“Congrats, son.”
“Have you seen Scala and Brunson?” Carson asked. “I heard shooting down the hall and figured you’d have caught up with them.”
Mason grimaced. “We saw them. Brunson is dead. Lots of dead bodies around. And I’m afraid Scala is bleeding out as we speak. Leg wound. I left two people with her, and they’re doing what they can. But she took out the commissioner, Masters. He was lying in front of her, bullet through the forehead.”
Carson nodded, mind struggling to cope. Brunson had come on this suicide mission because of him, and Scala was here because he’d guilted her into coming back and trying to redeem herself by finishing her mission. The deaths were his fault. He felt a strong need to finish it so they wouldn’t be useless sacrifices.
Mason motioned his people forward, and they took up breaching positions on either side of the doorway. Their leader nodded, and a fighter with a shotgun blasted the door lock and then kicked it open. Instantly two others swept the room from behind their sights. They slipped inside, followed by the rest. Dana followed Mason, helping Carson along although he barely needed it now.
The room was a fairly large one, by the standards of Cheyenne Mountain. Screens filled long tables throughout the room, and still larger screens were mounted on the walls. Only a few seemed to be turned on, and Carson was unable to make head or tail of what their data feeds meant.
The general sat in a chair near the head of the room, alone. His arms were on the desk in front of him, with his empty hands in plain view. A disassembled pistol was on the desk near him, magazine removed and slide detached.
He slowly shook his head as Mason’s fighters approached and subdued him. “You can’t get away with any of this,” he said, speaking quietly but firmly. “Not long-term. You are delaying the inevitable. It isn’t your place to bring us all down again! You’re ruining our last chance, can’t you see that?”
Mason ordered his men to take Tamare out of the room. “He’ll be executed soon enough, but I want answers first. Get him to a secure location outside and guard him carefully.”
Carson sank into a chair with Dana hovering over him, while Mason barked orders and his people scurried around the room. There wasn’t much of a hurry now that the command center had been secured. It felt anticlimactic, but as the adrenaline left their bodies, it was a wonderful relief. He tried to grasp the fact that they had done it, that the assault had succeeded against all odds, but it was hard to make his head hold the idea. Good people had died, and the nation wasn’t won back, not yet. Far from it.
Mason left for a while and then came back to report that the fight at the other end of the entrance tunnel had been protracted and brutal, but with his men coming at the defenders from behind, they had finally managed to flush them from their positions, destroy the APC that was holding off Carl’s men, and take several prisoners. He also shared the unwelcome news that Khalil’s chopper was a burning wreck on the ground with no survivors.
Carson slouched in his chair and let Dana work at his arm, putting a better dressing in place. The air was dry and cool. After the intensity of the last hour, Carson felt his body beginning to relax, and a profound fatigue washed over him. When this was over, he was going to sleep for a week. Then he was going to eat his body weight, then sleep for another week. And after that, who knew? He was just glad Dana was okay.
A group of Mason’s people brought Scala in and laid her on a desk in the back of the room. She was unconscious and very pale, but they said she was still breathing and they were trying to stabilize her. Dana went over to help, after making sure Carson’s shoulder wound wasn’t bleeding freely anymore.
Then more people flooded the room, fighters from Carl’s team, and more of Mason’s people. Carson recognized Tyler, the tech-head and recalled that he had come along for this occasion although he’d kept well back during the initial assault. Now he and a few others set about exploring the communication systems in the room and preparing to send out their message.
An hour later Tyler called Carson over. Carson had a sling on his arm now, with some serious bandaging around the bullet’s entry wound. Dana and Mason came to stand by him.
“I think we’re ready,” Tyler said. “I’ve got a direct line to an old-school telcomm link that looks like it has active nodes in Chicago, D.C., and Houston. Not sure who’s listening at any of those locations, but if they have a terminal up they’ll get the message.” He paused. “Maybe I should omit the Chicago one. Isn’t the Midwest the Correctionists’ powerhouse?”
