The Beginning of the End (Book 2): Toward the Brink II (8 page)

“One moment, I … err…” he opened the door with some caution, “Holmes! What are you doing here and how did you …”

Hadlee was so shocked to see Richard Holmes standing in his doorway he stumbled backward a step.

“Never mind that, Shaun. Are you going to invite me in or do you want to risk being seen?”

Hadlee asked his visitor inside. He remembered that his unexpected visitor was always security-conscious. Hadlee’s mind was so occupied with how he had been found, he didn’t notice Holmes kept his hands in his pockets the entire time.

“How were you able to locate me, Richard?”

“Are we alone?” Holmes ignored the question.

“Yes, we are … but you already know that, don’t you? Let me fix you a drink.” Hadlee turned his back on his guest and went to the fridge.

Holmes was grateful for the thick carpet underneath as he shadowed Shaun Hadlee’s every step. He freed his hands from his pockets as he came up behind.

Elliot sat on a fallen tree and looked into the night sky toward Idaho.

“Hey, Elliot …”

“Oh shit!” He jumped up and automatically grabbed for the Redhawk on his hip.

“Easy. It’s me, Chuck!”

“Jesus, Chuck. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“I wasn’t. I think you were so deep in thought you didn’t hear me.”

“Well, yeah, you could be right.”

“Thinking of home?”

“Yeah, and all that’s happened, and how damn fast it’s happened, and Cindy, of course … I can’t help but think I’m responsible for getting her into this.”

“Cindy wouldn’t be alive now if it weren’t for you. Don’t you think anything different, either,” the Tall Man said.

“There’s just so many …” Elliot wiped a hand across his eyes.

“I know. One question leads to another.”

“Exactly. I started off thinking about the damn growth hormone,” Elliot concentrated on the moment, “and those french fries, and then the first time we saw those things…. That’s when you came up behind me.”

“Well, you’re right about the hormone being responsible. I was there, remember?” The Tall Man had, until now, avoided discussing this. As much as he trusted the group and felt a part of it, talking about his involvement with Baer wouldn’t be in his best interests.

“What did you do at Baer Industries, if you don’t mind me asking?” Elliot had wanted to ask since the Tall Man had joined up and had told them he worked there.

“Internal security for a man named Langlie. I met Baer himself on just a few occasions. He didn’t impress me at all.” The Tall Man rubbed the three-day-old stubble on his face.

“Did you have any idea about the growth hormone?”

The Tall Man gave the young man credit for having the respect and patience to wait until an appropriate time to ask. He deserved an answer, which the Tall Man was about to give when a glow on the horizon caught his attention.

“What the hell have we got here?”

Elliot didn’t know what the Tall Man meant, until he stood up.

“A fire?” Elliot asked when he saw the glow on the horizon.

“Yeah, a big one. Back toward Missoula.”

“Foamers, or …?”

“Don’t know, Elliot, but if it gets a foothold into these woods …”

“I’ll get everybody up.” Elliot didn’t need to have it spelled out.

The president stepped out through the east doors of the Oval Office and into the Rose Garden. He turned to the lone Secret Service agent, and after a moment, told him to proceed. The agent stepped back a few feet and nodded toward the corner of the building. Richard Holmes then appeared, escorted by another agent. When Holmes reached the president, the agents were dismissed.

“Mr. Holmes.” The president acknowledged him coldly.

“Come now, Mr. President, after all we’ve been through? Call me Richard.”

The president stared at the hand offered by Holmes for a few seconds before he accepted it.

“The deed is done, sir, you won’t hear of …”

The president held his palm out and shook his head. “No. I don’t want to know any of it.”

“As you wish, Mr. President.”

The thought of what he’d sanctioned disgusted him, but there was little choice. Hadlee’s plans had been scuttled and he’d been removed from his office, but as long as he remained alive, he was a danger.

“I know you have much work to do, Mr. President, and it’s way past my bedtime, so I’ll bid you goodnight.”

“Yes, goodnight, Mr. Holmes,” the president responded.

