the temperature drop, wondered where the strange green glow was coming from, and heard water gurgle as it flowed through channels located along the base of the sheer walls. What looked like cells lined both sides of the passageway. They were small, and there were thousands of them. Ji-Hoon managed to drag the corpse into the second cubicle on the right. The Sauron’s chitin made a grating sound as it scraped along the limestone floor.
Ji-Hoon gave an involuntary jump as the voice boomed through her radio. “Snake One to Snake Seven . . . Where the hell are you? Over.”
A lump formed in the back of the agent’s throat, and it was a struggle to swallow it. Manning was pissed . . . and she could hardly blame him. Should she answer, and be drawn into a lengthy explanation? Or push forward? And save the justifications for later? The decision was relatively easy. The radio was clipped to her left shoulder strap. Ji-Hoon squashed the “transmit” button and spoke into her boom mike. “This is Seven. Condition red, I repeat red, man with a gun. I’m on it. Over.”
“You’re on it?” Manning demanded. “On what? On where? Report damn you.”
But Ji-Hoon was on the move by then, satisfied that she had given the security chief enough information to work with and determined to reach the assassin located above.
Amocar heard the transmission, swore, and hurried up the steps that led to the main entrance. The words came in hasty spurts. “This is Snake Two . . . Ji-Hoon deserted her post. I’ll take care of it. Cancel condition red. Over.”
Ji-Hoon started to reply, thought better of it, and sprinted for the other end of the corridor. Manning was smarter than that—she hoped so anyway—and would take appropriate steps.
Meanwhile, down on the plaza, the last of the slaves were poked, prodded, and pushed into position. Kell, who had responsibility for the agents around the president, listened to the transmissions, and turned toward the SUV’s open window. Sandi Taglio, a cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth, raised an eyebrow. “So what’s it gonna be, Kell? Shit? Or get off the pot?”
“Get off the pot,” the ex-Ranger replied, “and I mean now. Get the Big Dog outta here.”
Franklin, who continued to monitor developments with a rising sense of apprehension, chose to intervene. He opened the door and jumped to the ground. “Sorry, Vilo, I know you mean well, but I have a speech to give . . . Not just any speech, but the most important speech of my life.”
Kell made as if to move forward, as if to remove the politician by force, but Franklin raised a hand. “Hold it right there, Vilo . . . Am I your president? Your real president? Or a way to avoid hauling stone? If I’m the real president, then you will respect both my judgment and my wishes. This speech is more important than my life.”
Kell could have pointed out that Franklin wouldn’t be able to give the speech, not if he were dead, but thought better of it.
A Kan chose that particular moment to land not ten feet away. He pointed a pincer at Franklin. “The slaves are ready. You will speak now.”
Franklin allowed himself a grin. “See what I mean? Even the Kan want to hear my speech.”
Like Manning, Kell had once harbored doubts about Franklin’s motives and sincerity. But that was then, and this was now. The two men locked eyes. “I don’t have a president, sir, but our country does, and I’ll do whatever he asks.”
Those few words, coming as they did from a man like Kell, were like an infusion of strength, hope, and courage. The president extended his hand, the soldier shook it, and they walked out onto the platform together.
Farkas saw the target enter the killing zone, licked his lips, and removed the safety. Questions flickered through his mind. Why go to all this trouble when the bugs could off Franklin anytime they chose? Why were the Fon blowing into those goddamned horns? What would happen if he missed?
The crowd, many of whom had a burgeoning respect for Franklin, produced a reedy cheer, the crows cawed from corpse-hung crosses, and the assassin’s questions went forever unanswered.
Conscious of the manner in which the seconds continued to tick away Ji-Hoon turned, ran the length of an unexplored hallway, and nearly missed the dark spiral ramp. It had been a while since she had worked on the complex and things were different. Heartened by the discovery she followed the path upward, her boots thumping against tightly laid stone as she passed the first exit, and emerged on the top floor. Like the floors below, tiny cells lined both sides of the hall. Ji-Hoon looked left, then right, and saw where bright sunshine splashed on the floo
r. A doorway out onto the terrace! The agent started to run.