Carson shook his head. “Let ‘em hear it. If Tamare didn’t already notify them, then we’re putting them on notice now.”
Tyler happily continued. “There’s also some radio equipment here. I’m no expert in that department, but I know there are some impressive antenna arrays on top of the mountain. Anything you say into that microphone over there will be bounced all over the region with some powerful repeaters. Again, no guarantees on who’s listening, but anybody with a working ham radio in the state of Colorado should be able to pick that up and pass it on from there.”
Mason beamed. “Excellent. Can you record it, too, and play it back over the radio over and over for the next several days?”
Tyler scratched his head. “Good question. One second.” He fussed with a few more pieces of equipment and finally said, “Okay, ready.”
He pointed to a microphone on a little stand. “When I say go, speak into the mic, and you’ll be broadcast as far as we can manage nowadays. It’ll be re-broadcast as long as there’s somebody in this room to keep it looping. And we’ll feed the data files I brought out over the telcomm link. I suppose we could even read through some of them over the radio later, when we know we have an audience.”
He looked up at Carson. “So, who’s going to give the speech?”
“Speech?” Carson asked. “Just send them the message. Write it out yourself.”
Tyler frowned. “Nobody will know what they’re looking at, man. Or what they’re hearing. You have to give an intro, something direct and bold, but inspiring. Tell them what’s going on, and tell them the data will be forthcoming to back up your words.”
Mason looked at Carson. “I’ve no way with words, son. You do it.”
Carson looked at Dana. She looked back at him. “Nobody knows how all the pieces fit together like you do.”
He stepped to the microphone. “Uh, this is going to sound awkward, everybody. Don’t laugh, please.”
Dana smiled and shook her head.
“I’m going to try to transcribe your words and type them in to the telcomm terminal as you speak,” Tyler said. “Ready? Here we go, with Tyler’s Radio Free USA, live from Cheyenne Mountain!”
He made a one, two, three gesture with his fingers and pointed at Carson. A red light came on near the mic, and Carson cleared his throat.
“Uh, okay. This is Carson Anders, broadcasting live from Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado, just west of Colorado Springs. I’m a former Homeland Security operative. I’m a veteran of the United States Marine Corps, and a loyal, patriotic American, in spite of the events of the last year.”
He looked over at the others, wondering if he sounded as dumb as he felt. Dana gave him a thumbs up, and Mason grinned. So he continued.
“I don’t know who you are, or where you are, but if you can hear me, then what I have to say is vitally important if any of us are going to have a chance at peace in the near future.
“Some of you have heard of the Correctionist movement. Some of you may have already encountered it, some of you may be a part of it. I’m here to tell you that no matter what you may have heard, no matter how noble its intentions, the Correctionist movement is flawed at its core. It is being manipulated by the very forces which caused our nation this calamity. Its end goal is tyranny, and its methods are criminal.
“I ask you, all of you, whoever is listening, to resist the Correctionists with everything you’ve got. If you are already part of them, lay down your weapons. Stop hurting yo
ur fellow American citizens. You may have been told that it is necessary to kill a few for the greater good. But there will be no end to the killing. Tyranny recognizes no limits. It does not self-regulate. Please, wherever you may be, resist the Correctionists. America can still survive, even after what we’ve all been through, but not if the Correctionists and their deceptive overlords, the Decemvirate, have their way. This shadowy group of puppet-masters is the mastermind for the EMP attack that brought down our national power grids, and they’re still in control of the Correctionist movement.
“You’ll be wondering what proof I can offer for what I’m saying. Before the catastrophe last autumn, I was part of a covert government program designated Deep Thaw. My objective was to assist in protecting and rebuilding America in the event of a national crisis. Obviously, we failed in that mission. In pursuing our objectives, however, my colleagues and I located a data deposit, a government fail-safe record of events directly preceding and related to the crisis. The contents of that record will be sent out following my remarks. This data has convinced me, and those with whom I have fought and bled, as to the identity of the culprits behind our predicament, and the trail of events that brought us here. But of course you must judge for yourselves.”
