“Await developments,” the old general said, and he was gone.
A little after eight o’clock that morning, Michael Laird pulled up in an old sedan outside an abandoned warehouse in Chicago’s deteriorating north side. Despite his status as the PPP’s chief of security, Laird did not mind moving about the city alone. He was armed, and could protect himself, as his was a solitary profession. Laird had been an FBI agent before the Transition, and he had watched the bitter split among his old colleagues. Some, militant anticommunists, had resisted the new regime. As a result, many had been arrested and imprisoned; others had gone underground, joined the resistance. The most hard core had formed a secret society called the Hoover League, which carried out assassinations against Russian officials and American collaborators.
Others, like Mike Laird, had invoked the legacy of J.
Edgar Hoover in another way. Hoover had been an absolute dictator who guided the bureau with an iron hand—you loved it or left it. The new regime was like that, too, enabling Laird and others to move from the old regime to the new with a minimum of trauma. They were, after all, only carrying out the orders of duly constituted authority. The ideology at the top might in theory be different, but in practice one dictator was like another.
Mike Laird was alone on a deserted slum street to carry out a task some might have called illegal. But it was at the urgent and personal request of Marion Andrews, a party leader and now the deputy governor-general, so how could her wishes be illegal?
A pale young man in jeans, sneakers, and a wind-breaker stepped out of the warehouse and approached the sedan. As the young man reached the car, Laird cracked open his window.
“We’re ready,” the man said.
Laird handed him a sheet of paper. “Here’s the route.”
The man glanced at the paper with quick brown eyes. “All right,” he said.
“Be thorough,” Laird said. The young man spit on the street and walked back to the warehouse. Laird cursed and drove away. He hated trusting other people, but this time he had no choice.
A few miles away, in his cell at the SSU Security Center, Devin Milford faced a difficult decision. A guard had brought him a breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and real coffee. “Same as our officers get,” the guard declared. After a moment’s hesitation, Devin decided to eat the breakfast. He was still fasting, but he rationalized that it might be a long time before he saw fresh eggs and real coffee again.
Soon after he finished, an SSU officer, a handsome soldier named Ramirez, entered his cell. “Your breakfast was satisfactory, Mr. Milford?” he asked.
“Fine, thank you,” Devin said.
“And you have been well treated while you were with us?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Those were Colonel Denisov’s instructions. You will be leaving now, if you are ready.”
“Pm ready,” he said, gathering up his few belongings. “Where am I going?”
“To Omaha, I understand.”
Devin frowned. “What’s in Omaha?”
“I really don’t know, Mr. Milford,” the guard said, and they started down the corridor toward the elevators.
The Bradford family spent the night in the Palmer House Hotel, and that morning they hosted a ceremonial breakfast there for Marion and Caleb as well as various political leaders and PPP officials. Marion wore a dramatic pink wool suit, but Peter thought Amanda was more beautiful in the simple elegance of her blue outfit. Following breakfast, the party of more than two dozen hurried out to the limousines that would take them to Soldiers’ Field.
A cheering crowd greeted them as they emerged onto the sidewalk outside the hotel. They chanted “Brad-ford!” and “Heart-land!” and waved hand-lettered signs. Peter waved back—it was an automatic gesture now—and wondered if they were for real. He knew the live coverage had already begun, and it would not have been beyond Andrei, or Marion, to have arranged this “spontaneous” show of affection.
He turned to Amanda and winked.
Amanda smiled but her heart was not in it.
They emerged from the elevators into a big shadowy garage packed with SSU vehicles. Captain Ramirez led Devin toward two black vans parked side by side. The driver of one of the vans produced papers for Ramirez to sign.
Glancing around, Devin imagined that he glimpsed General Sittman far across the room, but he wasn’t sure. The lines of authority here were tangled beyond his understanding—the PPP, the SSU, the national guard. All he knew was that Marion hated him and Andrei Denisov wanted to protect him, and that he wasn’t likely to receive the same royal treatment in Omaha that he’d enjoyed here.
