Authors: Jon Land
Washington, DC
“You thank the good colonel for me?” McCracken asked Zarrin after laying everything out for her, including where to pick up the weaponry Sal Belamo had arranged for the force dispatched by Nabril al-Asi.
“I did. Several times. He said you’d be hearing from him. When the time is right.”
“And the need. Ironic, isn’t it? That five Palestinian special-ops soldiers might be the best chance we’ve got to stop the United States government from falling tonight.”
“Don’t forget a Palestinian assassin.”
“How are your hands, Zarrin?”
She’d already been gazing down at them when McCracken posed the question. They were fine. For now. “Steady as a rock.”
“As in Gibraltar?”
“Hopefully. So what’s our play?”
“Captain Seven’s still running some overlays and satellite recon, but the logistics don’t favor us. Secret Service owns the high ground everywhere, so that takes employing Sal and his sniper rifle—to change the odds in a big hurry—off the table.”
“You knew it wouldn’t be easy.”
“We’re going to be up against upwards of thirty well-armed, well-trained gunmen with a proven history for wanting to see the government fall.”
“Maybe your justice system should have dispensed a more appropriate punishment.”
“You mean like stoning them in the public square, Zarrin?”
“You tell me.”
“Right now, I’m all for it.”
“Better late than never.”
Sal Belamo was waiting in the suite he’d reserved at the Carlyle just a mile from the Bryant Street Pumping Station when McCracken and Wareagle arrived—promptly at six o’clock as planned.
“Hey, boss,” he said, wrapped in a hotel bathrobe. “I figured I might as well make myself comfortable. Already took a trip up to the roof. Secret Service has drones in the air, if you can believe that shit.”
“Predators?”
Belamo nodded. “Latest generation. So we can forget about using anything even approaching the high ground.”
“I already have. Question being what does that leave us with?”
Belamo stuffed both his hands in the pockets of his hotel bathrobe. “Well, gotta figure they’ll launch the attack after the president’s on the podium. That gives us three hours to figure out something. Jeez, boss, what about a call to DC Metro, something about suspicious activity at the reservoir. Dump the whole mess in their lap—and the Secret Service’s, too.”
“The Indian and I thought about that. Problem is we’d be risking the gang turning this into a suicide mission by dumping the barrels into the McMillan Reservoir itself or launching the attack ahead of schedule. Lots and lots of people would still die, Sal, almost all the country’s elected representatives just for starters. No, we can’t trust this to SWAT or somebody knocking on the door on the pretext of selling Girl Scout cookies. This is our game.”
His phone beeped.
“Zarrin and her team are on their way up,” he told Belamo and Wareagle.
Washington, DC
An eerie quiet and calm had fallen over the pumping station. From his position on the catwalk looking down over the scene, Jeremiah Rule couldn’t help but wonder if this was the way God viewed man. The big figures, even the still-beaming Boyd Fowler, looked so much smaller and less significant from even this modest distance above them.
Then again, he knew he must have appeared of comparably small scope to anyone looking up his way. Rule didn’t own a watch, hated to open his cell phone to regard the hour. He was a firm believer that things happened in their own time, just like his blessedly fated visit to Fowler’s home in the trailer park. He saw the cosmic rationale behind that now, beating that boy to death in a similar place all those years ago setting the stage for something much more important. Just as the boy Jimmy’s accidental death in Black House had started the process. All were events ordained by powers he was just beginning to comprehend.
Rule found himself missing the boy’s ghost, figured Jimmy had finally found peace after being laid before the altar in the reverend’s basement. God really did work in mysterious ways.
“I won’t let you down, Jimmy,” he said softly, poised upon the catwalk. “I’ll make sure you were sacrificed for a much greater cause.”
Mysterious ways indeed.
“The hour is almost upon us,” he said loud enough for all to hear below him, before he realized what he was doing. “The hour of wondrous glory and purpose as few men have ever known in their hearts and minds.”
They were all looking up at him now, the black-garbed army assembled by Boyd Fowler to fulfill a singular purpose Rule had brought to bear. Looking to him the way he looked to God for guidance and reassurance. The building’s dull light swallowed their expressions, making them look faceless. Little more than figures painted in black onto the world, dark against dark, lacking form and substance in the shadows cast by the high overhead bulbs. As if they had risen up for this purpose and this purpose alone, after which the ground would suck them back in. Specters, phantoms, warriors of God under his command about to do his bidding, which was the Lord’s bidding as well.
“Let us pray,” Rule said, bowing his head so that all those beneath him would follow. “Dear Lord, we ask for your blessing upon this blessed mission we undertake in your name. We pray for the strength we need to see it through and the solace your wisdom provides. Dear Lord, we know the actions we shall undertake tonight are in your name to fulfill your divine purpose. We thank you, oh Lord, for finding us worthy of your grace and vow not to sway from our mission or our commitment. Our faith in you is absolute and we ask that you preserve those who so serve you.” Rule stopped, eyes squeezed shut now. “Amen,” he finished.
“Amen,” came the chorus of voices from beneath him, followed by a voice bellowing, “Let’s waste the fuckers!”