He was silent for a moment, then beckoned to Dana. She stepped away, but he insisted. “There are a lot of people out there that would probably like to hear a woman back up my words. Someone who’s not a federal agent. Please!”
Reluctantly, prodded by Mason, Dana stepped to the mic. “Um, hi. My name is Dana Ryan. I used to live in Denver, Colorado. If you believe what Carson just told you, and you ought to because the data we found reveals it all, then I ask you to respond with judgment and order. Enough killing. We can fix this. No matter how angry you are, no matter how much suffering you’ve endured, do not respond with more bloodshed. If we are to have any hope going forward, it must be through cooperation and forgiveness. Justice will be served, but it must be through the rule of law.
“I, uh, I fought and killed tonight to be able to bring you this message. That’s how important it is. But I beg you, now that we know the truth, spread it and let it guide us toward peace, not to more violence and oppression of each other. Please.”
She stepped away, and Carson took the mic again. “That’s about it,” he said, “but one last word. American blood was shed tonight in order to bring you this message.” He looked across the room at Scala’s still body, still being worked on by two medically-trained fighters from Mason’s group. “Not just oppressive soldiers. Lives were lost, good people here in Colorado gave their all so I could tell you these things. So I ask you to listen without prejudice or rancor, and consider our message carefully. You owe the dead that much. We all owe our country that much.”
He stepped away, and Tyler stopped his recording, finished typing, and pushed send. He looked up and smiled. “Great job. That was everything we needed. Now everybody go home and let me work!” He turned back to his keyboard and continued entering commands to send the contents of the data files.
Carson looked at Dana, and over at Mason. “That’s it? There’s really nothing more to do or say?”
Mason shrugged. “Get some rest. Bury our dead. Defend this place against any counterattacks. Not that I’m worried; with Tamare in our custody and Masters dead, it’ll be a while before anybody comes after us here.”
Chapter 16: An End
Dana fussed with Carson’s shoulder for several minutes before applying a fresh bandage and beginning to button his shirt back up for him. “You lost a lot of blood, Carson. I wish we could still get a transfusion for you. You’re going to be weak for a while until you regenerate all that plasma and new blood.”
They were in a house in Colorado Springs, and it was ten days after the message went out. With Masters gone and the general on trial, the old balance of power in the area had dissolved into an uneasy peace, with no more militia thugs, prison guards, or active-duty soldiers moving around in public.
Mason had stopped by to make sure Carson was convalescing well. He shook his head gravely. “We have a lot of wounded that could use that kind of medical care ,” he said. “But it’ll be a long time before we have functioning hospitals like we used to.” He stood up. “Well, I’m off. I’ve got a lot to do today. Seems Tamare wasn’t as popular with his people as it seemed, and there are a couple hundred of them in town asking to fight the Correctionists alongside our boys. They’re very eager to prove that they’re on the right side now.”
“What about the Correctionists?” Carson asked. “Any word of how people are reacting yet?”
“A little news. They did say on the ham radio that one of the congressmen you outed as a Decemvirate ringleader was lynched last week, and his country retreat burned to the ground. That was in Milwaukee or thereabouts. But locally I think they’re losing support as well. Carl says this General Maughan ran out of town toward Denver just in the nick of time, chased out by angry citizens. He has lot more men up there, but it’s only a matter of time. Carl is already putting the word out to assemble and march on Denver, and he’s got a network of willing fighters as far away as Gunnison that have promised to go. You up for it?”
Carson looked at Dana. “I don’t know. I kind of feel like we’ve done our part. We lost some good friends and I’m not eager to rush into battle again.”
“Oh, speaking of which,” Mason continued, “You’ll be pleased to hear that Scala’s up and grouching at her nurses. You can go see her this afternoon if you’d like. Careful when you go out in public, though. You two are practically folk heroes now.”
