(2012) Political Suicide

by Michael Palmer

  Click!

  Now, Mark Colston’s wonderful heroism, surprising even to his father, made sense. Clearly it was only a matter of time before Elias Colston put all the pieces together. In megalomaniac Wyatt Brody’s warped mind, the man had to die.

  But now a new problem had arisen.

  Instead of trying to prove Brody killed Elias Colston, Lou had the responsibility of at least twenty brave, essentially innocent lives in his hands. The lives soon to be sacrificed on the altar of Operation Talon.

  He waited until he felt it was safe to talk. “Cap, do you know what that conversation meant?”

  “I know that I’m dying in here, Welcome. My limbs have gone completely numb and I’m so damn cold.”

  Lou could feel Cap shivering beside him. Only then did he realize he was shivering himself. “We can’t quit now, Cap.”

  “I was just talking, pretty boy. Anything to keep from thinking about my own misery. It sounds like your buddy Brody doesn’t care too much who he steps on.”

  “The man’s crazy. Absolutely drunk with power and his misguided theories of patriotism. Unless he’s stopped, a lot of people are going to die.”

  Silence settled in again, and the seconds dragged on. It was nighttime, Lou thought, more because he wanted it to be than because he was sure. The hours of waiting on the steel platform had taken a huge physical and emotional toll. Papa Steve had long ago returned with a crew from Mantis and unloaded the boxes of fireworks. The moment of action had to be close.

  “I can’t do it, Cap. I can’t make it another—”

  “Gentlemen, this your commander speaking,” Brody’s voice boomed from giant speakers, cutting Lou short. “Tonight we honor the men who will represent Mantis on the most important mission since the founding of our young outfit. From the beginning, Mantis has embodied the virtues of the true solider. Please join with me in affirming those virtues.”

  “The color of our drink is the color of courage,” seven hundred voices barked out in perfect unison. “It is the color of blood spilled in battle, the color of fire that burns for freedom. For our mission. For valor. For justice. For our country. For God. For Mantis … Whatever it takes!”

  Lou felt a tremendous surge of adrenaline and sensed that beside him, Cap was experiencing the same thing. At all costs, the sacrifice of these men had to be averted.

  “Alone we are powerful,” Brody was saying. “Together we are unstoppable. Let us honor the men who will endure the most dangerous and important mission Mantis has ever had the privilege to undertake, the men of Operation Talon. As I call your name, would you each please climb onto either of the trucks that will transport you to the heliport.

  “Staff Sergeant Bucky Townsend, Muskogee, Oklahoma.… Corporal Luis Sanchez, Vicksburg, Mississippi.…”

  The cheers became more rapturous after each name. When the list was completed, Souza’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” blared through the loudspeakers, accompanied by a barrage of fireworks and the rumbling of truck engines.

  One more march, some more fireworks. Then, from the massive speakers, the “1812 Overture” began.

  It would be just what the colonel ordered—three huge Chinook choppers lifting up at once, fireworks exploding around them, with Tchaikovsky’s iconic cannonade providing the soundtrack. Protected by the fireworks, Lou stretched, then rolled to his side, imagining what Wyatt Brody would be experiencing while the pistol was being removed from his fabulous gun collection—the pistol that would help prosecutors put him on death row.

  Majestic strings, slow and sonorous at first, filled the air.

  Music to die for, Lou thought.

  “Get ready, my friend,” he said, no longer confined to whispering. “We’re on.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Lou and Cap jammed their heels against the rear panel of what had been their prison, and felt it fall away. It landed with a muted but satisfying thud. Sliding backwards, they dropped to the ground in a crouch behind the truck. A rush of cool air bathed their lungs. From no more than fifty feet away, the nearest huge speaker, mounted on a tall pole, had begun broadcasting the gentle opening string passage of the “1812 Overture.” Cap stood and straightened up, groaning obscenities at his joints.

  Lou looked to his right and took in a familiar sight. They were parked on the dirt courtyard housing Brody’s headquarters and two smaller structures. Overhead, a variety of fireworks were turning the moonless sky into a fantasy garden. The explosions accompanying the display shook the earth.

