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5 Years After

Page 14

by Richard Correll


  “What noise does a train make?” she asked him.

  “Chooooo- choooo!” He screamed happily at the top of his lungs.

  “That’s right,” She smiled. “Now, you must go pick our next story. I will be right there.”

  “Merci, mister Tom,” Francois thanked him before disappearing. “This is a fun adventure.”

  “He’s wonderful.” Tom nodded to the boy. “Where is the Prime Minister?”

  “He is talking to some of the crew,” Henriette whispered. “I know he is a great numbers man. But, he is getting better at talking to people.”

  “Yes, ma’am, he is,” Tom agreed.

  “Tom, do we have to hide like this?” She asked, her green eyes were probing for the truth. “Is it really this bad?”

  “We just don’t know who to trust, right now,” Tom said honestly. “This tugboat makes this journey all the time so it’s not going to look out of place.”

  “For now, the fewer people who know the better,” he concluded.

  “That’s probably wise,” she agreed and then smiled at him. “Thank you, Tom.”

  “It’s my pleasure, ma’am.”

  “I want to thank the crew individually before I leave.” She was giving orders now. “They have been so wonderful.”

  “Yes ma’am,” The francophone crew were men who had families. The little singing child had been an instant hit among them. He took them back to their own families and memories.

  “I have to go,” she whispered. Before closing the door, she added, “Thank you again.”

  Tom looked down at the floor and then nodded to the RCMP officers before he popped into the bathroom to throw water on his face. He now had time to think about what he would say when he told her that her cousin, Emile, was dead. He had been the co-pilot of the Prime Minister’s plane for the past two years. Henriette had always liked to be surrounded by family.

  You killed him, he heard his thoughts say.

  I didn’t know it was going to happen, he protested in his mind, yet he realized that was as close to telling a lie as he could get without actually telling a lie. You knew something was going to happen, just not this. He patted his face dry with one of those cheap brownish paper towels that are always in bathrooms.

  You’re just another guy with blood on his hands. He stared hard in the mirror. There are plenty of those in government. He left the bathroom, sick at his own thoughts. Tom slowly walked up the stairs for some fresh air.

  There were few lights burning these days. A few bravely fought back at the darkness in Gatineau across the river. There was a much smaller population there and a contingent of Van Doos. It had been touch and go for the first few years but the Van Doos and locals had managed to maintain control. Across the river, they had watched Ottawa slowly shrink away, fading into blackness. The Alexandra, Champlain and Macdonald-Cartier bridges had all been blown up to protect their community. Tonight, the remaining bridges would probably be gone. A hundred and fifty years of civic pride and engineering would disappear in the blink of an eye. Maybe one day to be rebuilt, maybe.

  The stars provided an expansive canopy as he walked slowly to the front of the boat. The Prime Minister passed by him with a nod and a hand on his shoulder. Good job. His hands found the railing at the front of the tug as he regarded the timelessness of the stars.

  They had burned in the skies since the dinosaurs walked the earth, as empires had risen and collapsed. They were unmoving, un-phased by the passing of time or perhaps even the passing of man.

  “Operation Starburst?” A voice he knew asked. It was Davidson. “I heard about the plane.”

  “Dunkirk,” he corrected.

  “Fair enough,” He nodded. “This is one hell of an end-run.”

  “The fewer people who know, the better,” Tom repeated himself. “The train that’s picking us up doesn’t even know.”

  “You know this won’t stop them,” Clay said honestly.

  “No,” Tom agreed. “But another failure might give them cold feet. They must know we’re on to them now.”

  “Okay.” Clay nodded, taking in the nautical smell of the fresh air, ‘now what?”

  “When we’re two hours on the train,” Tom looked up and saw Jupiter dancing through the midnight sky. “We tell the conductor where we’re going. By then, the Prime Minister’s staff and the rest will be in the air heading for London. They’ll be told to turn around and head to our new location.”

