by Terry James
"Even all that doesn't seem so bad. However, a quirk of fate, or whatever, took people with critical knowledge of our system and how it operates. Top people, particularly in economic matters. Two examples: Ways and Means Chairman Beniton is gone; several members of the Federal Reserve Board were killed in that crash in the city a short time ago. Many others in vital positions with UNIVUS."
Grant Halifax stepped forward and slapped the pointer against his palm, his features more clearly visible to Jacob when the overhead lights struck the Vice President's thin, sallow-skinned face.
"In other words," Halifax said, smiling broadly at those sitting in front of him, "...this thing has worked out just the way he said it would! We just didn't expect it this soon." There was delight in Halifax's tone.
"We now have the facts and figures and most of all, the crisis, to back up our contention that we have no choice but to throw our lot in — totally -- with the one and only plan that will move us into the New World Order we've worked so long and hard to bring about."
Halifax's audience mumbled approval and agreement to each other; he raised his hands for quiet, his face taking on a more somber expression.
"Ladies, gentlemen... we can implement EARTHSPHERE-10 much sooner than originally anticipated. As you know, EARTHSPHERE-10 is the heart of 'The Plan' to once and for all bring all peoples together for peace.
"EARTHSPHERE-10 will consist of ten geographical regions, each region being responsible to each other and the Commissioner, who will head the Commission of Ten.
"Those regions by name are: Eurosphere, South Amerisphere, North Amerisphere, Australisphere, Afrisphere, East Asiasphere, West Asiasphere, Atlantisphere, Pacifisphere and Medisphere.
"Just as he said it would be, the Russian opposition is gone. And, just like he predicted, now our enemies from within have been removed as opponents of the magnificent plan for a glorious planetary future!"
The Vice President was no longer the cool, calculating politician Jacob knew him to be, but impassioned — evangelical.
"We, gathered here, will serve as the nucleus for that new beginning on the North American Continent. The cosmic disturbance has made it possible to speed up our timetable. Let each of us now put our talents as government leaders, as business people and as scientists and members of a united global press, to work for INterface. For if we lead properly, the people will follow. There is no alternative. Soon he will address the world audience. Just before he does so, I will invoke Executive Order 16,000, and, as Chief Executive, declare the United States a loyal Geoquadrant of INterface Universal."
The reason for Karen's panic when he talked with her from Brussels! The cause of Marchek's death! It had to be! Hugo Marchek must have learned that this nucleus group, even if it had to manufacture a crisis and murder the President, were intent on instituting Executive Order 16,000 so the nation could die, to be reincarnated as part of the European-centered one-world system. Karen, too, must have had to die because of her knowledge — or else be changed to someone, something other than the woman he knew, and loved.
Now, even his passion to find Karen seemed of little consequence in the rush of events. He felt trapped, the crawlspace suddenly wrapping around him — a suffocating, immobilizing coffin! The old mansion, no longer the warm, protective home of his youth, but a deadly pit out of which he must hurriedly climb. His country was no longer his; its soul had been ripped out and traded by Grant Halifax and his co-conspirators for the promise of their places within the hierarchy of the European-sired computer Utopia.
Was Conrad Wilson a part of this traitorous cabal? If so, why the attaché case? Why not just let him in on it, then, if he refused to go along, simply get rid of him? No... no... Someone had tried to kill him. His foster father had warned him of the Europeans' grab for power. That was why he was to take the case and its materials to the President. Stone Oaks had been taken over in its master's absence. And what about the attaché case? Was it still vital to anyone? Probably not. The disappearance phenomenon, and the quick-acting, usurping one-worlders, likely made whatever formerly damaging information was contained in the case, of no effect.
Jacob heard Grant Halifax's words fade, while he moved as fast as he could quietly manage, gently lifting then setting the attaché case on the crawlspace floor with each knee-forward movement. Inside the closet again, he opened the door cautiously, checking both ways for sound and movement. Apprehensively, he moved into the hallway and quickly into the room with the dumbwaiter.
The fact that he had not yet run into anyone who might try to stop him, or at least question his presence, bothered him for some reason, but the thought passed swiftly within a torrent of other thoughts. His mind racing ahead to the several barriers he must hurdle before leaving the grounds. Back up the shaft aboard the creaking lift, one hand over the other, pulling the platform upward with the aid of the gears and pulleys — not at all the same experience as with Joey those many times before, those many years ago.
Back through the darkened kitchen, down the hall and stairs, upward through the coal chute and into the shrubbery surrounding the old home. Still no opposition.
Lights suddenly swept along the grounds, illuminating the hedges where the manhole escape route lay! Then the beams moved slowly out of sight. Spotlights! Did they know he was on the grounds? Had they decided to wait until he tried for his exit before taking him? Now the light swept near the home where he crouched beneath the hedge, then past him. Whether to run now, staying low, taking one big oak at a time, or, to wait for the next spotlight sweep against his objective — the hedge and the manhole. Either way, the odds of being spotted were against him now. No need to suffer the pain of waiting, agonizing over the decision that must be made; regardless, the thing had to be done.
