4:40 P.M. MDT
V
ictor Wilding met with the Director and chief strategist of MORG's Accelerated Counter-Insurgency Defense operations, a man named Willis "Bronc" Skarbeck, in the Situations and Planning Center.
Bronc Skarbeck was a lean man with chili-pepper-red hair, dyed, and fuming blue eyes. While serving as commanding general of the Marine Corps he had been passed over for chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Not long after this crushing disappointment he suffered a psychotic break, paying lewd attention to a sixteen-year-old girl who was the granddaughter of a Supreme Court justice and a patient of his psychologist wife. The two of them set out in a twenty-nine-foot boat intending to sail around the world. They didn't make it out of Chesapeake Bay. Bronc lacked critical seafaring judgment with half a quart of rum under his belt, and after he cut too closely across the bow of a large yacht the Coast Guard put an end to his spree. That night General Willis Skarbeck led off the evening news.
But in spite of the busted career and wrecked marriage and court-ordered psychiatric hospital time Bronc subsequently served, Victor Wilding thought Skarbeck probably still had good mileage left and gave him a job offer. The job description was to plan a military-style takeover of the United States government that would not involve hostilities with the military establishment currently in place, then implement that plan.
Bronc said bullshit, couldn't be done without massive intervention by a major foreign axis like the recovering (from a bout of democracy) Russians and their newfound, slant-eyed buddies to the east.
He was urged to give it more thought. Starting with the premise that if the American People were scared enough of an outside threat to their security (an unnamed supergroup of terrorists supported by a dozen nations that, individually, could not defeat the U.S. in armed conflict), and there was someone they could turn to who seemed to have the power to keep their hopes and dreams alive, they would put up with a shredding of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights to obtain the security they desired. Most of them didn't care all that much for politics anyway. The AP just wanted things to go on working the way they were used to having them work. It was an imperative of human nature.
So Bronc came up with the idea of ACID, which was a kind of Big Daddy for local law enforcement agencies throughout the country. ACID provided money, training, and materiel that was gratefully received. ACID used a tidal wave of profits from MORG's global drug operations to create a unified force of agencies that ranged from state game and fish commissions to major-city police departments. Within forty-eight hours of the national emergency that Bronc postulated, his Accelerated Counter-Insurgency Defense command would be in charge, by Executive Order. Every base commander of every military installation in the U.S., many of whom were clandestine MORG supporters (either through bribery or blackmail), would be relieved or implemented by ACID personnel. The evacuation of official Washington would be conducted quietly. Bunkers had been prepared for the legislators in the Maryland and Virginia countryside, where they could count on a long stay while Clint Harvester ran the country from the western White House. But Rona soon added her contribution, even bolder ideas than Bronc Skarbeck dared to conceive.
The detonation of two or three nuclear devices on American soil was a regrettable part of the master plan. Even Rona had hesitated to use nukes. But only nuclear terror and the threat of more bombs had the power to unite the masses and escalate their approval of the Harvesters to near idolatry.
The American people would pray to Jesus. But only Rona could give them hope, give them back their lives.
On her terms.
T
he main feature of the Situations and Planning Center was a three-dimensional computer-constructed map of the United States, based on high-resolution satellite photographs, that took up an area the size of a football field on the main floor. A gallery like a running track in a gymnasium afforded a view of the layout. The gallery was honeycombed with virtual-reality booths in which technicians could monitor MORG operations in as many as twenty cities simultaneously by following agents equipped with sophisticated transponders, cameras, and sensors along the streets or through skyscrapers. Ride in elevators with them. Take an advance look at potentially dicey situations, as a mission unfolded and advise the team leader. All the super-computers needed were street numbers in order to create a complete virtual-reality environment, including customers sipping coffee at a sidewalk cafe and a basset hound peeing on a nearby hydrant.
