Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism

by DeCosmo, Anthony

  Everything stopped.

  The car ended facing precisely the way it had come. The engine idled. The monster that followed slowed to a trot then held its position a dozen yards in front of its prey, blocking escape and pacing side to side., as if something had tugged on its leash.

  "Just as I thought," Knox said as he spied the approaching Suburban.

  "W-what?" Nina held a hand to the bump on her head.

  Gordon reached across her lap to the glove compartment. There he found a small sack holding a shiny metal sphere about the size of a baseball and sporting a red button.

  Knox told Nina, "Get out with your hands up, but leave your door open."

  "Huh?"

  "Just do it. You'll know when it's time to jump back in."

  Gordon exited with his hands held high, although one of those hands palmed the device he had taken from Omar Nehru before abandoning Pennsylvania.

  The Suburban stopped alongside the pacing Speed-Lion. A chubby policeman stepped from behind the wheel with a revolver pointed in their direction. The Witiko Skytroop with the slaver device descended and hovered a few feet above the pavement with his jet pack hissing and his legs bent as if auditioning for the part of Peter Pan in a stage play.

  Gordon waited for the other door to open. When he saw who got out, he nodded his head in a manner that suggested admiration for how well they had all been deceived.

  "Now looky here," Ray Roos said. "If it ain't Gordon Knox holed up in a corner."

  "Ray Roos," Knox volleyed. "I always figured Evan had a friend working at the estate. Jones couldn't do it by himself. Got to admit, never guessed it was you."

  "Oh, now, Mr. Knox, we all do what we have to do."

  "Like what Jones was doing at I.S. Central in D.C., the day Trevor was killed?"

  Roos smiled, "Now, c'mon Gordon, you don't think I'm going to stand here and read you the whole laundry list, do you? Things only work like that in James Bond movies."

  "Of course not," Gordon admitted. "But you've already given me what I needed to know for now. I'm sure it will all come clear in a few days."

  "Well, now, see that's the problem, Gordon. I let you sneak away up in PA 'cause I had to do things the boss' way. But now, well, I'm just going to have to get this over with. But which would you prefer: a couple of bullets or this thing over here to rip you up?"

  The pacing Speed-Lion's eyes focused not only on Gordon and Nina, but also on the men standing to its side. Gordon could nearly feel the rage the beast felt for those who had entrapped it; enslaved it. Nonetheless it would follow the command from the Witiko to kill. Unless, of course, that command failed to transmit.

  "Hey Ray, do you know how that slaver-device thing the Witiko has works?"

  Roos—unimpressed—shook his head, "No."

  Gordon smiled. "Omar figured it out."

  Gordon hit the button on the silver ball. An unheard, unseen blast of radio waves cut the control between the Witiko's wrist and the implant in the monster's skull. It reacted immediately to its freedom and grabbed the nearest meal—the chubby policeman--in its gaping jaws. Hobbs' revolver discharged harmlessly in the air.

  Knox and Nina reacted nearly as fast. He got behind the wheel and she grabbed her rifle from the car.

  The Witiko Skytroop swept a shocked Ray Roos up in his arms and ignited his jetpack to full power, rocketing them away from the ambush-gone-bad, dodging shots from Nina's assault rifle as they disappeared over the nearest building.

  "Get in!"

  She followed Gordon's orders, closed the passenger side door, and the BMW drove off, leaving the hungry Speed-Lion with its meal and Gordon and Nina with a better understanding of their enemies.

  18. The Dead Speak

  The President walked from the residence to the West Wing with a bounce in his step. His assistant—a woman with strawberry hair and a scar—offered a cup of coffee, that morning's D.C. Post, and a smile.

  "Good morning, Mr. President."

  Oh how sweet that sounds.

  She warned, "Your new Press Secretary, Jim Huffman, was cornered by reporters this morning and there's something you should see on page two; a lot of talk about the military maybe trying some kind of, well," she whispered, "trying to take over."

  Evan drew a serious face and responded, "Well, they'll have to get by you first."

  His smile returned. She blinked bashfully and sat behind her desk.

  Evan, of course, did not worry about the rumblings of a military takeover because he directed those rumblings with the skill of a concert pianist.

  The window behind his assistant offered a view of the rose garden's rich colors. The President enjoyed that view, sipped the piping-hot java, and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulations in regards to the political concerto he played in the papers.

  His assistant grabbed his attention once more as she read from a stack of notes. The music in Evan's head turned a sour note. "Lots of messages for you, Mr. President. First, Senator Trimble called yesterday while you were playing tennis and wanted to set up a meeting. She said she has not heard from you on the creation of a committee to begin drafting a new Constitution."

  "The Senator has to learn patience."

  "Also, General Brewer sent a fax from the estate. He has the report you wanted on future force deployments and recruitment, but he's confused about the level of detail you need."

  Evan generated more busy work for the neutered General: "Um, yes, tell him I need exacting detail. I want all the nuts and bolts. That should keep him busy for another week or so."

  "Yes, Mr. President. Also, Secretary Hutch called. He said something about you needing to give a contract to the Boston Laborers Guild."