“Amen!”
came a fresh roar, even louder.
“Give ’em what’s coming to ’em!”
“Finish what we started!”
“Bring it all down!”
“Fuck yeah!”
Followed by a brief respite of silence in which a tinny voice sounded through an unseen television speaker.
“Mister Speaker,” announced the sergeant-at-arms three miles away in the Capitol Building, “the president of the United States!”
Thunderous applause followed, but Rule’s mind quickly drowned it out, even as he saw Boyd Fowler touch his earpiece.
“We got a homeless guy rapping on the fence outside. Need to get rid of him. Team Tango, go to work,” the newly baptized Fowler ordered.
And with that, the Reverend Jeremiah Rule watched four of the armed figures beneath him move for the door.
“Go with God,” he said softly, making the sign of the Holy Trinity in the air, while beneath him Boyd Fowler moved toward the man at the controls for the pumping apparatus.
“Freeze the pipes,” Fowler instructed just loud enough for Rule to hear.
Washington, DC
The old homeless man, dressed in bulky layers of cloth and wool carrying the stench of alcohol, had a bent nose and flattened ears that stood out from a face cloaked by a watch cap hung low to provide warmth to his head.
“Come on, boys, help a fella out, will ya? Just some change for a coffee, maybe a meal.”
Three members of the Rock Machine gang approached from the other side of the fence, a fourth hanging back between it and the door.
“Come on,” whined the homeless man, “I used to ride too, you know.
Vroom, vroom, vroom!
”
The man in the middle of the three stuck a one-dollar bill through the chain link that was snatched up immediately by a hand cloaked in a half glove. The homeless man unrolled the bill, eyeing it derisively.
“Come on, boys, you can do better than that.”
The other two men joined the third up even with the fence. And that’s when all of them saw the silenced pistol in the homeless man’s hand.
Pffffffft
…
Pffffffft
…
Pfffffffft
…
Then sighting in on the fourth before that man’s own pistol cleared his belt.
Pffffffft
…
“Go, boss,” Sal Belamo said into his wrist-mounted microphone, “go!”
“I don’t see another way this can play out,” McCracken had said back in the hotel suite. “No way to be subtle beyond the entry point, but the logistics give us a window to work with.”
“Indeed, they do,” Captain Seven said from his railroad-car home, before a fit of coughing from a just-consumed bong hit overcame him. “You’re gonna have twelve minutes between the time the Freon is set loose and the White Death follows.”
“They’ll freeze the pipes on the president’s entrance,” McCracken advanced.
“How can you be so sure of that?” Zarrin asked him.
“Because they’ll be too eager and excited not to. No reason to wait, in any regard. So that’s when our clock starts ticking.”
“Just remember something,” picked up Captain Seven’s now-hoarse voice. “Once they let the White Death loose in those pipes, all bets are off. Game over.”
“Then we’ll have to find a way to play the game on our terms,” said McCracken.
“I recently went to Andrews Air Force Base and welcomed home some of our last troops to serve in Afghanistan. Together, we offered a final, proud salute to the colors under which more than a million of our fellow citizens fought—and several thousand gave their lives. We gather tonight knowing that this generation of heroes has made the United States safer and more respected around the world. For the first time in over a decade, there are no Americans fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan. Osama bin Laden is a memory and many of Al Qaeda’s top lieutenants have joined him. The Afghan people have taken responsibility for their own security, and the United States has never been safer or more secure, both at home and abroad.”
Boyd Fowler heard the beginning of the presidential speech in a low din over the television several of his men were gathered around. There was little else to do at this point, other than wait for the Freon now surging through the network of piping that led straight to the Capitol Building to work its magic. The estimated time for that to happen, according to the gang member who served as a shift supervisor here, was twelve minutes, leaving nine more before he could send the deadly contents of the barrels jetting down the line. They’d already been poured into a sealed holding tank to mix with the water stored within it. A simple flip of a toggle switch was all it would take to send the contents on their way, jetting through underground piping straight to the Capitol Building to wreak their deathly havoc once the frozen pipes burst.
Fowler looked up to see Reverend Rule hands clasping the catwalk’s handrails, eyes aimed down at the television broadcasting the State of the Union speech to follow the remaking of history. Fowler found his own gaze drawn there, unable to resist picturing the sight on screen when the deadly poisonous air flooded the Capitol and laid waste to all.
The president would fall.
The government would fall.
The country would fall.
All glorious. And inevitable.
Until he heard the distinct crackle of automated gunfire as windows shattered.
Washington, DC
McCracken and Wareagle led three of the Palestinian commandos in the first wave of the attack, adding their fire to Sal Belamo’s as soon as he’d dropped the four Rock Machine gang members who’d emerged from inside the building. The element of surprise was theirs only until they burst through the gate, angled themselves before the front casement windows, and opened fire.
And that’s when time froze, nothing but the staccato bursts of sound and glimpses of movement registering with him at all.
Time changed, places changed, but not battle, one exactly like the last and the next. Context, location, and purpose always distinct, while sense and mind-set remained the same.