Marcus Woolwine's contributions to virtual reality, Randy and Herb, had departed Plenty Coups at noon with lots of fishing gear in the back of their '97 Jimmy and a Hiroshima-yield nuclear device in what appeared to be a large tackle box. The box had been designed to shield neutron emissions. S and P Center was tracking Randy and Herb eastbound on Interstate 90 through the Wyoming grasslands. They would be stopping for dinner in Rapid City, South Dakota; then Herb would take over behind the wheel. They had a reservation at a Comfort Inn near Sioux Falls where they would sleep with the tackle box in the bathtub and MORG agents occupying the rooms on either side of them, fully alert through the night. A dedicated satellite fifty-five miles above the Comfort Inn also would be watching. The atomic demolitions device, like the one that had been detonated in Portland, was Russian made and had once been a part of a 132-bomb stockpile. At least eighty-four of them could no longer be accounted for by the Twelfth Department's high command. MORG owned six, and knew the whereabouts of twenty more.
Victor Wilding spent little time on this aspect of his briefing. The countdown for the bombing of another midsized American city was under way.
Wilding had made only one change, albeit a crucial change, in the last twenty-four hours, based on weather forecasts for the upper Midwest. It seemed that on the morning the bomb was to be detonated, a cold front out of Canada would be near the original target, which was Madison, Wisconsin, with prevailing winds that would carry what was left of the hot stuff (up to a lethal 800 REM) down to Chicago in a matter of hours. MORG's Homefolks department maintained a large base of operations near Chicago. Also Victor Wilding had had some good times there. He liked that toddlin' town, and didn't wish to contaminate it.
On the other hand, he'd never been to Nashville and hated country music as much as Rona enjoyed it. Nashville was in store for some nice late-spring weather at the zero hour; the anticipated fallout, according to MORG's meteorologists, would be confined to sparsely populated lower Appalachia.
So Randy and Herb were on their way to Nashville. A new site for the
chemodan
, the Russian name for their highly portable nukes, had been selected. Ease of access was guaranteed. Nashville was a done deal.
"Now let's talk about the assassination," Wilding said to Bronc Skarbeck.
PINATA HOT SPRINGS, CALIFORNIA ⢠JUNE 2 ⢠7:45 P.M. PDT
T
here was a trace of sunset remaining when Tom Sherard saw the Greyhound sign near the southern end of the main drag of Piñata Hot Springs. He pulled off the road onto the gravel parking lot around the adobe-style cafe that also served as a bus station. His bad leg was hurting fiercely. Too many hours on the road, driving more or less aimlessly, until he was satisfied that he hadn't been followed. Around noon, after leaving the funeral home in Holbrook, he had turned over the Ford Expedition to the rental agency at Fresno's airport and picked up another SUV.
As the name indicated, Piñata Hot Springs was a spa and resort town in a valley between dusty dry mountains about seventy miles northwest of L.A. The café, called Mintoro's, seemed to be a popular spot with locals, most of whom drove pickups. The kind of pickups loaded with options. There were no buses around.
Sherard found a place to leave the SUV and got out with his cane. The coming night held a promise of high-desert chill. Inside the cafe there was a small crowd waiting for tables, but he saw her as soon as he came in, sitting toward the back of a snug corner booth, head down, a hand to one cheek as she listlessly turned the pages of a fashion magazine. There was an uneaten sandwich on a plate in front of her, a cup of coffee.
She flinched when he eased into the seat opposite her, then smiled wanly. He saw with a slight shock of remembrance that her left eye was turning in, as Gillian's eye had done when she was overly tired and under severe strain. Eden wore a pale yellow shirt and khakis with cargo pockets, clothing that she had taken with her in her shoulder bag to the funeral home in Holbrook.
"Hello, Eden."
"Hi. Thought I was going to be stood up. In the middle of nowhere."
"Just watching my back, in case."
"You must have learned a lot about stalking, or being stalked, in your profession."
"Vanishing profession, I'm afraid. When did you arrive?"