Ramirez nodded as Devin stepped into the back of one of the vans. “Good luck, Mr. Milford,” he said, and the door shut.
The crowd cheered as the limos pulled away from the hotel, the sirens of their motorcycle escort howling. Peter, waving to the people on the street, glanced back and saw Marion sitting expressionless in her limo, clutching Caleb to her side. He had come to realize that she resented her number-two position, and he wondered how long she would settle for it.
His two children, dressed for the occasion, were sitting on jump seats. Jackie hadn’t looked so happy in weeks; she waved enthusiastically, even as the crowds began to thin out. Scott, seeming somehow grown up in a dark suit, gazed out at the city in wonder. Peter
guessed it had been a big jump for the boy from Milford to Omaha and now to the hugeness of Chicago. He knew he should spend more time with Scott but didn’t have any time to call his own anymore.
Amanda leaned close to Peter and whispered. “I saw Devin this morning, early.”
“How was he?”
“He seemed very at peace with himself.”
He studied her face, trying to glean understanding from her expression. “Is he willing to give up Billy?” “I don’t know.”
“I can’t help him if he won’t.”
“I told him that,” she said, almost sullenly, and turned to the window.
Scott turned from the window and said, “Can’t they go any faster?”
“They’re going fast enough,” Peter said, and got out his speech for some final polishing.
The iron doors to the SSU’s underground garage slid slowly to one side, and the convoy moved out. First came two motorcycles, then a jeep with a mounted machine gun, a light attack vehicle, then the black transport van that held the prisoner. Behind the transport vehicle were more attack vehicles and motorcycles. The convoy picked up speed, and when pedestrians saw them coming, they slipped into doorways.
A few moments later, Andrei’s limousine slid out of the garage and drove off in the opposite direction. In the distance the sirens from Peter Bradford’s motorcade could be heard, but it was going in the opposite direction and soon the sound died out.
The convoy moved south on Lakeshore Drive at fifty miles an hour. There was little traffic and the few cars they saw pulled over to the side when they heard the sirens.
It was a routine run until they reached a comer where a delivery van was parked. The pale young man in the windbreaker was at the wheel of the delivery van and when the SSU convoy came round the corner he shot forward, heading straight for the black transport van. The SSU van swerved to avoid a collision, skidding onto the sidewalk and crashing into a utility pole. An antitank gun fired a rocket from a nearby building and the transport van exploded in flames. As the delivery van sped away, there was shooting from all directions. Soldiers leaped from the jeeps and were pinned down by machine-gun fire. The SSU officer in charge, at the risk of his hfe, ran to the burning transport van and tried to open its door, but he was beaten back by the flames.
Suddenly it stopped. The attackers abandoned the van and disappeared into an alley, leaving only the sound of the utterly shredded and burning vehicles. The SSU officer, cursing in Spanish, ran down the street looking for a telephone.
The limousines stopped on the infield and the guests of honor climbed out. Twenty bands blared the Heartland
anthem, yet the roar of the crowd still drowned it out. Peter gazed up in awe; he was not prepared for this. A hundred thousand people packed Soldiers’ Field and thousands more ringed the stadium, just to have the music and the speeches piped out to them. Peter, stunned by the spectacle but remembering that the cameras were on him, waved with both arms.
There was an awkward pause as all the officials and their families got in line to proceed to the speakers’ platform. Peter waved to General Sittman, who with a group of national guard officers would form an escort platoon. Peter squeezed Amanda’s hand.
Amanda was too awed by the mass of people to speak.
Peter paid no attention as a dark-suited man, vaguely familiar to him, hurried up to Marion and drew her aside.
“It’s done,” Mike Laird whispered.
She looked at him sharply. “You’re sure?”
“The convoy was hit by what appeared to be a resister group.”
Marion sagged, took his arm. Laird tried to look solemn, as if this was urgent party business. In a moment she composed herself. “Thank you. That will be all.”