Franklin had jumped out of a plane once. Not because he had to but to see if he could. He’d been frightened, very frightened, but managed to pull it off. Now, as he stepped out onto the crudely built platform, the politician felt the same way he had on that day many years before. Scared, but proud, and filled with a sense of excitement.
People cheered, some did anyway, which suggested that they believed in him. Light winked off the chrome-plated mike stand. A breeze touched his left cheek. Horns groaned from above. His voice was amplified and rolled over the crowd. “My fellow Americans, rather than write a new speech, I thought I would rely on some existing text. Maybe it has been a while since you had an opportunity, or a reason to study this particular document, but I assure you that it will be time well spent. Perhaps you, like me, took these words for granted. Perhaps, all of us should consider them again.”
Then, his eyes roaming the crowd, Franklin began to recite: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness . . .”
There was silence at first, followed by what sounded like a growl, then a roar of approval as the slaves came to sudden life. Farkas shook his head in amazement and started the long slow squeeze. The crosshairs were where he wanted them to be, on the back of Franklin’s head, and the bullet would follow.
Ji-Hoon emerged from the terrace, yelled something incoherent, and charged the kak. The framework collapsed, fabric tore, and Farkas went down under her weight. Though not armed with a handgun, the ex-cop liked to carry a knife, and managed to pull it out.
Ji-Hoon, the .9mm still clutched in her hand, rolled to the right. She was on her back, sun spearing her eyes, when the would-be assassin jumped to his feet. The knife was already on its way down when the agent pulled the trigger. Two slugs slammed into the ex-policeman’s chest, and Farkas collapsed on top of her.
That’s the way things were when Amocar arrived. He saw the metal framework topple, saw the Fon back away, and heard Franklin’s voice. “. . . That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundations on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness . . .”
Amocar knew there was no way Hak-Bin had approved the speech, knew all hell would break loose when the bugs figured it out, and knew who would take the fall: him. He had one chance and one chance only. Kill Franklin or die on a cross.
The .300 Winchester lay where it had fallen—still attached to the makeshift rest. Amocar rushed across the terrace, pulled the weapon upright, and brought the stock to his shoulder. The stand came with it, and the extra weight made the weapon difficult to hold. Precious seconds passed while Amocar took his stance, found the target, and placed the crosshairs where they were supposed to be.
That’s when Manning came out through the door, brought the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson up, and fired six times in quick succession. Brass casings flew through the air, bounced off limestone, and tumbled away as slug after slug pounded Amocar’s back. But the agent wore a Kevlar vest under his shirt—and the bullets lacked the velocity required to punch their way through.
Amocar staggered, allowed the rifle to fall, and went for his pistol. Manning first—then Franklin . . . Hak-Bin would be very . . .
Ji-Hoon, still pinned beneath Farkas, brought her hand up. The handgun bucked, the .9mm slug disconnected Amocar from his body, and darkness pulled him down. He screamed, but no one heard.
“. . . And for the support of this Declaration,” Franklin intoned, “with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.” The crowd, which had been silent for a while roared, the crack of whips was heard, and heavily armed Kan jumped into the middle of the crowd.
Kell looked for Manning, wondered where the boss man was, and gave the necessary orders. “Snake Three to Snake Team . . . Plan A, execute. Over.”
People swarmed around Franklin, doors slammed, and Taglio put the SUV in gear. The vehicle jerked forward, swerved to avoid some slaves, and took to the air as it cleared the top of the hill. The Suburban hit hard, bounced, and kept on going.
Slaves scattered as Taglio leaned on the horn, sent an empty tea stall spinning off a fender, and gave a whoop of unrestrained joy. The windows were open and a country-metal band pumped bass as the driver braked into a hairpin turn, applied power, and sent gravel spewing out the back. The Saurons were monitoring the SUV by then, tracking the vehicle’s progress from above, determined to punish Franklin for his perfidy. In fact, the only thing that prevented the Kan from destroying the vehicle right off the bat was a desire on the part of the local sector commander to cover his posterior.
Not really required, but advisable, especially when dealing with a Zin like Hak-Bin. The only problem was that the Kan had been unable to get in touch with the supreme one. It seemed no one could find him, not the stonemaster down in Nakabe, nor Hak-Bin’s staff on the Hok Nor Ah. So, with the humans clearly bent on escape, and no orders to the contrary, the sector commander was free to indulge his own wishes: “Destroy the human vehicle . . . Do it now.”