  “Kingston.” Clay finished his sentence.

  “That’s right, Kingston.”

  “So, why am I here?” Clay was genuinely curious. He wanted to supervise the troop’s evacuation. Maybe even have shadow man left behind.

  “Sorry, Clay,” Tom apologized as he watched the big Dipper rise in the southern sky. “You have great staff officers. They can handle Dunkirk. I need you. The Prime Minister needs you.”

  “For what?” Clay was watching him carefully.

  “You’re a highly respected officer who will oversee the military police in Kingston being promoted into the RCMP.” Tom knew what he was doing and thought it the safest alternative.

  “You’re bribing a whole military police unit with a bigger salary and more benefits.” Clay raised an eyebrow. “That’s one hell of a way to get loyalty.”

  Tom nodded absently to the stars. Deep inside it concerned him how easily he had come to the conclusion of bribery. Is this what working in Ottawa did to you? Doing anything you have to do under the guise of necessity, let the history books justify it later?

  “You’re probably right about Star….Dunkirk.” Clay changed the subject. “One major change is the number of smoke shells, grenades and mortar shells we found.”

  “Really?” Tom pulled away from the stars to listen.

  “Yeah, we came up with a crap load,” Davidson explained. “Ever seen smoke shells?”

  “No, can’t say I have.” Tom turned his head to listen. Glad to be thinking about anything else other than his fading honesty.

  “We fire off these shells in front of the hostiles and it’s like they just walked into the thickest fog ever,” he explained. “Our troops cease fire, book it back to the Parliament buildings.”

  “Okay.” Tom beckoned him to continue.

  “While they’re in the fog, they lose sight of our troops. When they come out we’re not in sight.” Clay explained.

  “No stimuli,” Tom added. He thought of Maggie Hunter. She’s on to something.

  “Yeah, that’s’ the word I was looking for.” Clay nodded.” At about that time, we start firing off all the Canada Day fireworks we’ve been stockpiling.”

  “At the very least,” Tom nodded his approval. “No boots in harm’s way. It will confuse the hell out of them.”

  “We’ll be firing off most of them from RCMP headquarters and the train station. Then those guys board a train and clear out.”

  “That’s good,” Tom observed.

  “The location of the fireworks might bring them back away from the Parliament buildings,” Clay said. “Give our guys an extra couple of hours to get on the ferries and barges we’ve rounded up.”

  “Harris is right,” Tom looked down at the black, calm water. “Dunkirk is a perfect name.”

  “I hate to piss on your parade, Tom,” Clay solemnly spoke after a minute. “This is still a retreat.”

  “We’re not winning very many battles, are we?” Tom looked out at the Industrial Park coming into view. The train was already waiting.

  “No sir, we’re not.”

  Tom took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He tried to see through the darkness on the Ottawa side of the river for one last look at Rideau Hall, the Governor-General’s mansion. Rockcliffe Park had to be back there somewhere as well. No, all of those places were gone, in the past. All were now a fading memory of a fading time.

  Yes, he thought. It was good to travel at night.

  CHRYSALIS

  It started in a synapse. What began the process was u
nknown. But, it had begun. Minutes later, the eyes blinked once, the pupils dilated to the early morning sunshine and the process continued. The head turned slowly this way and that. The nostrils flared to catch any telltale scents of humanity in the air, none. The feet tried to move. At first, they failed to function. Trapped in a snow drift up to its knees, they continued to struggle.

  The final dabs of makeup were smoothed on to Molly’s face. A small shade of blush was applied to highlight her glowing black skin. A ruby red lipstick was expertly applied by the make-up artist as an assistant stood by. A paper bib was draped over her shoulders to protect the outfit she had chosen for tonight’s interview.