  "What? I've already given them four contracts! I can't give all the work to his friends."

  "Of course not, Mr. President. Would you like me to call him?"

  He gulped a mouthful of coffee. It did not taste as good as it had on first sip.

  "No. But our Labor Secretary needs to think in bigger terms than paying off his buddies."

  "I imagine so, Mr. President. Also, Senator Whitman called. Oh yes, this had to do with Senator Trimble, too. He says that Senator Trimble is circulating a petition to demand a Constitutional convention in thirty days. Apparently she's planning a press conference—"

  Evan slammed the coffee cup on her desktop. A blob of the drink splashed out. The President's face turned nearly as red as the roses waving in the breeze outside the window.

  How dare she! I am the President!

  Evan regained control, changing from quick jab-like breaths to deep inhales followed by slow exhales. "I'm sorry," he straightened his tie. "I seem to have spilled my coffee. Would you be so kind as to clean that up?"

  She nodded, slowly.

  The phone buzzed once…twice…

  "Are you going to answer that, or shall I?"

  That broke the trance. She answered the phone.

  "W-white house. President Godfrey's office. Yes, he is here," she hit the hold button. "It's Director Roos for you, sir."

  Evan walked into the Oval office saying, "I'll take it in here."

  The President closed the door and entered his fiefdom. He kept the office perfectly clean, his desk clear, and the fixtures well-dusted. Evan believed in appearances and he refused to appear anything other than organized, confident, and in control. Nonetheless, before he answered the phone he walked to the window, closed his eyes, and held his hands out to either side.

  "Here I am. If you're going to kill me today, get it over with."

  He waited. A bird chirped.

  As with the day before, and the day before that, no assassin's bullet came.

  Evan dropped his arms, stood behind his desk, and pushed the speaker button on the phone. He listened to Roos while scanning the front page of the paper. The dateline read: Tuesday, July 1st. The headline exclaimed: MILITARY OPPOSES FORCE DRAWDOWN.

  "Go ahead, Ray. I'm alone in the office."

  "Is
that so? Good, but there is nothing new to report. I think our friends are no longer in Miami. Probably a good idea to have that Gannon fellow start the ball rolling on clean up."

  "I spoke to Brad last night. He sent a message. I understand that his associates our going to…" Evan searched for the right word. "…they are going to start erasing things very soon. I understand it to be a big deal for them, so it may take a few days."

  "Well, that's all right and fine," Roos answered, "but if our friends decide to take a trip south of the border before then, there just may be more flies in the ointment, if you follow."

  Evan grew impatient. His frustration over Roos' failure to kill Gordon Knox and Nina Forest in Miami last Friday boiled over.

  "If you squashed those flies when you had a chance then they wouldn't still be out there."

  "A man can't argue with the truth, no sir. I'm not trying to put a bee in your bonnet but I sure would feel better if Gannon's buddies would get the job over with. Seems to me they're dragging this out, maybe to put you over a barrel, if you see my meaning."

  Evan had thought of that. Until the assassination was complete a shadow loomed over his shoulder. The last time power seemed in his grasp he experienced a drastic reversal. This time he had moved fast, consolidating his grip; this time he had allies and control.

  Nonetheless, it remained possible that Gannon's associates intentionally desired to make Evan feel uncomfortable over the lack of closure. If things did not progress, he might have to enlist a team of Internal Security paramilitary to finish the job.

  Evan pushed away those thoughts with a grunt.

  "What's that, Mr. President?"

  "You just get your job done and let me worry about the rest."

  "I know that, yessir. But if things go down the tubes like three years ago, well it ain't just going to be your head on the chopping block, if you get my meaning."

  ---

  Gordon Knox lurked in a dark corner of the den, next to a futon and behind a potted plant. He stood there so casually Nina wondered how often he hid in rooms behind potted plants during his career.

  Nina attempted more drastic measures to remain unseen, but failed to find a suitable closet or trunk in which to hide. Worse, the rifle slung on her shoulder bumped into a bookcase with a thump. Thankfully that thump occurred before Dr. Maple and his two I.S. escorts entered the brick town home. She settled on crouching behind the burled walnut Spinet desk.

  The two intruders listened to a series of muffled beeps as the newcomers punched in the appropriate deactivation codes on the home's security system keypad, unaware that security had already been breached. A moment later, a black man in a sport jacket appeared in the open doorway to the den and surveyed his surroundings. His shadow blocked what little light sneaked in from the hall.

  "It's clear," the agent said unenthusiastically and waved his hand toward the front door.

  "Um, thank you," muttered Dr. Maple.

  The agent disappeared from the den doorway, joined his comrade at the front and told their charge, "We'll be outside if you need anything."

  "Yes, um, thank you," Nina and Gordon heard the former council member answer. A solid thud from the closing of the front door followed that reply.

  Maple rummaged about in the hallway before walking into the den. The fifty-something physician with a spot of thinning hair on his crown approached the small desk with his attention focused on papers in his hand.

  Nina stood and turned on the desk lamp. The sudden illumination did not startle the doctor, it confused him. He did not become startled until he saw the blond woman in soldier's garb. The papers in his hands dropped, as did his mouth. He turned fast to face a bald man with a bushy mustache in a black polo shirt.

