Hunter looked around the place, still amazed that the event would draw so many people, or that it was happening at all. In front of him, at the southern end of the Dome, a stage had been erected. The most prominent feature on it was the dark wooden jurist’s bench behind which the panel of five judges would sit. Before them were two long wooden tables—one for the 12-man team of Government prosecutors, the other for the defendant and his seven attorneys.
Behind these tables was a small gallery of assistants, aide-decamps and general go-boys. Behind them was a succession of three raised platforms, each one crammed to the max with TV cameras, wires, lights, generators, editing machines, and large, dish-like microphones. A massive spaghetti-twirled bank of wires—easily five thousand of them—stretched back from the TV platforms, up the Dome’s center aisle and out the front door, where more than half of them were attached to the virtual forest of TV satellite dishes located outside next to the arena.
Back inside, over the judges’ bench was a huge TV screen, once so popular with the Syracuse fans, especially those way up in the cheap seats. Now, the people in the back would look to this screen to show them what was going on.
There were security personnel everywhere. An entire battalion of the famous Football City Special Forces was on hand—600 battle-tough veterans. They were responsible for security outside the Dome. To accomplish this they were armed with everything from M-1 tanks to Roland SAM systems. No fewer than 20 of their assault helicopters were airborne at any given moment, ready to spot and deal with any kind of external problem that might disrupt the trial.
Security inside the arena would be provided by 500 members of the famous US Marine 7th Cavalry, the unit formed by the late Captain John “Bull” Dozer, and a 250-man contingent of Republic of Texas Rangers.
High above and looking down on it all would be three separate flights of fighter planes—F-20s, A-7s, and a few F-5s—providing a CAP over the entire city.
It would be a jury trial.
The 36 individuals empaneled had been picked from all over the continent by a re-charged Social Security computer. They would consider all the evidence to be given, as would the judges. They would decide on whether the ex-VP was guilty or innocent of high treason. And if the verdict was guilty, they would also-decide his sentence.
Off to one side of the jury box was another small gallery. This was the witness seating, and this is where Hunter, Jones, Toomey, Wa and at least one hundred other people were sitting.
Beside this gallery, and right next to the judges’ bench, was the docket in which the witnesses, and eventually, the defendant himself, would offer testimony.
“We will now begin with the prosecution’s opening statement,” the Chief Justice boomed over the PA system.
Dr. Leylah, the pretty woman psychologist who had hypnotized Hunter and the others, took the stand, cleared her throat and began to speak:
“The primary concern of these proceedings is the war itself, the war which the prosecution hopes to prove was a direct result of treasonous acts committed by the defendant while he held the second-highest position in this country’s government.
“We have conducted more than two hundred interviews with veterans of the conflict. We have studied thousands of official documents as well as several personal journals. We inputted all of this data into a Gray S7-SG supercomputer and programmed it to produce a single document, one that encompasses all of the separate depositions into one, uniquely written document.
“The result we have called ‘The First Book of Testimony.’
“Copies of this Testimony will be distributed to the justices and the defense team today. Tomorrow, we hope to give copies to witnesses and to those citizens who are on hand to watch this trial.
“Once you receive your copy, you will immediately notice that as I said, this testimony has been written in a very unusual way. In short, it will read like a book, or more accurately, a novel. The text was written in this narrative style by a special software designed to take many points of information and collate them into a narrative. To this end, the computer incorporated not only actual events, but also the thoughts, the opinions, and even dialogue, actual and as recalled by some of the principals involved …”
The doctor paused for a sip of water as she let the first part of her statement sink in to the thousands gathered.
“With the court’s indulgence, I will briefly explain why we have chosen to present the testimony in this rather unusual way.
“We on the prosecution team believe that what we do here at this trial will have a long-lasting effect on our country and our people, beyond what justice is meted out to the defendant.
“We believe that this trial has given us the opportunity to produce the first History Book, if you will, of the Second American era. But we also chose to produce it in this narrative style because we like to think we are realists. The future is unknown. We have no way of knowing whether in ten years our civilization here in America will still be on the road to recovery or whether it will be thrown back to the level of the Stone Age.
“We felt it was our duty to consider all the possibilities and produce a document that, no matter what the conditions are in ten years, or twenty, or a hundred, people will be able to read it, study it, remember it and, most important, retell it, whether it be in the hallowed halls of studious research, or around a campfire.
“So, therefore, this testimony was written by the supercomputer as an oral history, because we know that throughout the entire scope of mankind’s history, the oral tradition has certainly endured the longest, as the works of Plato and many others would attest.”
Once again, the pretty doctor stopped and took a sip of water. Then, to his surprise, she turned and looked directly at Hunter, sitting in the witness gallery just a few feet away.
“One final note,” she said. “Every classic has its hero. And this document, as programmed by the Gray supercomputer, will be no different …”
Chapter 6
THE REST OF THE first day of the trial was taken up by a multitude of procedural motions—instructions to the jury, swearing in of witnesses and so on. The defense team’s opening statement went particularly slowly as it had to be translated from Finnish to English. As it was, the statement was a long, rambling affair, which, if Hunter had understood it correctly, claimed that not only was the ex-VP innocent, he had actually “sacrificed” himself for the good of the nation.
