Cold Glory

by B. Kent Anderson

  McMartin’s face was red. Veins throbbed on his forehead. His white hair whipped in the wind. “The Glory Warriors must have the signatures!”

  “Sir,” Hudson said, “I do not think—”

  “We must have them! As soon as the president is dead, we’ll show them to the people. We’re ready to move into control of the media, to show the people … they are all we need to put the treaty into law, to assure our position. I will make the speech to the people—”

  “No,” Journey said, his voice lower than a few moments earlier.

  The other three looked at him.

  “Mr. McMartin, you are a traitor. Nothing more. You’ve cloaked yourself in this mantle of legality, telling yourself and your followers that if only you had all the parts of the document, your coup would be viewed as legitimate.”

  “Don’t try to bait me, Professor,” McMartin said. “All the pages together constitute a legal document, with the power of a treaty. General Order Number One Hundred, the Lieber Code, even lays out the ’hostile country’ standard. The Glory Warriors clearly meet the standard. We must act.”

  “You don’t understand history,” Journey said. His eyes shifted for a moment. Tolman had gained another six inches. Journey lowered his voice. “Grant and Lee never intended for the Glory Warriors to truly be in power in America. The whole idea, as Williams put it forth, was a temporary solution. It was only to get through the very difficult times Grant and Lee thought would come after the war. You read Grant’s pages—they were worried about political extremists. And who knows? If John Wilkes Booth’s conspiracy had been successful at decapitating the government, instead of beginning and ending with Lincoln, the Glory Warriors may have come into power for a while right then, just days after Appomattox. But the fact is, they didn’t, and weren’t meant to.”

  “You’re contradicting what you’ve just read,” McMartin said. “Grant was—”

  “Yes, Grant and Lee bought what Samuel Williams was selling, at least for a while. I think Williams truly cared about what the country was about to go through. No one knew how Reconstruction would play out. No one could possibly fathom what was going to happen. So Williams’s intentions were good, but ultimately, Williams was unstable and Grant knew it. Williams was a man with a lot of money and time on his hands. Brilliant, yes, but there was no way the Glory Warriors were going to be a long-term government.”

  “You’re speculating.”

  “Am I?” Journey reached into his pocket and pulled out the fax from J. T. Webster.

  McMartin’s eyes narrowed.

  “Here,” Journey said, and extended his arm across the wall. “Read it for yourself.”

  “What is this?” McMartin said.

  “In Grant’s memoir, the missing pages that were taken from Charles Webster’s family sometime after Mark Twain died, the part that has to do with the Glory Warriors stops at the bottom of that page, where Grant writes that he hopes he will be forgiven and he’s facing his end ‘with much trepidation.’”

  “I’ve read them many times, thank you.”

  “Sounds like an ending, doesn’t it? A man unburdening his soul.” Journey shook the paper in the breeze. “But maybe not. This page was somehow separated from the rest of them, and it stayed with Webster’s family all this time. It makes no sense at all, unless you already know about the Glory Warriors and the treaty and all of it. Then you can see what Grant and Lee really intended.”

  McMartin reached for the pages.

  With my own life fading, I take the smallest degree of comfort that when agreeing to the provisions detailed in the pages preceding, we asserted there should be a finite period of time in which the Glory Warriors might act.

  Our most pressing concern was to be the state of the government in the years directly following the cessation of military hostilities. The Glory Warriors, as explained, could exist as temporary stewards of the government until a certain time had elapsed. After some discussion, we agreed to the period of six years from the date of the surrender at Appomattox. Our common feeling was that this would be sufficient time for the government to have weathered the storms that might well befall it.

  Of course, there were plentiful difficulties, but never to approach the degree we had feared. The time passed, the Union was indeed reunited, and the Glory Warriors were no more. They were birthed of necessity, of the need to prepare for all possibilities, and it is a happy circumstance that the bleakest of these occurrences never came to pass. The Glory Warriors were allowed to fade into oblivion.

