by Jon Land
Blaine was about to relay his conclusions to Johnny when the gunfire erupted from above. It slammed off the shaft walls, ricocheting madly, and Blaine had to cover his ears.
“We’ve got to stop them, Indian!” McCracken shouted as he hugged the wall for cover.
Wareagle was directly across from him. “Your gun, Blainey!”
“Splats aren’t much good at this range!”
“No, shoot at the—”
The rest of Johnny’s words were drowned out by a fresh barrage of bullets, but McCracken had already realized the intent of his words. He aimed his pistol directly in front of him, at the elevator cable attached to the car they were standing on. The Splat thumped out and shredded it with a burst that took out a portion of the wall across the shaft. Instantly the counterweight fell and the cable shot up the shaft in a steel-weighted blur that would sever any flesh it came into contact with.
“Give me a boost, Indian,” McCracken asked Johnny, listening for a scream to pour down the shaft from the nineteenth floor. Even though none came, at least the disciples had been prevented from following the same route down.
He was on Wareagle’s shoulders a blink later, working the doors with all his strength. He ended up splitting them six inches apart, which was enough to force his shoulders through, and leveraged them the rest of the way. He pushed himself out of the shaft and onto the lobby floor, then grabbed hold of Johnny’s arms to hoist him up. It took all his strength, but he managed it just ahead of another battery of automatic fire aimed down the shaft from the nineteenth floor.
Together they moved out of the alcove housing the elevator bank and eased in among the crowds still pouring out through the lobby from the building’s highest floors. They used the hubbub to change their clips of exploding bullets for normal ones. If the disciples confronted them down here, the Splats would unquestionably kill innocent people. The bullets chambered now were Glazer safety slugs, composed of dozens of small pellets suspended in liquid Teflon and finished in a blue tip. Guaranteed one-shot stop for a normal man. With the disciples, who could tell?
Johnny and Blaine continued through the lobby. They made no effort to disguise themselves, staying wary as they moved.
“You think we finished any upstairs, Indian?”
“Doubtful, Blainey—and several would have started down the stairs as soon as our plunge down the elevator shaft became known.”
On the street fronting the building’s entrance in Oyster Park, police and fire and rescue officials continued to arrive in droves. The first team was already moving through the lobby en route to the floors that had set off the alarm. They moved quickly, but were not panicked. The safety of the building did not seem at stake, plus the sensor board was still reading problems only in those select areas.
“The Wakinyan will fire indiscriminately into the crowd once they have spotted us,” Johnny said when they stepped outside. “Innocent lives mean nothing to them.” Just then McCracken spotted two ladder and engine trucks that had pulled into a fire lane directly against the curb. “And since we have to make sure they see us…You’ll know the disciples when you see them, right, Indian?”
“I’ll know them when I feel them, Blainey.”
“Once they reach the lobby, I mean.”
Wareagle nodded.
Blaine gestured toward the nearer of the two trucks. “I assume you can drive one of those things?…”
Johnny smiled.
“They’ve reached the lobby, Blainey,” Wareagle told him less than thirty seconds later as they lingered on the other side of the nearer truck.
“Then we’d better let them know we’re here.”
The truck’s powerful engine was humming. Only a few of the arriving firemen were anywhere near it. One was sitting behind the wheel, but before he knew what was happening, Johnny had tossed him out. McCracken started to work the control panel on the near side. He pulled a pair of levers labeled DECK GUN and TANK TO PUMP and then located the red throttle control and drew it out as well. At the same time, Johnny, who was now in the cab, switched the truck’s engine to power the five-hundred-gallon main pump.
“Ready, Indian?” Blaine asked as he climbed on the truck.