It had been a good night, Holmes thought, a
very
good night.

In Moscow, the Russian president was alarmed by the reports he’d received on the Idaho crisis. Russia didn’t have to rely on reports from the Internet for its information. The countries own satellites—all of them operational—had picked up high-resolution pictures of the pandemonium occurring in the northwestern United States. Russia was better informed than the United States on the matter.

Friend and confidant Yuri Anteleski had advised the Russian president to remain calm and not to consider any drastic action. It was a hard position to take for Yuri, as an insider. He not only knew the level of the man-made atrocity in Idaho, he was a party to it. He believed the blood of the suffering in Idaho was on his hands. He was right.

“It could be just part of one of their movie celebrations, Mr. President, you know how Americans are.”

Anteleski’s secure phone rang before the president answered.

“Excuse me, Mr. President, we may have the information we are seeking right here.”

“You cannot answer it in front of you own president, Yuri?”

“It is best I find out what it is before I tell you, is it not, comrade?”

The president agreed. Yuri knew the ways of the West better than he—their mannerisms, phrases, when they joked, and when they did not.

“Sorry for the delay, my dear Mr. Etheridge, but I was with the president,” Yuri said into the phone after he had stepped into the hallway.

“That’s fine, my dear Yuri. How is the old boy anyway?”

“He is a worried man. He has seen satellite pictures of Idaho. I must also add that I am not all that comfortable either, tovarish.”

An uneasy pause followed. Etheridge gave the appearance of a man always prepared, but sometimes even he had to take a few seconds.

“You knew of the risks then, and you know of the consequences now. It’s too late for remorse, my dear man.”

When Milton Etheridge uttered words to that effect, you knew a black mark would go against your name. Too many black marks in the Chamber, and…

“Ah, tovarish … I’m just talking of my position here,” Anteleski joked.

“But of course, Yuri.” Of course you are. “Allow me to bring you some good news. The president’s executive powers have been restored, and I had nothing to do with it. The good old American legal system came to the rescue once again,” Etheridge informed him with no hint of anger. “And the potential problem has also been eliminated … permanently. And—you’ll love this—it seems we may have a new colleague in the president himself. You see, it was he who gave the order for Hadlee’s execution!”

Yuri was far more excited by the news that the missile launch had been abandoned and the madman in charge had been disposed of. As for the leader of the free world collaborating with the Chamber, he couldn’t have cared less.

“Good news, Mr. President!” Yuri stormed back to tell the Russian president everything he knew … without revealing his connection to the Chamber.

“First light, Mr. President, we’ll begin at first light,” General Stodge informed everyone in the Situation Room.

Stodge, the new and humble version, was joined by members of the joint chiefs from the other branches. The secretaries of defense, state, and treasury were also present, as were the directors of the NSA, CIA, and FBI. The secretary for homeland security was again conspicuous by his absence.

This late-night meeting had been called to finalize Stodge’s plan of action. The plan was code named “Turn and Burn,” and the name alone gave the president a lift. “Why do these boneheads have to give everything a code name?” he’d said to Tom Transky when he’d heard of it.

After an aide to General Stodge explained the finer details, the general informed the president of when it would commence.

“And, err, sir, one of our few remaining satellites has picked up an image of a fire that’s broken out in Missoula. Quite a large one too, sir.” Stodge passed the folder up the table to the president. Without Hadlee to pull his chain, he sounded far less like a street-corner bully. The president didn’t need any more bullies in the White House.

“Gentlemen, there is a matter I’d like to address.” Tom stood up. “By some of the whispered comments I’ve heard, many of you seem preoccupied with the whereabouts of the secretary of homeland security. Most of us, if not all, were alarmed by his proposal to use nuclear weapons on our own soil. To coin an old phrase, ‘only a madman would do such a thing,’ and that’s what appears to have been the problem.”

Tom leaned forward for a pitcher of water and filled his glass. Not considered a fine orator by any stretch, he nonetheless had the timing of a B.B. King solo, and like the master of blues guitar, he knew when and where to pause for the best effect.