  Aside from the music, the core of the base was ghostly quiet and appeared completely deserted. Windows in the three buildings and nearby barracks were dark. There were no guards on duty, at least that Lou could see. Papa Steve had mentioned that the ceremony was set for the assembly area, some distance away. He was smart to have sped up the timetable. If ever there was a perfect time to penetrate Wyatt Brody’s world, this was it.

  When he pushed himself off the platform, Cap pulled out a compact knapsack he had wedged by his head. Small length of clothesline, powerful flashlight, leather pouch of tools, headlamp, stethoscope, hunting knife, and a pistol.

  “Sorry, not my style,” Lou had said when offered a similar weapon.

  “I love our soldiers,” Cap replied. “Love ’em, respect ’em, am grateful to ’em, too. But if these Palace Guards are what you say they are, I ain’t going down without making a noise.”

  MANTIS COMPANY

  WHATEVER IT TAKES

  The sign was as Lou remembered from his previous harrowing trip to the base. In a perverse way, Brody was right in his speech to the troops. It was more than just a motto.… For the twenty soldiers of Operation Talon, it was a death sentence.

  Lou tapped Cap on the shoulder and pointed to the target building. The fighter glanced around, nodded back at Lou, and made a surprisingly limber dash across the hard ground to Brody’s office. He reached the perimeter without incident and waved for Lou to join him. Keeping as low as he could manage, Lou shambled across the open area, giving back all the style points Cap had just won. His legs were still weak and stiff, and he stumbled once. Working for each breath, he reached the short flight of stairs to the porch and flattened against a support next to Cap.

  The first bridge of the “1812 Overture,” a series of chromatic runs that depicted anxious Russians anticipating battle, reverberated from the enormous speakers, accompanied by the rumbling of some low-level fireworks. The music precisely reflected Lou’s growing sense of urgency. For a moment, his ultra-odd college roommate’s elegant stereo flashed in his thoughts.

  Lou set his watch and started it.

  “We’ve got eleven minutes before the cannonade,” he said.

  Cap looked over at him. “You really know the ‘1812 Overture’ that well?”

  “Some day after this is all in our rearview mirror, I’ll play it for you on kazoo. Come on, buddy, it’s time to do this thing.”

  They ascended the wooden staircase to the outer door. From the PA system, the strings were now beginning battle with the horns. Distress … worry … mounting panic … determination. War.

  Cap turned on his headlight and took the lock-pick kit from his backpack. “It’s a dead bolt,” he said, examining the front lock. “Harder than it looks, but a diamond pick ought to get this puppy open.” He removed a long silver wand with a little bend at the end.

  “Where’d you get those?” Lou whispered.

  “Online. Where does anyone get anything these days? A year or so ago, I couldn’t find my old kit, so I went to Lockpickingtools.com.”

  The fireworks intensified as the horns began the powerful “Marseillaise.” The French counterattack was under way.

  “An artiste needs quiet,” Cap said, stepping back and gesturing up at the explosions and light. “Seriously, boss. Don’t panic. We’re in.”

  Lou turned the knob, and the door opened easily. “You hot shit,” he murmured.

  “La Marseillaise” peaked. The tide of battle had turned. T
he two friends moved quickly to the shuttered wood door of Wyatt Brody’s office. Outside, the decrescendo of violins played a soft romantic melody.

  “Maybe seven minutes,” Lou said.

  The rustic office triggered unpleasant memories. If not for Papa Steve, this place would have housed his last minutes on earth. They went directly to the case in the small room behind Brody’s desk. Papa Steve’s intelligence was on the button—the polished antique Colt military pistol was at the center of the display, right where he said it probably would be. It would leave a six left twist rifling mark on any bullet it fired.

  In the distance, the soft sounds of impending triumph. The tide of the conflict had turned. The mop-up was beginning.

  “Okay, time to get cracking,” Lou said, checking his watch. “We’re at about the five-minute mark now.”

  Cap spent a few moments studying the situation—a sculptor eyeing a block of marble before putting mallet to chisel. “The case is alarmed with glass-break sensors, anticipating a smash-and-grab, but the actual lock wasn’t a priority. It’s a Yale. Tough but not killer tough.”