  60 minutes, 5 Years’ After: A Perspective had grown out of several long programming meetings with the networks on how to mark this grisly anniversary. Had it really been that long? Molly’s face was a mask with a far off stare as she pondered the last few years. It was a blur punctuated by moments of fear and intensity. She remembered reporting live on the Cleveland containment line. She was walking with a group of National Guard officers inspecting the clearing of the I90 just south of Progressive Field. As she passed an abandoned vehicle a pair of cold hands suddenly snaked out of the passenger window and gripped her by the wrist. She had screamed in surprise and turned to come face to face with puss yellow eyes and a blackened mouth that was hungrily trying to pull her closer. Bullets spattered the face seconds later and Molly was free. She was barely stained by the blood that had peppered the interior of the car. But, the slight droplets of red that had found their way on to her clothes shook her soul. She kept staring at the wrinkled part of her jacket that the thing had gripped. She took a deep breath and hoped she would feel better soon. But every memory makes a mark on your soul. This one had already embedded itself. It was a knife wound that would never heal. Something to think about whenever she could not sleep or thought she heard something in the other room late at night.

  Tonight’s episode of Perspectives was a reunion with an old friend in those first desperate days. She had interviewed him a dozen times and watched him become something larger than life. A voice that made sense in the months of panic that followed. He had spoken up while others had remained silent. Molly knew that Dr. Singh’s colleagues did not stay silent because of a conspiracy. It was the nature of this particular beast. The truth had been so beyond reality that it was discarded out of hand. Molly pondered that passing thought for a minute. What was it about Singh that had been so quick to accept what was before him while others refused and hid in the darkness?

  “The newly dead are returning to life and are attempting to kill and devour the living.“ His voice was calm, the brown eyes analytical. “As horrific as this may sound, it is the truth.”

  Perhaps it was his East Indian background, his religion or merely his calm soul. He simply had processed the information he had received differently. In short, he was a life saver. She had labored over his introduction speech. Molly had wanted it to be a tribute but at the same time understood that too much fanfare may offend his simple Hindu beliefs. It was a fine line. Molly was confident of the words she had downloaded to the teleprompter late last night. It would get the job done.

  Her hands rested on the pencil skirt she was wearing and its thin material. It was perfect for an hour under the hot studio lights. Molly had insisted in her contract that she would have control over her wardrobe. The power suit was her ultimate weapon. Slacks and a matching jacket with six inch heels gave her the confidence to assume what she liked to call the power walk. That predator-like long stride she would perform when greeting her subject. Lord, it was intimidating. She almost broke into a malicious grin. She had made world leaders and four star Generals cringe at the approaching sound of those bad assed heals.

  Molly had her favorite designers. She loved the empowerment of wearing Donna Karan, Versace and Vera Wang. Michael Kors had a style for more intimate and friendly interviews. But, this would be different. It was not an interview. It would be more like a wake. Tonight, we would be talking about an event that had touched everyone.

  “We all know someone who died from this,” she remembered a meeting with her writers and make-up artists. Yes, they all understood. “We have to be respectful at every single level.”

  She chose Carolina Herrera. In particular it was a conservative, grey georgette blouse with a speckled pattern. It betrayed her fashion sense while maintaining the gravity of the evening. Her original choice for a black pencil skirt had turned out to be wool. It was quickly replaced with a lighter material after a phone call to one of Herrera’s staff. Molly’s favorite double breasted jacket style was for tonight replaced with a less dominating cable knit affair.

  “We must make this an evening where everyone’s memories feel respected.” She had said in a memo to CBS news. No small detail was missed. She chose conservative four inch Blahnik heels over her usual, the outrageously stylish Zannotti, Aquazzura and Rossi.

  Molly had spent the weekend in her condo pouring over material that she had ordered from archives. This was hard science. The tough part was making it understood by a television audience that might only be half listening. Molly hated it when consultants rolled their eyes at her detail driven reporting. If the devil is in the details, Molly would respond. That’s where we need to go.