  McMartin shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

  “You’ve been telling yourselves for all these years that you had a legal, legitimate right to suspend the Constitution, and you even decided at some point to hurry things along, to bring about the situations Williams and Grant and Lee feared. But Grant knew—he knew—that the country was stronger than that. He knew it wouldn’t need such a force for a long period, that they had only to get through the dark days immediately following the war.”

  “It’s a forgery,” McMartin said.

  “It’s not a forgery,” Journey said. “You’ve read Grant’s pages. The handwriting is the same. It is exactly the same. Ulysses Grant wrote that, and it proves that the Glory Warriors weren’t supposed to exist after 1871. Six years … six years, that’s all! You know what happened in six years? Robert E. Lee was dead and Ulysses S. Grant was president of the United States. There was no need for you then, and there’s no need for you now.”

  McMartin let the nose of the pistol drop. His knees bent. “You won’t stop us. Too many have sacrificed too much. We have … I have—”

  Journey said nothing. Tolman took another step. McMartin’s hand—the one holding the fax page—went to his chest, crumpling the page. “You—” he said, and his voice was a paperlike rustle. His eyes lost focus again. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Journey thought he formed the words Don’t fail.

  * * *

  Silver had watched as Journey handed the Judge the paper, and the Judge read it. He saw the Judge’s face change, saw him wobble as if his legs were unsteady. He saw him crumple the paper.

  Silver stood, took two steps forward in the direction of the cemeteries, then stopped and planted his legs. He sighted the H&K. At this range, he would not miss.

  “Journey!” he shouted.

  * * *

  McMartin jumped at the sound of Silver’s voice, his back arching as if he’d been poked with something sharp. But it wasn’t the voice of the young Glory Warrior—it was his father.

  Come on, son.

  Father? But I failed. The Glory Warriors—

  Are no more. But I’m here now. Time to go, son.

  McMartin’s legs were unsteady and a pain was creeping up his left arm. He felt light-headed.

  Son? Jackson McMartin thought. He swiveled his head toward the voice, then he turned and toppled across the rock wall.

  * * *

  As soon as Tolman saw the motion out of her right eye—the dirt rising around the cenotaph between the two trees, the man she recognized from the SCCO surveillance video as Sergeant Kevin Lane—she lunged forward, grabbing the wooden handle of the shovel. She planted her left foot on the wall, then pushed off with her right foot. As she lunged forward, she brought the shovel around and smashed the metal head of it into Hudson’s kneecap.

  Hudson expelled air in a grunt, and she thought she heard him say, “Meg.” Her momentum propelled her forward and she landed on her butt in the pile of earth, then found herself rolling, falling into the grave, and coming to rest on top of the bones of Samuel Williams.

  * * *

  Silver watched the heads turn, but didn’t see the look of both surprise and pain that crossed the Judge’s face. He was focused on Nick Journey, how the man had thwarted the Glory Warriors twice before, and how Michael Standridge’s body had looked as the car smashed into it with Journey at the wheel.

  Silver squeezed the trigger just as the Judge fell in front of Journey
, filling Silver’s vision.

  * * *

  McMartin was already falling, hand clutched to his chest, his face gray, when his neck exploded in a spray of blood and bone, covering Journey. McMartin made no sound as his lifeless body tumbled at Journey’s feet. For an insane moment, Journey wasn’t sure where he was—in the parking lot at SCCO with Pete Parsons falling toward him, or in a Fort Washita burial ground with Jackson McMartin, American media giant and leader of the Glory Warriors, coming to rest in front of him.

  “No!” yelled the man with the gun.

  * * *

  The gun roared again, and Journey dived over the rock wall, outside the burial ground. His already-injured foot caught on the wall and sent needles of pain up and down his body.

  Another shot exploded into the rock wall.

  * * *

  Tolman didn’t know how she got out of the hole.

  All she knew was that she felt the bones snapping like dry leaves under her, and that she smelled damp earth and rotten wood. She angled her body around, breaking more of Samuel Williams’s ribs, still holding the shovel.