  Cap deftly slid another long hooked tool into the lock. His muscular frame, the body that had battered dozens of fighters in the ring, seemed calm and totally at ease. From his years of suturing facial and tendon lacerations, Lou had no trouble relating to the all-consuming concentration.

  “The plug hole has beveled edges,” Cap said, speaking much more to himself than to Lou, “and the ends of the key pins are rounded off. I’ve got to do a bit more scrubbing because the driver pins are set on the bevel. Can’t turn the plug if the driver’s caught on the bevel. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  The music outside was intensifying—frenetic string runs, crashing cymbals, horns blaring the French national anthem, a timpani foreshadowing the cannonade to come. Then, the penultimate passages—pastoral melodies, the utter exhaustion of the troops. Lou guessed they had four minutes to get the case open, unhinge the gun, and make it back to the truck.

  “Damn. I’ve got the pins set, but the lock isn’t opening,” Cap murmured. “Reduce the torque and keep scrubbing over these pins. That’s all I can do.”

  “Two more minutes, and we’ve got to smash the case and take our chances with the alarm,” Lou said.

  He shifted on his heels, watching his friend work. Outside, the music was again building. The fireworks explosions were rattling the display cases. The finale was near. At the instant bells began chiming in the soundtrack, the lock popped with a satisfying click, and the case opened. The Colt, not fixed to the velvet-lined back, rested on a pair of hooks. Cap lifted it free and placed it in his knapsack along with his tools.

  “We’ve got to move, Cap! Now!”

  Lou shifted a pistol from the bottom row to fill in the space the Colt had occupied. Then he carefully closed the case and followed Cap through the office to the porch. They reached the courtyard just at the start of the overture’s dramatic climax. The speakers blared out the brass section’s recapitulation of earlier themes. Branches shook as runs by the strings and woodwinds blended in versions of “God Save the Tsar.”

  The fireworks had slowed. Off in the distance, to his left, Lou saw the lights of three helicopters rise slowly and majestically into the smoke-filled sky. The moment the choppers lifted off, the cannonade began. The finale. Howitzer booms reverberated through Lou’s chest and seemed to rattle the fillings in his teeth as massive rosettes—red, purple, and blue starbursts—filled the sky. For a moment, Lou was in his college dorm room, getting psyched for finals with Dr. Strange.

  Up ahead, Papa Steve was standing by the truck, urgently motioning for them to hurry. He was holding something up in his left hand.

  Lou had no doubt it was a detonator.

  CHAPTER 43

  Shoulder to shoulder, Lou and Cap had taken three steps toward Papa Steve when a Mantis guard stepped out from a building to their left.

  “Freeze right there or I’ll shoot!”

  Lou whirled in the direction of the voice and dropped facedown on the hardened dirt. The overture climax continued, with cannon fire booming from the PA system as though the base were under siege.

  And then, in an instant, it was.

  Military vehicles parked along the road began to explode, one after the other. Bright orange flames shot into the night. Glass shattered, sending jagged shards in all directions. Trucks and jeeps thrown into the air landed with a bone-rattling crunch of metal. A pair of smaller explosions sprayed a potpourri of dirt and rocks high into the air.

  Papa Steve was either going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do, or he was planning on going AWOL before the commander returned.

  “I said stop!” the guard shouted.

  A burst of machine gun fire followed. Bullets slapped at the ground by Lou’s feet. Frantically, he searched for cover, but Cap had other ideas. He rolled over once and then again. The second time, he had the pistol in his hand. One shot, and the soldier cried out, dropped his gun, and fell, clutching his shoulder.

  “Nice shot!” Lou exclaimed.

  “Nice shot, hell! I was aiming at his leg.”

  “Get to the truck!” Papa Steve was hollering.

  Pistol drawn, he was providing them with what seemed like random cover fire. Small explosions continued to erupt throughout the woods. Assuming chaos and fear were Papa Steve’s goals, he was the Picasso of demolition. Lou and Cap were moving again, hunched over, weaving across the courtyard. More guards had materialized near the wounded soldier. Bullets whizzed past Lou’s head as he angled for the truck. If he tripped now, he’d be dead. Just like that, dead.