Laird nodded and walked away.
Peter walked over to Marion. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. Just butterflies,” she said with a smile.
“It’s nice to know you’re at least a little like the rest of us,” he said.
She smiled. “Are we supposed to walk separately or can I take your arm—as though we were getting married?”
Peter smiled, offering his arm. “You can take my arm until we get outside, but under no circumstances are you to say, ‘I do.’ ”
The bands began “Hail to the Chief’ as they marched to the platform to begin the festivities. Upon seeing them, the crowd began to chant “Heartland . . . Heartland.”
Alethea and Ward were having coffee when the patrol car came roaring up the driveway. They had the
television on, with pictures of the Heartland rally, but Alethea had decided to keep the sound down until either Peter or Marion spoke. “We ought to show some respect,” she said. “I mean, they gave us a holiday.” Ward rose to his feet as the deputy, Cy Spraggins, leaped out of the patrol car and ran toward the house.
“Something’s up,” Ward muttered. “Cy hasn’t moved that fast in twenty years.”
The deputy burst in the door. He was a lanky, jug-eared man, and his face was red with excitement. “They’re coming,” he yelled. “The SSU. Out of the barracks, full strength!”
Ward held up his hand. “Hold on, Cy. Maybe it’s just maneuvers.”
“They were headed for town. Right behind me. It didn’t look like no maneuvers.”
Will Milford, his friend Dieter, his grandson Billy, and Clayton Kullen emerged from the bam, saw the patrol car, and hurried to the house. “What the hell’s going on?” Will demanded.
“The SSU’s headed for town, Dad,” Ward said. “They may be coming here, looking for Billy.”
The old man nodded grimly. “Ward, you and Cy get on out of here. The less you know, the better. Stall ’em if you can.”
Ward scowled—he hated to run from a fight—but he knew his father’s plan made sense. He and Cy drove away, leaving Will, Alethea, Dieter, Clayton, and Billy. There was a moment’s awkward silence. “Maybe the exile camp?” Dieter suggested.
“No, they’ll look there,” Alethea said. “They’ll tear it apart. They always do the obvious, so we’ve got to be smarter than them.”
“The root cellar,” Will said.
“Too easy to find,” Alethea protested.
She looked at Billy and saw the uncertainty on his face. “Hey, handsome, it’s gonna be okay. We’ve just got to formulate the plan, as the deep thinkers say.”
Billy did not return her smile. “Maybe ... I ought to go back,” he said. “They just want to take me back to my mom. I don’t want to get anybody hurt.”
Will put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I appreciate the thought, but do you want to go back?”
Billy seemed near tears; he silently shook his head.
“Devin indicate to you it was okay to give up the boy?” Will asked Clayton.
“The word from Devin was to take care of him. He thought that was pretty darn important.”
“Well then, by God, that’s what we’ll do,” Will declared, and Billy hugged him with relief.
At the House of Representatives, some members were drifting into the chamber, and others lagged behind in the cloakroom, watching the Heartland ceremony on TV. Marion Andrews was making her speech, and several of the members watched attentively as she proclaimed her dedication to freedom, justice, and progress.
Other members of Congress, indifferent to the Heartland spectacular, milled about, exchanging rumors about this emergency session that Petya Samanov had called. But the fact was that no one knew why they were there.
Finally, bells began to ring, summoning them to the chamber. They began to file inside. On the unwatched TV, a hundred thousand voices were chanting “Bradford, Brad-ford,” as Peter got up to speak.
Back at the Virginia mansion, Andrei gazed indifferently at the ceremony on TV. It was clearly the culmination of months of scheming and planning, but now it held no interest for him. All that mattered was what was happening in Washington, the “symbolic act” too dark for Petya to describe.
Andrei paced about the guest room. It was just down the hall from Petya’s big bedroom and, on impulse, he marched to the bedroom.