“But… the lights are still out,” Dana said. “I feel like a happy ending is a long way off.”
Mason agreed. “This isn’t a fairy tale, Miss Ryan. We don’t live happily ever after just by saying so. The lights are out and they aren’t coming back on without massive labor and time and cooperation. All we’ve done is win ourselves some time, time in which to work hard. If we don’t, things could get ugly again in a hurry, as we’ve seen. We don’t get crops in the ground on a massive scale, we’ll all starve come winter. We need food, which means we need farmers, which means we need tractors and fuel and some sort of distribution and transportation. And we’ve got to start right now or it’ll be too late.”
“Get out of here, Mason,” said Carson. “You’re making me tired. I can’t recuperate when you talk like that.”
Mason left with a chuckle, and Dana gazed out the window for several minutes, thinking. “Are you ever going back to Denver, Carson?”
He thought about it.
“Denver’s a war zone right now. It’s an armed camp, a ghetto. Before I go back there, that city is going to have to earn my citizenship by demonstrating its social viability.”
Dana considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Then where? Stay here in Colorado Springs?”
“No, no. Got some bad memories of this town.” Carson stretched his arm gingerly. “We can go anywhere, Dana. Find somewhere in the country, or the mountains. Plant a garden, hunt, meet our neighbors. If what Mason said is true, we’ll probably be accepted into whatever community we choose.” He stopped, realizing that Dana was eyeing him sideways, a slight smile on her face. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. I just like the way you keep saying ‘we,’ that’s all.”
“Well, of course I am. That’s because… you know.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Go on. I’d like to hear you spell it out.”
“Oh, no. That’s all you’re getting from me. I’m an invalid, remember? Long speeches weary me. In fact, I’ve said too much already. I must rest.” He sat down again and closed his eyes. “Please keep it down around here. Too much noise is bad for the patient.”
Dana walked over and kissed him and he was unable to resist on account of his injured shoulder.
Three months later, Carson and Dana stood at the entrance to Hemingway Circle. It was early afternoon. The sun was warm, the air was cool, and the plac
e had changed, but not entirely. The grass was coming up, fresh spring green. Buds on the trees.
They’d heard all about the fighting in Denver, the big push to take it back, though they’d been too involved in affairs down south to participate alongside the other fighters. They had friends to bury, and a prison camp to disband, and they wanted to accompany Scala to see her daughter and put in a good word for her with the only family she had.
But the re-taking of Denver had, by all accounts, been a spectacular fight. Citizens and patriots had done it, fighting as hard as any professional soldiers. Change was in the air, and hope. Americans were taking back America, not just in Colorado, and it felt good.
Mason’s Robin Hood prophecy hadn’t quite come to pass. Once they got talking with people and it slipped out that were there at Cheyenne Mountain, people took notice, but otherwise nobody seemed to care about them. And maybe, Carson reflected, it was okay to be obsolete and directionless after a career as a federal agent and then as a partisan undoing what had been done in his government’s name. He ruminated for a while, staring at Dana’s old place, wondering if life in Denver would be worthwhile again. Dana stood at his side, lost in her own thoughts.
Finally, Carson stirred.
“Going to have to re-shingle your place before winter, if anybody’s going to live in that old shack. I ought to alert the HOA; that roof is in violation.”
“Yeah. I was going to have it done, back… before,” she said.
They were joking, pushing irony to its extreme. Dana’s roof was a little patchy; Carson’s entire home across the street had burned down during the fighting. His roof had fallen in, and all that remained were blackened two-by-fours and a few scraps of charred paper from his library clinging to the porch. They hadn’t bothered to inspect the cellar yet to see if anything had survived below ground.
“How big’s your backyard?” said Carson, ignoring the scar where his carefully arranged home had been.
Assault on Cheyenne Mountain (Denver Burning Book 4) Page 12