"Seven, seven-fifteen. Bus was late." She stifled a yawn. "Sorry. I've had six cups of coffee since noon, and I still can't keep my eyes open. They must have done something to my dpg." Eden glanced around as she spoke, fearing eavesdroppers. "Doped her, even though she knew we wanted her to be cooperative."
"Yes, they probably would take that precaution." He smiled, but the smile didn't feel right to him. He shrugged uncomfortably, watching her. "I rather imagine it's as if one has a twin. An emotional kinship."
"Not the same. There really isn't a relationship. I don't think about her that much, any more than you think about your own shadow. We get along, although she has a lot of attitude. Suppose I do too. I've always known my dpg existed, and that if I needed her ... like today ..."
"How did you pull it off? I left, according to plan, but I spent the rest of the day worrying that something might have gone wrong."
"No big deal. I don't have to meditate. I don't fall into a trance. There has to be a problem I can't solve by myself. A crisis. I get a buzzing sensation, like there's a bee in my navel. Then she's
there
, but not for everyone to see. She has to put some clothes on first." Eden lowered her head, as if she found this embarrassing. "I went into Sandy Proffit's bathroomâblack marble and gold fixtures, by the wayâand she was waiting. She was a blonde too, that was a shock. I guess I was expecting my old face. I gave her my dress and put on the things I'd brought with me. We talked about what could happen, where she might be taken. Then the MORG guys showed up like we thought they would, you know the rest. I waited an hour and hiked to the bus station. I was careful. I doubt if anyone saw me leave the funeral home. I placed a call to Bertie, that pay phone we chose yesterday, to let her know I was okay."
"Do you know if your doppelganger is at Plenty Coups?"
Eden shook her head. "If I had the mental energy I could locate her, see what she sees when she's conscious. But I'm exhausted. I'm not sure how long I can keep going without a firm sense of reality."
She looked around the cafe again, slowly, with sad eyes. Sherard held her hand.
"We'll leave in a minute. How long have you been aware that there are two of you?"
"
Two
that I know of," Eden said with a slight shudder. "If there are any more of me, probably I'm schizoid. I don't have the power to guarantee my sanity." She smiled painfully. "When did I find out? It was one of the Dreamtime lessons the Good . . . that my
mother
taught me, when I was a child."
"Gillian," Sherard said, smiling tautly. Then, although he knew it was a bad time he had to ask, "Can you take me to her, Eden?"
"Bertie thinks so. But I have to ask Gillian.
Muth-er
. Don't know why it's so hard for me to say. Not used to thinking of her that way. Tom, won't it just keep the hurt going on forever? Gillian has let go. She'd want you to do the shame. Same. God, I'm tongue-tied. And so tired. Please Tom. No more for now. You said we could get out of here. Anywhere. I don't care where we bed down for the night." Her eyes closed momentarily, her head nodded sleepily. Then she looked up, alarmed. "But we can't . . . you can't . . . Peter Sandza . I don't want to do what Gillian did."
"I've had no such thoughts, Eden," he said stiffly.
"I'm not talking about sex. Of course not. I know you and Bertie... Tom, Gillian caused Peter to hemorrhage. He had a stroke because he spent that one night next to her, and she dreamed. She killed her best friend while dreaming. The girl was prone to nosebleeds. I was never allowed to have sleepovers when I was growing up. I had to insist on a single room when the basketball team traveled. My room at home couldn't be near Betts and Riley's room, because Betts knew about me. I never let myself fall asleep when I was with my boyfriend. I can make people bleed when I'm dreaming true dreams. Seeing the future. I noticed there were a lot of bloody noses graduation day, and it wasn't the plane crash that caused them; it was me seeing the crash before it happened."
"I know about the bleeding. Gillian and I always slept together. But by the time we were married that aspect of her power was much diminished."
"Thank God, then there's some hope for me."
"There's every hope for you, Eden."