His run, bent to present as low a profile as possible, seemed forever between the bush and the first oak tree 50 yards away. He stopped to assess the lights and the sounds of guards manning them. On to the next tree, belly-flopping at its base, just as the powerful beam of light crossed six feet to his right. His heart pounded and his chest ached from the impact. Pain throbbed in his right wrist, with which he had tried to buffer contact with the ground. The distance left to reach the hedge and the manhole, would have in earlier days been nothing; however, this night it looked to be an endless expanse, as he watched the searchlights criss-crossing the grounds. Lying curled around the trunk of the gigantic oak would not get him to the tunnel and out of danger. The lights were sure to zero in on him before many more seconds passed. Up and running, trying to maintain a low silhouette, pausing for no more than three seconds, then moving swiftly again — only 70 feet to the hedge now. The light! Trained directly on him for what seemed ten seconds! They had him!
No! The blinding beam continued to move like the other beams. He could not, would not, wait for the next sweep, but rather would keep moving until he reached the hedge, bypassing the two trees remaining between him and the escape route.
Fifty... thirty... fifteen feet... The hedge! He slammed into the many-trunked vegetation with his back and shoulders, doing his best to keep the attaché case from jostling, feeling at the same time the sharp stings of the limbs, which scratched and jabbed his face and neck. His injured calf made contact with the hedge trunkage and he started to scream away the pain, but stopped himself. He continued to crawl on his elbows and knees until he was sure his entire body was hidden, then lay silent for more than a minute, waiting for men and dogs, for a hail of machine gun fire. But they would not fire on him except as a last resort. That might destroy the contents of the case.
But, whether that influenced their thinking depended on what forces were involved. The operative who gave him the attaché case said only the three of them, the agent, the President and Jacob, knew about the explosive apparatus.
The operative could have lied, could have been setting him up. But why lie? Setting him up for what?
That was not likely, or else the men who picked him up at Andrews would ha
ve killed him for the materials. Instead they tried to get away from the people who chased them just before the disappearance. The agents he was with would have joined forces with the pursuers. Besides, the Treasury agents who picked him up had to present elaborate credentials before being allowed into Andrews' VIP Base Operations section, while the would-be killers were content to wait somewhere outside Andrews.
And now, if the security people at Stone Oaks knew his whereabouts, they would hesitate to shoot only if they were afraid their bullets might riddle the contents of the case, but not because they were aware of the explosive charge which would devastate everything.
Something — the instinct again — told him it was time to remove the case from his wrist. He threw off the tendency to debate the whys of the urgings; so far his hunches had been right.
Now to remember the procedure, while there was faint light to work by before going into the tunnel. He took the key the agent had given him, inserted it into the slot of the cuff on his left wrist and turned.
"Three minutes to detonation," he whispered, placing the leather case on the dirt beside the manhole. "Unless they're snapped back together." He closed the cuff until he heard the click, then hesitatingly opened the case, exposing a blue box, like the one the agent demonstrated in the pumping station.
"Pull the latch up... and no more Jacob Zen," he whispered, placing the fingers of both hands on either side of the metal box. "Push inward on the clasp three times... and the thing is disarmed..." He pushed in on the chrome latch slowly three times, "...and the lid is opened."
He smiled nervously, relieved the task was accomplished, and pleased at the fact that possibly he, alone, knew the exact combination that had allowed it to be done.
Two leather pouches, one 1-inch box, and one 2-inch-thick box, measuring perhaps seven-inches-square, lay before him in the occasional light, which continued to sweep the hedges and grounds. No time to examine the materials; he must find a place for them.
When the explosive blue box was shut it would be rearmed. He closed it and carefully placed it back in the attaché, then opened the cuffs with the key and snapped them shut again around his left wrist. The leather pouches fit nicely into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The two boxes were more cumbersome, impossible to stuff into the jacket's side pockets. He pulled the back of his shirt out of his pants, placed the boxes against his back, one on top of the other, then tucked the shirt back in the trousers and let the suit coat drape over them. Uncomfortable, but, with the coat left unbuttoned, it was workable.
Jacob hurried through the tunnel, stopping several times to listen for activity ahead. Nothing. Not even scurrying rats. He reached the three-rung ladder attached to the concrete wall just below the manhole. As quietly as possible, he stepped upward to have a look around the high-grassed field. Satisfied with his reconnaissance, he struggled through the opening and crawled for the first ten feet on hands and knees. He had made it!
The car was where he had hidden it. No sign anyone had discovered it, so he moved to beneath the heavy foliage and fished the keys from his pants pocket before quietly opening the door and sitting behind the wheel.
The interior light was out! It had not been out when he opened the door, before leaving the car earlier. Coincidence, too great!
"Put your hands on the wheel, Mr. Zen... Please." The facetiously polite voice from the rear seat was detached in tone. The cold, blunt muzzle of the automatic pistol against the mastoid bone behind his right ear gave the request its authority.
Chapter 11
So this is how it would end — his brain splashed against the windshield of a stolen car while sitting on grounds, where as a child, the only dangers he faced were rusty nails and broken glass. At least he had come home to die.