Taglio jerked the wheel to the right as an orbital cannon opened fire and blew an elephant-sized divot out of the road ahead. Dirt and gravel rained down on the Suburban’s roof as it sailed through the falling debris, skidded into a turn, and continued to roll. The windshield was cracked but remained intact.
Taglio figured the energy weapon was computer-controlled. Assuming that was correct then each shot would be calculated to allow for atmospheric conditions, the rotation of the planet, and her rate of speed. That’s why the driver stood on the brakes, counted to five, then stomped on the accelerator. The SUV took a nosedive, skidded, then took off again.
The next energy bolt missed by the equivalent of a city block. In the meantime Taglio knew the computer was analyzing random stops, searching the route ahead, trying to predict what she would do next. That’s why Taglio brought the vehicle to a stop, aligned the nose on the gate below, and hooked preanchored bungee cords onto the steering wheel. Once that was accomplished it was a relatively simple matter to put the Suburban in motion, activate the cruise control, and throw herself out through the door.
The SUV lurched forward, picked up speed, and was doing fifty miles per hour by the time it hit the main gate. That’s when the Kell’s homemade bomb went off, when the four-wheeler exploded into a thousand pieces, and the sentries were cut to shreds.
The debris was still falling, and black smoke had started to boil up into the sky, when the last energy bolt touched down. Taglio, who had paused to watch the results of her handiwork, never felt a thing. There was light, a strong desire for a cigarette, but none to be had.
Franklin heard the SUV roar away, felt hands pull at his clothes, and did the things they told him to do. Then, with the crowd still swirling around him, Manning suddenly materialized with Ji-Hoon at his side. “This is your whip, Mr. President . . . I suggest that you crack it occasionally and shout some orders. Agent Wimba will cover your six while the rest of us will force a hole in the crowd.”
Having already approved the escape plan, Franklin might have been insulted by the instructions but wasn’t. The truth was that he needed a reminder, a way to connect with the new reality, and nodded as he accepted the whip. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
Manning grinned. “Yes, sir, I’m sure you have. Make it look good because plan B really sucks.”
Franklin laughed, knew it was the wrong expression, and adopted a frown. Then, herding his security detail in front of him, the president of the United States started down the side of the hill.
Chaos reigned all around as the whip-crac
k sound of the orbital bombardment began, real overseers tried to restore order, and Sauron fighters circled the hill. Sharpshooters, located high in the observation towers, added to the confusion. Each slave that they shot was like a raindrop hitting the surface of a pond. Concentric rings of fear rippled out through the crowd. People turned uphill in an effort to escape, only to encounter the slaves coming down. Fights erupted, people screamed, and a woman was crushed.
Kan, none of whom had been trained for what amounted to riot control, added to the confusion by jumping from point to point, issuing contradictory orders, and even arguing with each other. That’s when the SUV exploded, the watch commander mistakenly assumed that the hill was under attack from the surrounding forests, and ordered his troops to rally around Observation Tower ^-[]. This error in judgment proved to be a godsend for Franklin and his security team, who passed the crater where Taglio had died, down through the still-smoldering main gate, and out into the relative freedom beyond.
That’s when Franklin tossed the whip aside, turned, and looked back at Hell Hill. There were more fighters now—circling like flies above a dead corpse. The chief executive turned toward Manning. His voice was hard and cold. “Any word from Deac Smith? Is he ready?”
“Yes, sir. Ready and waiting.”
Franklin nodded. “Tell him to fire.”
Manning passed the order, twenty seconds passed, and fifteen man-portable FIM—92C Stingers leaped up out of the surrounding forests, located the heat they were searching for, and took off in hot pursuit. Alarms sounded within the alien fighters, but the pilots hadn’t encountered any resistance in a long time, and precious seconds were lost while they double-checked their systems.
Two of the heat-seekers suffered malfunctions and never connected with their targets. Three missiles chose the same target and blew it out of the sky. The rest of the Stingers went one-on-one with the manta-ray-shaped fighters, and with the exception of a single aircraft that managed to limp toward the east, the rest were destroyed.
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