  The situation was surreal. He was on a military base in rural West Virginia, weaponless, locked in a goddamn firefight with highly trained soldiers who were pathologically prepared to die to protect their world. Back in Arlington, Emily was probably in her room, listening to music, getting ready for bed, totally unaware of the horror that was evolving three hours or so to the west. Another bullet struck the ground close by. Lou fought the urge to drop and roll. There was no cover, and he would be shot before he could take another breath. Cap was firing over his shoulder as he ran, the knapsack and its precious contents at times bouncing off the ground. Papa Steve continued to fire, but each series was quickly answered by a return volley.

  As Lou reached the truck, he heard the distinct snap of bullets against metal. Next there was the thud of bullets against rubber, followed by a loud hiss of air. The left rear tire instantly deflated. Moments later, the right was flat as well.

  A final burst of speed and Lou reached the passenger door with Cap on his heels. They scrambled inside while Papa Steve fired one last burst and dived behind the wheel. As torturous as their situation was, he seemed exhilarated—a cowboy mounting a two-thousand-pound bucking bull.

  “You got the gun?” he asked as they lurched ahead.

  Breathing heavily, Lou nodded. “How’re we gonna get out of here with two flat tires?”

  Papa Steve, his tan knuckles white from gripping the wheel, glanced over at him. “I thought you were the one with the blond bombshell contingency plan.”

  “Let’s get to the guardhouse. I’ll make the call on the way. Can you get any speed from this thing?”

  “As long as it doesn’t realize it has two flat tires.”

  Lou had Judy Lemon’s phone number on speed dial. The “1812” was over now, and the smoke from the fireworks was drifting away. Papa Steve’s explosions, too, were on the wane. Bewildered soldiers were emerging from the woods, weapons ready, trying to determine what had happened and whom to shoot.

  The truck roared ahead, sending up rooster tails of dirt and dust, seeming as if it were stripping a gear every few feet.

  “Dr. Lou? Is that you?” The voice of Judy Lemon, barely audible, crackled in Lou’s ear. Sporadic gunfire had resumed, and several bullets hit the truck.

  “Judy, can you hear me?” Lou had no idea if she answered. “Judy!” Lou shouted. “Meet us at the
gate! At the gate!”

  The truck was slowing down, its engine screeching.

  “Not far now!” Papa Steve yelled. “We may have to run.”

  Up ahead, Lou caught sight of the end of the road and the guardhouse. The truck was about to breathe its last. Steve pushed a button on his detonator, and to their right, twenty feet or so from Cap, an explosion disintegrated a jeep, sending up smoke, flame and noise.

  “Jesus!” Cap cried out, ducking from the blast.

  “I had forgotten about that one until I saw the jeep,” Papa Steve said, laughing as dirt and stones rained down on the roof. “Truck’s dead. Guns out! We’ve got to run for the gate. Lou, where’s that backup?”

  As if on cue, up ahead, blue and red strobes appeared. With Papa Steve’s handiwork disrupting the night, the front gate to the Mantis base was unguarded.

  After a brief sprint, during which Papa Steve easily kept pace, Cap opened the gate to let Lemon’s cruiser inside.

  The driver’s-side window opened, and Lemon leaned out. Her hair had been tucked under her trooper’s hat, but Lou noticed that she had probably painted on another layer of makeup. “Hey, boys. Need a lift?”

  The three clambered inside the cruiser just as a small nearby shed exploded.

  “I know, I know,” Lou said. “You forgot about that one.”

  “Which of you guys got the fireworks permit?” Lemon asked.

  “That would be me,” Papa Steve said.

  “Operation Talon,” Lou said, breathing hard. “We’ve got to stop it.”

  “Why?” Papa Steve asked. “We’ve got the murder weapon. Let’s use it to get Brody.”

  “Talon is a suicide mission. Twenty guys are coming back in body bags unless we do something to prevent it.”

  “Did you hear where they’re going?” Papa Steve asked.

  “Dover Air Force Base. They were going to take off from Langley, but they changed their plans. I don’t know where their ultimate destination is, but I got the sense from what I heard that it’s more than one place.”