Petya’s bed had not been slept in. The uniform he had worn home at dawn was still on the floor, where he had thrown it. Andrei realized that Petya had come all that way just to tell him what little he had told him. He remembered their final embrace, like father and son. There had been something final to their farewell.
His eyes fell upon the tape cartridge half buried under Petya’s discarded jacket. Andrei grabbed it, examined the date scribbled on it—the night before— and knew at once what it was. It was Petya’s habit to tape-record all communications with the Kremlin—as the officials on the other end were also doing—as a means of self-protection. In his haste and fatigue, Petya had neglected to file this tape before returning to Washington.
Andrei ran back to the guest room, inserted the tape into a player, slipped on headphones, and began to listen. What he heard chilled him to the core.
This is not the Stalin era, Petya was protesting, in Russian.
The choice between alternatives is yours, another man said. Andrei recognized the voice as that of Nicolai Malkiev, the first deputy, a powerful, stubborn, and formidable man.
And if I refuse?
Many of us still prefer the detonations, Petya Petrovich. You know that. We have accepted your compromise and now you resist even that. If you do not act, someone else will, and your brilliant career will end in disgrace. Of what value is that? All we ask is that you do your duty.
This act may have the opposite effect. Upheavals . . .
It is your proposal, Comrade. The logic is quite convincing.
That was ten years ago. An alternative that never became necessary. Can’t you see? The Congress is without power, a mere symbol of former America.
Precisely. A potent symbol, one that can still rally people, can still be used against us. Do your duty, Petya, and return to Moscow to accept the honors you deserve.
Andrei grimaced in shock and horror. He remembered that ten-year-old contingency plan. They had joked about it, called it their Doomsday Plan. But this was no joke.
After a long silence, Petya said, If I carry out the plan, then I have your word that Colonel Denisov will be permitted to function here, in my absence, with no further interference?
Must I say it again? Yes, you have my word. Barring some terrible disaster, Denisov will be given a free hand. You will have guaranteed his success.
All right, Comrade Malkiev. I will proceed. But I say again, this action is antithetical to the generosity and greatness of the Russian people.
And I say again t
hat this Committee differs with you on that point.
I may not be able to return to Moscow immediately.
Don’t be foolish, Petya. End your affairs, romantic and otherwise, and return to Moscow. That is an order.
The tape ended. Andrei hesitated only an instant, then leaped to his feet and raced out of the gracious old mansion, toward the nearby field where his helicopter waited. With luck, he could reach the Capitol in fifteen minutes.
Just as Will decided on a hiding place for Billy, they heard the ominous clatter of helicopters. “You stay here, Dieter,” Will yelled, and the rest of them ran pell-mell toward the treeline. Sheltered by the trees, they ran and walked about a mile before reaching their destination, a hillside overlooking a pond, deep in the woods. Will knelt and tore at the earth with his hands until a wooden trapdoor was exposed,
“Thank God,” Alethea said. She kept looking around, half expecting SSU troops to appear.
“What is it?” Billy asked.
“A dugout,” Will told him. “We haven’t got much time for history right now, but when your great-great-grandmother and grandfather arrived in these parts, the snows had already started and there wasn’t time to build a cabin. So they dug this and survived their first winter in it. I reckon you can manage there a day or two—your dad and your uncle Ward used to play here all the time. Alethea brought you some food and water and we’ll bring more when we can. We’ll cover the top over with sticks and leaves but make sure there’s air getting through.”
“Dad, hurry!” Alethea pleaded.
Will lifted the trapdoor and shone his flashlight down into the darkness. “Okay, old hoss, climb in and don’t be afraid.”
Billy peered in uncertainly. “Might as well see what it was like a hundred and thirty years ago,” Clayton said.
“It ain’t the Waldorf Astoria,” Will said, “but it’ll have to do.”
Billy nodded solemnly and took the flashlight from his grandfather. Alethea hugged him, then Will, and the boy lowered himself into his hiding place. Clayton followed, asking Billy, “You don’t think they’re still in there, do you?”
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