The trial was adjourned at sundown that day, those gathered feeling slightly cheated at the anti-climactic tone to it all.
But the second day would prove to be more exciting.
One hour before court was to begin the next day, Hunter was draining his third cup of coffee in the cafeteria of the United American Army’s temporary Syracuse headquarters when Mike Fitzgerald walked in.
Hunter had found sleep impossible the night before, due in most part to the trial, but also to his bizarre encounter with Elizabeth Sandlake exactly one week before. He just couldn’t stop thinking about it, and he knew his lined face and baggy eyelids probably telegraphed his condition.
But, if anything, Fitzie looked worse …
He fetched a cup of coffee and sat down beside Hunter, clutching a videotape as if it contained an explosive charge.
“What the hell happened to you?” Hunter asked, not quite believing that anyone could look worse than he did this morning.
“Terrible things, Hawker,” he answered, neatly slipping a pint bottle of scotch from his pocket. With magician’s precision he deposited a splash of the liquor into his coffee cup, did the same for Hunter’s, then returned the flask to its original hiding place—all in one smooth motion. “I’ve been up close to forty-eight straight hours now, and still I have a full week’s work ahead of me.”
Early in the planning for the trial, Fitz had been appointed as an Officer of the Court. Because he was not directly involved in the war’s hostilities (he was in the hospital at the time, recovering from an airplane crash
), the Irishman found himself on the court’s “discovery” team, the group of men who would interrogate the ex-VP and report directly to the trial’s justices. As such, Fitz had been working day and night and he looked it.
The stocky Irishman took a long swig of his coffee then put the videotape up on the table.
“This tape is part of the Vice President’s testimony,” Fitzgerald told him. “His deposition, you might say …”
Hunter picked up the tape cassette and turned it over in his hands. “I knew he was being questioned,” he said. “But I didn’t realize you were videotaping it.”
“Oh, yes,” Fitz answered, lighting a cigarillo. “By his attorneys’ request.”
“That figures,” Hunter said. Just because the world had quaked through a third world war, plus five years of aftershocks, didn’t mean that all the fancy lawyers had been suddenly swallowed up.
“And this is just six hours of about thirty that he gave,” Fitz said, taking the cassette back.
He shook his head and looked straight at Hunter.
“Hawk, you won’t believe what that bastard has told us,” he said gravely.
“I’ll believe anything at this point,” Hunter answered.
Before Hunter could ask him again, Fitzgerald blurted out, “It’s a terrible thing he’s done to us, he has.”
“Of course it’s terrible, Mike,” Hunter said. “I mean the guy’s picture could replace Benedict Arnold’s in the encyclopedia next to ‘worst traitor.’”
“You’re not getting the point,” Fitz said. “I’m talking about what he told us that we didn’t already know.”
“Well,” Hunter said simply, “just tell me …”
Fitz shook his head. “I cant,” he said. “I’m an officer of the court in all this, remember. You’re a witness. If I pass inside information on to you, it could screw up the whole trial.”
Hunter suddenly felt his teeth clench. He knew that due to the intentionally strict guidelines set up for the trial, all it would take was one slip-up and the ex-VP could go free. Right or wrong, that was the American way and that was what the trial was really about. Preserving the American way …
Yet Hunter could tell by Fitz’s demeanor that something big, something downright explosive was on that tape.
“I’m afraid to ask you even for a hint,” Hunter said in a hushed tone.
“Of this, you don’t want a hint,” Fitz said, finishing his coffee and getting up to go. If anything, he looked worse than when he walked in. “You’ll just have to wait until the bastard takes the stand. It will all be in the court documents they’ll pass out. You’ll see it right before you in black and white.”
Fitz took a deep breath, then added: “But I will tell you this: We, here in America, are in worse danger now than we’ve been since the Big War.”
And on that frighteningly cryptic note, Fitz walked quickly from the cafeteria.
Damn, Hunter thought. Does it ever end? They finally kick the Soviets and their agents out of the country, secure their southern border and water trade route, and snatched the ex-VP back to stand trial. Wasn’t that enough to please the gods?
Suddenly, a strange sensation went through him. For a moment, he felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t taken Elizabeth up on her amorous offer a week before.
Part II
The First Book Of Testimony
Chapter 7
IF ANYTHING, THE DOME was even more crowded than the day before.
Dr. Leylah took the stand once again, a huge document under her arm. At the same time, duplicate documents were being passed out in the witness gallery.
Of the 50,000 people on hand, no one was more surprised than Hunter when he began reading the first page …
Gray Interactive Testimony Project
Transcript 1-AF4, Sub-Document A
“Recollections of the Hostilities”
First Witness: Major Hawker Hunter
Additional Testimony: Major JT Toomey, Major Ben-hoi Wa, Captain Geoffrey Spaulding, Major D. Larochelle, Lieutenant B. Fitch, Captain J. O’Malley, Captain Elvis “Q,” Colonel B.