Wareagle flashed him the thumbs-up sign, and McCracken positioned himself behind the deck gun. He adjusted the nozzle for a narrow stream, then rotated the control wheel for the angle he wanted. At first McCracken couldn’t distinguish the disciples moving among the crowd; then he noticed a number of figures that seemed to cause the throng to buckle as they surged forward. Blaine spun one last knob, and the water exploded from the deck gun in a narrow stream that was directed toward the crowd. The people who were trying to leave the building from the lobby entrance were shoved harshly backward. Those already outside were blistered by the powerful jets and thrust in all directions.
McCracken first made sure the deck gun was aimed straight for the main entrance, then he retraced his steps from it to the control panel. “Get ready, Indian!” he shouted into the cab on his way.
At the panel, he shoved the throttle inward. Instantly the deck gun’s flow slowed to a trickle and then stopped altogether.
“Go!” Blaine screamed, and Johnny shoved the engine into drive without disengaging the power takeoff. The gears screeched in protest, but the truck lurched away from the curb.
McCracken was working his way through the cab’s rear window; over the jump seat, when the truck bashed into a pair of police cars that had been parked in their path. Several police officers had their guns out, but none fired, frozen in what must have been a moment of total confusion.
Wareagle crashed through three more parked squad cars and a rescue wagon as he picked up speed down the street, where a path was clearing for him right down the middle. Wareagle kept the ear-wrenching siren going and used the loud horn regularly to continue clearing the street ahead. The top speed of the fire truck wasn’t much over fifty, which meant they’d have to rely almost purely on the head start for escape.
“The police, Blainey,” Johnny said, looking in the rearview mirror as they continued down Thimble Shoals.
“Yeah,” McCracken said, starting to ease himself back over the jump seat.
He gazed over the truck bed in search of a plan, then one made itself available in the form of a hose—over a thousand feet long—that was twisted into neat layers before him. He crawled over it to the back of the truck, grabbed its end, which featured a heavily weighted coupling made to be fitted into fire hydrants, and dropped it out of the truck. The hose began to unravel instantly, flying from the truck bed like spilled milk. It hit the street wildly, an uncoiling snake snapping for a victim. Cars swerved to avoid the hose, or lost control when they climbed over it, catching the pursuing police cars in the snarl.
Once again McCracken joined Wareagle in the cab, almost banging his head on the air tank bolted to the seat between them.
“A brief stretch on Route 17, then we pick up 64, Indian. Straight ride from there.” Johnny checked the large sideview mirror. “Nothing, Blainey.”
“They’ll be coming, Indian. They’ll be coming.”
“Where are the vans?” Abraham had screamed as soon as he and the others were at last able to make their way through the lobby—just in time to see the fire engine screech away.
He had joined the other disciples, some of them drenched far more than he, on the curb, where they were all gathering now. Everything was so chaotic no one noticed them or, a few minutes later, the dark vans that screeched around the corner and pulled into the spot vacated by McCracken’s stolen truck several minutes before. Abraham and the eleven other disciples piled into the vans, taking off in the same direction as McCracken and the Indian.
The men the disciples had been before Omicron would have felt at least some apprehension over the sudden turn of events in the building. But the members of the legion felt something akin to excitement. There seemed little doubt that McCracken and the Indian could match their skills and abilities. Ever
ything else up until now had been too easy. McCracken and the Indian made for a challenge. They looked forward to the final confrontation that was now coming, their only fear being that their foes would escape before it could happen.
Then, as the vans weaved through the clutter of cars bottle-necked by the freed water hose, which was now being cleared from the street, Abraham gazed up and saw signs for Route 17 and Route 64 dead ahead. “That’s the way they went,” he said, and the two vans headed that way.
“I’ve got them, Blainey,” Wareagle reported, spotting them in the sideview mirror.
They had been traveling on Route 64 West for eight minutes now.
McCracken leaned his head out the window to see for himself. “How fast are we going?”
“Fifty.”
“Not fast enough.”
Johnny kept the siren going and leaned on the horn to clear a path for them down the freeway, but the vans were simply able to go faster than the fire engine.
“Guess we’d better slow them up a little, Indian,” Blaine said, and once again he was slithering his way through the cab window.