And McCracken took to this one, just as he’d taken to all the others. Nothing was forgotten, each piece of every other battle he’d ever fought leaving an indelible mark. There was the sense of the assault rifle vibrating slightly as it clacked off rounds, warm against his hands, steady in his grasp. The sight of the muzzle flash, the strange metallic smell of air baked by the heat of the expended shells and his own kinetic energy. The world reduced to its most basic and simple objects. There was the gun, his targets, the glass and wall between them, and nothing else. Welcome and comfortable in its familiarity with all thinking suspended and only instinct left to command him.
He felt himself moving, return fire heating up before him, the hisses of air telling McCracken how close it was coming. He let instinct continue to steer him, aware of Johnny Wareagle launching himself airborne and crashing through the remnants of a shot-out window. Wareagle hit the floor shooting, spraying fire toward the motorcycle gang members diving, crawling, or rushing for cover amid the clutter of piping, pumps, manifolds, and baffles.
McCracken followed Johnny through the same chasm, everything slowing down before him. The assault rifle seemed weightless in his grasp now and he felt himself firing before his feet had even touched down, slamming a fresh magazine home as soon as they did. He’d done this so often, it was easy to be swept away in the memories, to lose track of the reality of the moment and the surreal nature of it. His ears took the brunt of the initial assault, as he darted between piping and steel stanchions for cover. Continuing to sweep his eyes and weapon about the whole time, keenly aware the tide could turn at any moment given the opposition’s still superior numbers.
And it seemed to be doing just that, with gunfire pouring at him from seemingly everywhere at once. McCracken slammed his shoulders against a manifold, unable to spin out in either direction for the time being with the concentrated fire clanging against the steel and ricocheting with ear-numbing
pings
. The bullets continued to drum against the steel, Blaine feeling the vibrations at the core of his bones and being. The assault rifle wobbled in his grip and he concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, so he’d be ready.
Ready when the smoker grenades rolled across the floor past him.
Zarrin and her team had managed to successfully breach the building’s rear at last. The smokers ignited with a
poof!
—spreading thick noxious vapor across the floor, adding to the chaos now safe for Blaine to enter with a deft twist to the right, assault rifle leveled.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the state of our Union is strong and getting stronger. And we’ve come too far to turn back now. As long as I’m President, I will work with anyone in this chamber to build on this momentum. But I intend to fight obstruction with action, and I will oppose any effort to return to the very same policies that brought on the economic crisis we’ve pulled ourselves from in the first place. No, we will not go back to an economy weakened by outsourcing, bad debt, and phony financial profits. Tonight, thanks to the grit and determination of the American people, there is much progress to report. After a decade of grinding war, our brave men and women in uniform are coming home. After years of grueling recession, our businesses have created over seven million new jobs. We buy more American cars than we have in ten years, and less foreign oil than we have in twenty. Our housing market is healing, our stock market is rebounding, and consumers, patients, and homeowners enjoy stronger protections than ever before. Together, we have cleared away the rubble of crisis, and can say with renewed confidence that the future is bright.”
Boyd Fowler’s ears were ringing. He’d been in gunfights before, in war as well as battles against rival biker gangs, but never anything like this. It was constant, it was incessant, and it seemed to go on forever as it was muddled by the smoke that was thick everywhere, dominating the air. It obscured his vision and took him out of touch with his own positioning on the cluttered facility floor where a misstep could cause disaster in its own right.
The smoke distorted his sense of direction, stole the easy sight of the switching station that would send the contents of the tank containing the barrels that the Rock Machine had trucked from West Virginia flowing up the line. The deadly vapors on course to kill, to asphyxiate everyone they came into contact with once the Capitol’s underground frozen pipes burst under the pressure. He only wished he could be there to see it, the Rock Machine’s grand plan at last realized, their name to remain known for all time.
Fowler couldn’t help but wonder how many the gas might claim collaterally beyond the Capitol. There was no way to be sure, given so many variables like wind, temperature, and how much of the deadly cloud would actually seep out of the building with virtually all the US government left dead in its wake.
Ten thousand?
A hundred thousand?
A million?
No matter. He was making history here; in fact, he was rewriting it. Let time judge him, as it would the Reverend Rule. He was at peace with his decisions. A good Christian, now that he’d been baptized.
Fowler felt his body heating up at last, no longer chilled to his very core as he had been since that baptism Rule had performed in the McMillan Reservoir. Shapes and movement whirled around him, muzzle flashes cutting through the noxious smoke that was already thinning in the sprawling confines of the facility. He sighted in on a black-garbed figure wearing a gas mask and wielding an assault rifle, fired a bust from his M-16, and watched the man spin like a top, bloody spray blown from the impact points.
But the dissipating smoke also revealed Rock Machine members strewn everywhere, cut down in the initial assault fueled by surprise in tandem with the enemy’s incredibly accurate shooting for a firefight. These were clearly trained professionals for whom battle was nothing new, formidable opponents at the very least. But now the advantage was the Rock Machine’s again, the gang’s numbers, their superior weaponry, and time still on their side.
That certainty filled Fowler as fresh fire sounded from the breached rear of the building, and he swung that way with rifle already spitting bullets.