  "Hello, Doctor Maple."

  The new administration's Director of Health and Human Services used an index finger to push his drooping eye glasses higher on his nose. It appeared as if he tried to cry out, but could not find any oxygen.

  "Now don't say a word, Doctor," Gordon warned. "I spent the last few days hopping trains, riding in pickup truck beds, and stealing cars. To tell the truth, D.C., puts me in a bad mood to begin with anyway. So let's not have any unpleasantness."

  Maple mumbled, "It's…it's true."

  "What's true?" Nina asked.

  "The President warned us. Some people think that you—um, Mr. Knox—faked your death to, well, um…"

  Knox's face twisted as he demanded, "To do what? Tell me, Doctor."

  "Uh, um, to, well, that you are a part of, well, a conspiracy by the military and, um…"

  Knox finished for the bumbling man, "A military and intelligence conspiracy to overthrow the civilian government, is that it?"

  Maple nodded fast. His glasses nearly slipped off.

  "Now isn't that ironic," Knox smiled. "Got to hand it to Evan. He knows that the best way to lie is to hide a lie in a sea of truth."

  "So what?" Nina said. "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "He's laying the groundwork. He's going to start seeing who in the government he can trust. Those he has any misgivings about will be investigated for being part of this phantom conspiracy. Very Stalin-like. Good for him."

  Maple tried desperately to find courage. "I'm warning you. There are two, um, Internal Security guards outside. Go away before they find you here."

  That courage faded when Gordon's eyes met the doctor's. The latter looked to the floor.

  Knox said, "Doctor Maple, you should be more worried about those guards than us. Why do you think they're out there? To protect you? Ha!" He leaned close and whispered, "When the time comes that Evan thinks he can get away with it, those two guards are going to drive you to the middle of nowhere and put a bullet in your head, Doctor."

  "Nonsense!"

  "They will concoct a story about how this 'conspiracy' is killing off members of the new administration. Or maybe they'll say you were a part of that conspiracy. I would not be surprised if Dante Jones meets the same fate, sooner or later. Don't worry, for every murder Evan will find someone to blame."

  "You are being, um, foolish. You're just trying to scare me."

  "Oh, Doctor, you should be scared. You see, you're the weak link in the master plan. Why I'll bet you're the one Evan has the most doubts about. In fact, you would be dead already if not for Evan's hatred for me. He wanted to kill me for spite, but you he needs dead to protect his tracks. Problem for him—and lucky for you—is that so many big names dropping like flies that fast would cause way too many questions; too many questions for even the President's friends to cover up. But give it time, Doctor. Give it time."

  Maple's head swiveled from Gordon to Nina and back again.

  "Plan? Master, um, plan? I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Look me in the eye, Doctor. Yes, that's good. Now tell me, did you have anything to do with Trevor's murder?"

  The doctor closed his eyes and answered, "Of course not. That is ridiculous."

  "Now Doctor, here is another interesting bit about lying. If you're going to tell a lie, don't close your eyes. It's a dead-set giveaway."

  "You…you're crazy. Trevor was killed by aliens."

  "That's right. He got blasted at close range by an energy weapon."

  "Yes, that is correct."

  "You did the autopsy yourself, right Doctor? I.S. got hold of you real quick so that maybe you could save him. They brought Trevor right to you. Was he alive when he got to you?"

  "No. I wanted to try and, um, save him but he was gone by the time he got to the hospital. There was, you know, nothing I could do." Maple cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.

  "Yes, what a shame," Gordon nodded. "Do you know where the Captain and I were last night? We spent some time at the hospital morgue. Yes, that's right, the place where you personally performed the autopsy. In fact, it took some doing and, well, a little poking around but we caught a glimpse of the autopsy files."

  Again, Maple alternated glances between
the two intruders. Nina kept her angry blue eyes focused on the little man. Gordon smiled in a vile manner.

  "You know, I find it interesting that the autopsy did not contain any tissue samples, no blood samples, nothing. No physical evidence from the body."

  "Well, um, that was not, um, necessary because the cause of death was obvious. A, um, direct hit in the chest from an energy—"

  Gordon spoke over the doctor's explanation as if his guilt had already been established.

  "Now I'm not saying that you killed Trevor personally, Doctor. I—"

  "Killed…him? Me?"

  "—I really want to give you the benefit of the doubt on this, but it's tough with all the coincidences. How you were in the right place at the exact time Trevor needed medical attention. How you declared the body off-limits until after it was prepared for the memorial service. How the only staff allowed in the operating room while you tried to 'save' Trevor were people with I.S. clearance, none of the hospital's regular staff."

  "There were security considerations that—"

  "But the real question that the Captain here has been asking is…why?"

  Doctor Maple stopped babbling but his face grew red and his hands shook.

  "Yes," Gordon went on. "That is a good question. You were with Trevor that first year. You helped Reverend Johnny put together a new health care system. Trevor appointed you to the council. You delivered his son and cared for Ashley during her pregnancy. You were their family doctor for years. Trevor trusted you, completely."

  "I…I had nothing to do with it."