The truck bed was almost empty now, the water hose having taken up an enormous amount of room, and Blaine’s eyes almost immediately locked on a half-dozen white plastic drums.
“Foam,” he said to himself, with a smile.
Well, not foam so much as a heavy, thick white ooze used in fighting oil and gas fires. Very, very slippery. In other words, perfect…
McCracken had to lean clear across the bed to reach the drums, and the Wakinyan chose that moment to open fire from their vans, now closing in from a hundred and fifty yards back at most. He ducked lower and grasped the first of the heavy drums as bullets bounced off steel, ricocheting around him. He sent the drum rolling down the vacant truck bed and heard a splat! as it shattered on impact with the road. The second was already in motion, with the third and fourth fast behind. By then he could see the foam spreading in wide splotchy waves across the highway, the first van’s tires just reaching it.
From there Blaine could barely believe his eyes. As he slid the final two drums off to further widen the pool, the lead van spun wildly out of control. It was slammed into by a tractor trailer whose driver had made the unfortunate mistake of applying his brakes, sending his vehicle jackknifing across the road. The lead van bounced off the truck and careened from left to right, narrowly missing the trailing one, which had ended up doing a full-circle turn to avoid it.
Behind the vans, a massive pileup resulted as dozens and dozens of cars crashed into one another as soon as their tires met the white ooze covering the highway like a blanket now. By the time Blaine had rejoined Johnny in the cab once again, the Wakinyan were gone from sight in the chaos taking place behind the engine truck. They would regroup, yes, but not before McCracken and Wareagle took full advantage of the final cushion.
“Here we are, Indian,” McCracken said ten minutes later.
Wareagle’s eyes were on the mirror. “I can see them behind us, Blainey. A half mile back, but coming.”
“Right on schedule,” Blaine said as the road sign he had been waiting for appeared on the right of route 64:
EXIT 56
COLONIAL WILLIAMSBURG HISTORIC AREA
Chapter 32
“EVERYTHING’S SET,” SAL BELAMO reported as Wareagle and then McCracken jumped down from the fire engine. They had stopped at the intersection of Jamestown and Richmond roads. Even at the edge of the expertly reconstructed eighteenth-century town, their truck seemed utterly out of place.
“Bout time you get some historical culture, Sal,” Blaine commented, gazing down Williamsburg’s main artery, Duke of Gloucester Street.
“Guess we didn’t need Maxie to draw your Frankensteins here, and ain’t they in for a surprise now.” Belamo gazed around him. “You know, I kinda miss the people in their outfits.”
“I’m sure they don’t mind getting the day off.”
“Yeah, well, the evac order didn’t give them much choice. It looked so real, I almost believed the story myself.”
Johnny Wareagle’s shoulders tensed. “They’re coming, Blainey.”
“Then I guess we’d better get ready.”
The single van squeezed to a halt next to the fire engine. The disciples of the Omicron legion showed no expression whatsoever as they emerged. They had packed into this van following the loss of the second one back on Route 64. Their number was complete, but several were injured. Of the injuries, a pair of separated shoulders appeared the worst, along with one disciple’s limp, and several nasty lacerations. They were not immune to pain, but they were quite adept at controlling it, and even making it work for them. They definitely wanted to do that now.
The disciples stopped to check the weapons they had brought with them from the van. There were mostly machine guns, high caliber and otherwise. Three of these were M203s, M16s with grenade launchers attached to their undersides. There were two shotguns, as well, and grenades were affixed to the belts of three of the legion. Three more carried pistols and if everything fell short, they would use their hands.
Abraham hefted one of the M203s and advanced ahead of the others.
“It’s a trap,” he said, as much to himself as the others.
“What is this place?” one of them asked.
“Reproduction of a colonial town,” Abraham answered. “Complete with authentic props and workmen.”
“There’s no one here,” another member of the legion said.
“Because that’s the way McCracken wanted it. He drew us here. It was his plan all along.”