  “Meg, now you’ve gone too far,” Hudson said, and she thought she heard his voice catch. He wobbled over her, and she remembered all the times they’d posed for the RIO departmental photo, arms around each other, everyone laughing at them—six feet seven standing next to five feet one.

  He stepped toward her and she brought up her arms, swinging the shovel. The point struck Hudson’s foot, the one opposite the knee she’d already wounded. She hit him again, ramming the point of the shovel down into his foot.

  His hands reached for her neck. Tolman clawed her way backwards out of the hole, dropped the shovel to pull herself out, then grabbed it again, just out of Hudson’s reach.

  “You miserable son of a bitch,” Tolman said, and swung the shovel again, as hard as she could.

  Being short is sometimes an advantage, she thought as the shovel slammed into Hudson’s groin. The big man grunted, and Rusty Hudson fell to his knees.

  * * *

  Dallas One Gold had positioned himself on the second-story veranda of the South Barracks building. A single room at the top of the steps was open to the public, and Gold had found high ceilings, a couple of wooden tables and benches, and a stone fireplace scorched black. Incongruous with the fireplace’s appearance was a sign held in place by masking tape: NO FIRES IN THIS FIREPLACE.

  Gold patrolled all sides of the veranda and could see most of the property, from Highway 199 to the south, to the ruins of the West Barracks a short distance west of his position. He hadn’t been able to see Silver, though, once they were in position and waiting. The cemetery area was at the far north end of the fort, on the other side of the visitors’ center.

  When he heard shots fired, Gold scrambled down the wooden steps, cradling his rifle, and began to jog across the old parade ground toward the road. Calculating the direction of the gunfire, he ran between the visitors’ center and the Cooper cabin, passing the portable toilet that stood between the two structures. As he emerged from the cover of the visitors’ center, he heard a door slam and a man in uniform stepped around the corner of the building, holding a riot shotgun. At this range, it was a devastating weapon.

  The building, he thought. We didn’t recon the interior of the visitors’ center.

  “Don’t move, asshole,” Scott Parsons said. “Drop it or I’ll do to you what you people did to my little brother. Just give me an excuse.”

  Shit, Gold thought, and carefully placed his weapon on the ground in front of him.

  “Yes, sir, that’s right,” Parsons said. “On the ground.”

  Gold lay down and Parsons cuffed him, then jiggled the switch of the police radio that hung on his shirt. “Ricky, I got the one from the barracks.”

  “The boys and I got the one at the entrance,” his brother called back.

  Parsons put the heel of his boot in Gold’s back. “Welcome to Fort Washita,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  63

  In Silver Spring, the commander of the Miller Exploration facility stared at his computer. The feed was live. Washington One’s direction to go should already have come down. Something was wrong.

  Across the office, his second in command said, “What the hell’s going on?”

  “What?” said the commander.

  “Harwell left the podium.” He was watching the TV feed. “Alive and in one piece.”

  “Oh my God.” He pressed the button on his computer mic. “Sir, are you there?”

  The commander looked out the back window toward the chopper pad. The men were loaded. The rotors were turning. The force was ready. They only needed the order from Washington One.

  “Sir?” he said again into the microphone. “This is Silver Spring calling Washington One. Are you there, sir?”

  “Do we stand down?” the second asked. “What do we do? Someone screwed up.” He crashed a fist onto the desk, rattling the TV. “What do we fucking do now?”

  “I don’t know,” the commander said, and turned back to the microphone. “Washington One, are you there?”

  * * *

  Washington One sat in his secure command center at the outer edge of the Glory Warriors’ Arlington complex and watched Harwell speak, finish to polite applause, and leave the stage. In a moment, the president was back in his limousine and leaving Valley Place.

  “What happened?” he whispered; then it became a shout. “What happened?”

  From behind his closed office door, the voice of one of his assistants: “Are you all right, sir?”