Davis, Colonel L. Gorshkov
Additional Information: The memoirs of General Seth Jones
The day the war began
“Captain Hawker Hunter, reporting for pilot training …”
The uniformed airman behind the desk executed a crisp salute and briefly scanned Hunter’s orders. “Everything seems to be in order, sir,” the enlisted man said. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The airman picked up a phone, punched in a series of numbers and quickly reached someone on the other end. “Sir, you asked me to notify you when Captain Hunter arrived,” he said. “Yes sir, he’s here already.”
Hunter was standing in a place called Building B, just barely containing his enthusiasm. Despite its lackluster name, the place looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Functional, yet otherwordly, with just a smattering of Christmas decorations. In actuality, the building housed what could only be described as the ultimate in pilot flight-training facilities.
So this is how it feels when your dream finally comes true, Hunter thought.
He had just arrived at the Cape Canaveral Launch Center, via a bumpy, crowded, day-before-Christmas commercial flight from Las Vegas. Although he was allowed a few hours, if not a night’s sleep, before reporting for duty, he was ready—now. Ready to begin training for America’s space program. Ready to learn how to fly the Space Shuttle …
Canaveral was everything he had imagined it to be. Launch towers. Control buildings. Miles of open area. Thousands of people. A high-tech city on the edge of the Florida coastal swamps, its atmosphere heavy with history.
An Air Force officer soon appeared and introduced himself as Colonel Neil Schweiker.
The introduction wasn’t necessary—Hunter knew Schweiker was one of the NASA’s best and highest-profile astronauts.
“Good to meet you, Captain,” Schweiker told him, firmly shaking his hand. “We’ve all heard a lot about you.”
Hunter was always a little uncomfortable at the extra attention he received when people realized who he was. But it was well known—courtesy of cover stories in both Time and Newsweek—that at 17, Hunter was the youngest graduate ever of MIT’s aerospace engineering program. And that he had completed work on his aeronautics doctorate degree three months afterward. And that he was the youngest pilot ever to join the USAF’s Thunderbirds Demonstration Team. And that he was the youngest pilot ever to be selected for Space Shuttle pilot training.
“You’re early,” Schweiker told him, checking his watch. “You can rest up awhile if you want.”
“No thanks, sir,” Hunter answered. “I’m anxious to get going. Also, I don’t want someone to have to give me the run-through tomorrow and spoil their Christmas.”
Schweiker nodded. “OK,” he said. “I can give you the quick look-see. Just enough to get you somewhat situated. The real work will start the day after tomorrow.”
After Hunter’s gear was stowed in the pilot trainees’ personal quarters, Schweiker scared up a jeep and gave him a quick tour of the immediate base.
The astronaut was a friendly, easygoing sort who insisted that the military formalities be dispensed with. As they rode along, they discussed the shuttle itself and the two-site training—from Florida to Houston—that Hunter would begin shortly. All the while, Schweiker pointed out the training classrooms, the rest facilities, the labs, the launch site, the mess hall and the officers’ club. Most impressive was the monstrosity called the VAB—for Vehicle Assembly Building. This was the place where they put the shuttles together. It was a building so tall that clouds actually formed just below its ceiling.
“Hell of a time to start training,” Schweiker said to him at one point. “With the holiday and all …”
Not that much of a problem, Hunter thought. He’d been spending his holidays on either college campuses and military bases for several years, ever since his pa
rents were lost in a plane crash.
“Lot of guys are stuck here,” Schweiker continued. “That’s why the mess hall puts on a really good holiday feed. And there’s always a big blow-out at the Officers’ Club if you’re interested.”
“That’s good to know,” Hunter told him. He knew there was no better way to get a perspective on a new base than to make that initial prowl through its authorized saloon.
They returned to Building B, their 90-minute tour complete. After making a few phone calls, Schweiker offered to drive Hunter back to his living quarters.
“No, thanks,” the young pilot told him, remembering one spot in the tour that he wanted to revisit. “I’ll hoof it back …”
He thanked Schweiker, left Building B and walked over to a marble and bronze monument they had passed earlier. It was a memorial to the astronauts killed in the Challenger disaster.
Feeling an undeniable attraction in the place, Hunter sat down on the stone bench across from the memorial and stayed there until the Florida sun had nearly set.
It was a long shadow that Hunter cast as he walked back toward the personnel quarters, his body still awash in the near-sanctity he had felt while sitting before the Challenger memorial for the past few hours.
If not for them, he had thought over and over, would I even be here?
Suddenly his body started tingling with a new sensation—this one more immediate and acute. From an early age Hunter knew he had been blessed—or was it cursed—with a gift akin to ESP. As the sensation was ultimately indescribable, he thought of it only as the feeling—a finely tuned, highly reliable intuition that made him what many said was “the best pilot ever.”
But this feeling did not just affect him in flight. In fact, it permeated his entire existence—awake or asleep, walking around, as well as flying.
And now, at this moment, it was telling him that something was wrong somewhere in the cosmos—desperately wrong.
Final Storm Page 5