“It’s come to our attention that Mr. Hadlee, in fact, suffered from a brain tumor that affected his mental capacity.”

The president sat back and listened. He was impressed—so much so that he almost believed the story.

“And his current whereabouts, Tom?” asked Nigel Pikney, director of the FBI.

“Unknown. He was last seen leaving his house with a suitcase.”

“As distressing as this news is, it’s not even on the same page as the crisis in Idaho, which, gentlemen, now appears to have spread to Montana.” The president held up a satellite image for all to see. “Tell me, general , what significance does this fire present?”

“Sir, with the forests outside Missoula, Spokane to the north, Seattle and Portland to the west, and Reno and Salt Lake City to the south, we have a natural barrier. If we strike now, we may contain it within this geographical framework.”

“What caused this fire, General, do we know?”

Stodge looked uncomfortable with the question from the secretary of state. He knew the reaction the answer would elicit from the president and Transky.

“Sir, it would appear there are some small groups of resistance fighters out there …”

“Resistance fighters?! How long has this information been available to us?”

The president had been under the impression no action would be taken until the area had been cleared of civilians. That was the plan, after all.

The reaction was as the general feared. “Mr. President, it’s only an assumption. It could well be a natural fire that we need to augment with our napalm missiles, and, sir … if there are any survivors, their number would be fewer than a thousand.”

“What makes you so sure, General?” Transky challenged.

CIA Director Conner jumped into the mix and answered this one, much to Stodge’s relief.

“If there were more than the general’s estimation, they would have shown in the images we’ve received from the drones and satellites. Also, if there were more, one would have expected some sort of a message left on the ground by now. Or even smoke signals.”

Conner made sense, as did the general. If there were enough survivors, their presence would have become known by now. As bad as the taste was in one’s mouth, having concern for a thousand or so people was no longer the right thing to do.

“Mr. Etheridge, I’ve spoken with the president. He knows it’s done,” Holmes said into the satellite phone.

“Good. Have you broached the idea of his evacuation?”

“No, sir. He had an urgent defense meeting late last night, and I didn’t want to cloud his mind.”

“That was good thinking on your part, Holmes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Etheridge.”

“You must make it clear to him that no cure will be found, and that if you haven’t succumbed by now, then you have a natural immunity. Impress the need to protect his wife and children. That usually works.”

Etheridge paused to see if there would be any reaction from Holmes, but when there was none, he pressed on.

“The president can have a few of his aides with him if he wishes, but not Stodge. We don’t need a flag-waving saber-rattler in the shelters with us.”

Holmes realized Etheridge knew as much of these men as he did. Just who was the spymaster here?

“I will do that, sir.”

“And when he agrees, make arrangements for us to meet so I can spell out his place among us. He won’t like it, but he’ll be alive.”

Holmes agreed to inform his mentor the moment he received confirmation, then asked what he should do if the president refused.

“Fuck him … he can die with all the others.”

It was the first time he’d ever heard Etheridge swear. Holmes took special note that Etheridge was as cold and calculating as they came. The faces of other monsters—real monsters—flashed through his mind. Hitler, Stalin, Amin, Pol Pot … Was Etheridge worse than all of them? And, what did that make him?

An assortment of light, medium, and dark blues gathered on the eastern horizon. With a patch of bright yellow underneath, it weaved through the gray colors of the night. It would soon claim victory against its adversary, the night, and reign supreme, but less than eleven hours later the night would regroup to retake what it had lost. The long summer days were gone and the dark was on the offensive.

David and Roger were in the lead, driving the Hummer. David had insisted he do his part. He wasn’t just some middle-aged hippie growing organic food, and he had told the Tall Man as much while they had readied the vehicles to escape the fire and make the dash across the Canadian border.

David pumped the brakes three times, the cue to let the others behind know he was about to stop and get out. He had been told to hold up when they arrived about ten miles from the Canadian border. The Tall Man had issued the order without elaborating, and David didn’t question him.