“Do we go in?” a third asked matter-of-factly.
Abraham flipped off his weapon’s safety and nodded.
There were twelve of them in all; they split into three pairs and two groups of three. They fanned out toward grids of Williamsburg assigned by Abraham. Their mission was search and destroy. If McCracken wanted to make his stand in a confined environment with plenty of areas for concealment and cover, then so be it. It was not their turf yet, but it would be soon.
The scene seemed placid, even to them. Late fall was in the air; the trees lining the Williamsburg streets shifted in their near nakedness, the remaining leaves brown and dry. The main streets were formed of hard-packed gravel. The unpaved walkways lined the streets in landscaped symmetry in front of the rows of colonial buildings. The numerous benches were unsat on. A few horseless carriages stood abandoned down Duke of Gloucester Street. The brick and brown wood of the buildings drank in the sun and gave some of it back. The air smelled of chestnuts and crackling leaves.
Abraham started warily down Duke of Gloucester Street, flanked by John and the wounded Judas. He felt certain McCracken had made a strategic error in choosing this site to make his final stand. No matter how large it was, Williamsburg was still contained. Sooner or later, this would allow the disciples to flush McCracken and the Indian out. It was only a matter of time.
As he came up even with the red brick courthouse on the left-hand side of the street, Abraham reached into his pocket and came out with a motion detector that was a smaller version of the one the Green Berets had brought with them to the jungle. He switched it on and watched the sweep the arrow made through a grid directly before him. He could approximate the positions of the other disciples and thus identify any signals that might come as a result of their motion.
The red line swept the screen, disappeared into the machine’s side, and then swept again.
Abraham knew McCracken’s strategy would be to take them out slowly. It was the best ploy to use and was one he had always excelled in. If he and the Indian were lurking about, preparing their first lunge, the motion detector would betray their strategy and position.
Abraham turned to the right and eyed a section of Williamsburg’s Market Square, which contained a clutter of buildings surrounded by rolling green lawns and well-tended gardens. The motion detector caught a splotch in the lower left of the screen. Abraham quickly superimpose
d the grid over the area before them and felt his eyes lock on the magazine, an octagonal building used in colonial times to store arms and gunpowder. A high brick wall had been erected around the building to protect the townspeople against a possible explosion. Something was moving inside that wall.
Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought….
“This way,” Abraham said.
The disciples on either side of him, actually, did not need to be told a thing. Perhaps they had seen the indication on the motion detector. Perhaps the slight change in Abraham’s footsteps and the tightening of the rifle in his hands was enough. Either way they had already leveled their weapons when Abraham spoke, and now they cut across the grassy square with him toward the magazine.
The next sweep the arrow made through the grid showed no movement at all in the vicinity. McCracken, or the Indian, was still again, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Abraham was onto him.
Thirty yards from the magazine, he signaled John and Judas to spread out. He figured surprise was on his side, but didn’t want to take any chances. Up ahead, he could see the gate leading through the magazine wall was open. It was not like McCracken or the Indian to commit such an error.
Abraham directed the wounded Judas to move through first from the right flank. John was holding to the left, while Abraham himself was behind a tree, his rifle ready to fire, twenty yards in front of the magazine. Once Judas was through, he would follow, with John bringing up the rear. Abraham watched Judas slide along the brick toward the open gate.
The detector began registering motion inside the fence again, coming straight for the gate, straight for Judas. Abraham signaled Judas to hold his position and steadied his own rifle behind the tree. The blotch on the detector’s small screen continued to move in the gate’s direction.
Abraham gave Judas the signal at the perfect time. Judas spun around the corner and opened fire, a clip emptied in the time it took Abraham to finally realize something was very wrong about all this. He had begun to ease out from his own position of cover when Judas’s body was blown outward through the gate from the force of a fusillade of bullets. Abraham tried to focus, but the sun caught something metallic and blinded him for the instant it would have taken him to aim.