  No, I’m not all right. Washington Three failed, Harwell is still at the head of the government, and I haven’t heard from the Judge. “I’m fine,” he called.

  The thoughts tumbled around him—he could still order the invasion. The troops were all ready.…

  But the president still lived. The entire operation was planned around the deaths of all three: Vandermeer, Darlington, Harwell. They were to sweep into Washington to assume control of a government whose leaders had been removed. In the chaos, they would bring order.

  The motorcade was calmly making its way down the block. The president was waving. There was no sign of Washington Three.

  Washington One picked up the phone. The Judge was somewhere, getting the signature pages—he hadn’t said where—and he never carried a cell phone. He tried Washington Two. Brent Graves picked up immediately.

  “What happened?” Washington One said.

  “No clue. Harwell wasn’t to leave the podium. After all this…” The man’s voice broke. “It’s all over. We won’t get another chance, and we’re about to be exposed. Three will talk; you know he will.”

  One nodded. “He’s always been the weakest link.”

  “He’ll talk. They probably have our names already, our addresses.”

  “Calm down. The Judge—”

  “Is nowhere! It’s over. All of this, all these years, and it’s over.”

  One heard a scrabbling sound on the phone. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not letting them come after me. I’m not letting them call me a terrorist or a traitor.”

  One heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking. “No! Don’t be a coward! Remember what we stand for. They can’t touch us.”

  “Maybe they can’t touch you, but I’m a nobody. Just a glorified security guard, right? After all this…”

  Washington Two’s voice trailed away. One heard the shot and the body falling.

  “Damn you,” he said as he put the phone down.

  One became slowly aware of the voices from all the staging centers and regional bases, clamoring out of his computer’s speakers. Do we stand down? What has happened? We’re ready to attack, sir. Sir? Where are you? He could hear engines and helicopter rotors in the background. Just one word …

  Did the Judge have the signatures? He’d said he was personally going to take them from Nick Journey, and then he would address the nation. />
  But now …

  He reached for the microphone, held it tightly for a moment, then set it down and turned off the speakers. The room fell into silence.

  He could run. He owned property in Belize. His wife’s family had a small villa in Italy. He had options. Or, he could take the route Brent Graves had taken. One shot and no pain, no embarrassment, no misunderstanding.

  No.

  I am an American, an officer, a Glory Warrior. I was doing what is right for my country. I will not run, and I will not die.

  “I will not run,” he said aloud.

  Then Navy Admiral Carter Smith, vice chair of the U.S. joint chiefs of staff, sat back to wait.

  CHAPTER

  64

  Tolman’s SIG was still in McMartin’s hand, but Journey couldn’t get to it. The wall lay between him and McMartin’s body, and the man with the gun was closing. He seemed to be ignoring Tolman and Hudson completely. Then Journey realized who he was—it was the second man from SCCO, the partner of the man he’d killed with the car.

  He crawled along the back of the wall, listening for the assassin’s footsteps. His own foot throbbed. He could never outrun the man, not in this condition—and probably, he mused, not even if his foot was completely healthy. No, he couldn’t outrun him—that was not a battle he could win.

  He lay still for a moment.

  “Journey!” the man shouted again.

  * * *

  He’s not going anywhere, not for a while, Tolman thought, looking at Hudson. He was on his side, hands shielding his groin. Blood was seeping out of his shoe. She maneuvered around the edge of the grave, watching the Judge’s body, her gun still in his fingers.

  She shambled around the edge, reached the body, ducked behind it. She reached for the gun.

  * * *

  It’s out of control, Silver thought. And then he thought: I’m not Dallas One Silver anymore. I can be plain old Kevin Lane from Pineville again. The Judge is dead, the Glory Warriors are compromised.

  All that was left was Kevin Lane, and the knowledge that his friend, his brother, Michael Standridge, had been killed. Lane had been trained to leave no man behind, and yet he had left Standridge behind on the SCCO campus. He had failed Michael.