Still, instinct for survival was with him — like when it urged him to remove the materials from the attaché case before he entered the tunnel when escaping the grounds of Stone Oaks. Now, instinct forced him to remember the critical instructions of the operative who gave him the case:
"Cuffs unlocked— three minutes to detonation; Closed again — resets timer for three minutes; Box opened safely by pushing inward three times — is armed; Push upward on latch — Explosion!"
"Now, Mr. Zen, may I have the case? Slowly and carefully..."
"I'll have to get the key."
"Very carefully, please."
Jacob took the key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuff from his wrist. Whether to snap the cuff shut and deactivate the explosive, or leave it open and wait for certain death in 2 minutes and 50 seconds... "Now give it to me, please."
He snapped the cuff closed and handed the man the case. If the man opened it now... opened the blue box, they were both dead!
"Knight Seven to King's Guard Three. I have him," the man said.
"King's Guard Three. Affirmative! Confirm contents and wait there," the voice on the other end of the walkie talkie transmission ordered. "Ten-four."
The man with the gun would open the case, then the blue metal box. Either die by the gun while trying to get out the door, or die by the explosive! The man was fumbling with the case; he would be at the blue box within seconds! Time to do it, or the chance would be gone!
Jacob wrapped his left hand around the door handle — Jerk upward and hit the door hard with the shoulder — Roll to the ground, out of the man's line of sight--There was just the chance it would work! He tightened his grip on the handle.
"King's Guard Three to Knight Seven..."
The walkie-talkie!
"Give us visual signal of your location, Knight Seven."
"Roger, King's Guard Three. Complying now." The man opened the right rear door and ordered, "Get out slowly, and put your hands on the top of the car."
The man eased out of the car on the side opposite Jacob and stood with the pistol butt resting on the roof. The barrel pointing at the captive when he had done as ordered. The man signaled for several seconds with a flashlight, then put the light aside and moved cautiously to the trunk lid, on top of which he put the attaché case.
Jacob could see the man manipulating the case with both hands, while holding the pistol on him, alternately looking down at the latches, then in his direction. This was it! If he was to get away in one piece, he had to play it perfectly. Wait until exactly the right moment when the man reached for the blue metal box!
Inside the case now, reaching for the flashlight, examining the case's interior. Putting the light on the trunk lid, reaching inside the case for the metal box. Now! Do it now!
Jacob dove toward the car's front bumper at the same instant the blast hit him in a concussion of light and superheated wind. He contacted the heavily grassed earth with his right shoulder, then rolled end over end, somehow ending upright on one knee. Up and running, then diving in another shoulder-roll when a second blast hit him, propelling him forward with greater violence. He came to lying on his right side, facing an inferno. Flames licking upward; hot air; suffocating, barely tolerable! He was dead...in hell!
Jacob's vision focused along with his other senses; the inferno was in the shape of the burning car. He sat up, checking himself, then the materials in his suit coat pockets and the boxes stuffed in his shirt. The hard containers had cut and bruised his back, but he was able to move with minimal pain. Nothing was broken.
The signal to the walkie-talkie! He had to get out of the area now! Light thrown off by the fire would make him easy to see if he got to his feet and ran; the best tactic was to crawl, belly-down, into the heavier brush. The fire was spreading and soon that refuge would itself be ablaze.
"Clary!"
Someone shouting, feet running toward the exploded, burning car. "Clary!"
He could barely hear the shout above the roaring crackle... and the other voice.
"Come away, Mario. Nobody could live through that."
Jacob fought to control his shaking while sitting beside the man in the khaki work clothes. The convulsions began the moment he
knew he was safely out of reach of the half-dozen men who had examined the flaming sedan. Their conversations indicated they believed that both men and the materials they were desperate to have were destroyed in the explosion, which, one of the examiners concluded, was likely initiated by the booby-trapped attaché case. The second blast - from the car's fuel tank igniting.
Jacob's crawl through the adjacent thicket, just ahead of the spreading fire, and his subsequent hitching a ride, was accomplished with little feeling — merely automatic response to what had to be done. But now, his hands shook and his body quivered. His state was not lost on the van's driver.
"You all right there, Mister?" The man reached to touch Jacob's left shoulder.
"Yeah... Fine."
"Hey! You don't think you're the only one shook up. I've been haulin' people to their houses all night. Never seen nothin' like it... Never!"
The fat driver spoke in a half-chuckle, alternately glancing at Jacob and at the highway ahead. It was a nervous laugh, probably masking the man's own worry. "Or taking 'em to the hospital or someplace else."
"What? I'm sorry..." Jacob looked puzzled at the driver.
"I said, seems like everybody's needing a lift somewhere. What you think it is, anyhow? Most of the folks I've talked to think it's them Russians. Some kinda experiment they did, or something they thought would work when they tried to take over there in the Middle East. Probably backfired on 'em and wiped 'em out. Then, whatever it was, almost wiped out the rest of us. You know, some kinda secret weapon or something. Disintegrated all them people. But why not everything? Why just some people?"