  To accomplish this she made contact with Professor’s at Georgetown hospital and university. The meeting began with a dozen selfies from eager students and researchers. It was part of the business of this business, she would remind herself. After that, it was a crash course in medicine and theory. She made notes furiously while recording the entire event in case something was missed.

  There were many in news gathering that had assistants perform this task. But, Molly wanted to be there getting her hands dirty. Besides, it became an amazing tool for expanding her list of contacts beyond the usual network “experts.”

  By the second hour she could feel herself beginning to grasp the ways and means of what had completely ended their world and started another. The landscape lay before her after another cup of coffee. It was then that she began to probe here and there. She started to test questions on students and doctors alike. It was a slow process. Like a sculptor beginning to create artwork. She would rephrase and then analyze what she had. Satisfied that she had the skeletal beginnings of what she needed Molly posed for more selfies and thanked those who had taken time to be with her. She then tapped a few on the shoulder and asked if they could be available tomorrow. A long, hot bath in her Jacuzzi tub and a couple of glasses of Chardonnay loosened her mind up for the next level of preparation. She slipped into her new favorite lingerie brand Agent Provocateur and settled into her bed and spread the notes over the sheets. The pages were slowly edited down. The information became more concise. It was here that the questions that needed to be asked presented themselves. There was one in particular that made Molly catch her breath.

  “Boom,” she whispered when she wrote the question down and made a note to call one of her new contacts to confirm her conclusions. Molly was dead sure her findings pointed toward this one question. But, she had to sure. Her reputation, as always, depended on getting it right.

  Her phone call the next day produced a stunned silence and then agreement. Yes, they had begun to start thinking in that direction as well.

  “Boom!” She said it loud enough in the office to make heads turn as she hung up the phone. Doctor Singh, you and I are about to drop a bomb. A slow smile crept across Molly’s face as a thrill raced through her that was tempered with a slight shudder of shock.

  After an hour the snow and ice gave way and it started to move. It was slow, at first. Then, with limbs that had not moved in years it jerked its way forward. Although the limbs were slow and weak, its direction was a straight line. A destination was very clear.

  Plodding through the forest in knee-deep snow was slow going. But like a salmon swimming upstream or a lemming to its destination, these challenges did not register. It fel
t no pain. It endured no exhaustion or stimulation from its task. There was just the task: to move, to move in one direction, that direction.

  “He was the first to give us information we could use to survive.” She spoke to the live audience after being introduced. A university was the perfect place for such a forum. “I think we all know the debt of gratitude we owe to this man, this friend of mine.”

  “Please welcome, Dr. Sandup Singh.”

  He was fiftyish with grey, balding hair and a round, smiling face. His bashful smile became wider as he stepped onstage to greet the thunderous applause. He hobbled onstage carefully. His left leg had always been slightly shorter than his right. No matter how long it took for him to arrive at his chair the applause continued. Genuine, honest thanks powered hands that kept coming together as the noise reverberated around the theater.

  “My dear,” he hugged Molly onstage and she guided him to his seat. Singh then turned to the audience as he sat down. “I...I thank you very much.”

  “A welcome you truly deserve.” Molly’s voice said sincerely as a shorter burst of applause replied from the audience.

  “Well, as you can see.” He motioned to his shorter leg. “I could not be much use in the fighting.” He then looked out at the audience with a tinge of serene determination. “I just wanted to help those who were fighting.”

  Thunderous applause replied and Molly suppressed a smile. This was going to be good. She crossed her legs and observed. “I remember the fear and the panic, the lack of any information except people saying over and over that we stay in our homes.”

  “Yes,” his hands rested on his cane solemnly as he nodded slowly.

  “I remember seeing you were being ushered out of congress after addressing them,” Molly leaned forward for effect.” I remember saying to myself, this man won’t let me down. He’ll tell what we need to know.” Yes, it was dramatic. But it produced another electric moment of applause. Hopefully, it was enough energy to carry them through the hard science.

 

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