Resistance_ The Gathering Storm Part 23

He blinked, hoping to somehow restore what he'd seen, but the room remained dark. a.s.suming he was correct, and not hallucinating, it was as if a light had been turned on behind the rifleman. Or a door had been opened into a well-lit s.p.a.ce.

But what to do? Evacuate the President from the platform? That would be prudent, perhaps ... But if the marksman was a Secret Service agent, or a photographer with a long lens, or a maid with a mop, a lot of people were going to be very angry.

But he couldn't just let it drop.

Hale glanced around for Stoly, and saw him on the far side of the platform. The handheld radio he'd been given was for emergencies only, and therefore silent, as he brought it up to his lips.

"Hale to Stoly ... Front of the hotel, third floor, open window ... At least one person inside. Yours?"

There was a brief pause, followed by an emphatic reply.

"h.e.l.l no!"

Hale felt a sudden surge of adrenaline as he took three steps forward to the point where one of his soldiers was stationed. "Give me your rifle," he ordered harshly, as he took the Fareye out of the man's hands. "And stand perfectly still. I'm going to use you as a rest."

As Hale laid the rifle across the Sentinel's shoulder, and put his eye to the scope, Stoly hit Grace from the side. And when the President went down a projectile hit the Governor of Colorado-who had the painful misfortune to be standing directly behind Grace when the projectile was fired. The Governor made a grab for his shoulder as he fell, and the rest of the dignitaries scattered in every direction as the sound of the shot echoed between the surrounding buildings.

People began to scream.

Hale had the window centered under his crosshairs by that time, and even though he couldn't see a clean target, he fired repeatedly. Hale figured that if he hit the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin, then that would be good, but even if he didn't, the counterfire would probably be enough to ruin the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's aim. And that would be sufficient. Because within minutes, five at most, Secret Service agents and policemen would storm the room. To his credit the Sentinel whose gun he had taken stood perfectly still as Hale continued to fire, bra.s.s casings arcing through the air, and people continued to scream.

The window was open, the dresser had been moved into position in front of it, and the rifle was resting on a carefully arranged sandbag. Susan swore as someone knocked Grace down and her bullet hit one of the men behind him. Then, as she worked another round into the Fareye's chamber, some quick-thinking b.a.s.t.a.r.d fired at her her.

Except that he missed, and Susan heard Puzo make a horrible gargling sound as the incoming bullet tore through his throat, and he brought both hands up in a futile attempt to stop the sudden spray of blood. Then he was falling, as another bullet whispered past her ear, and smashed into the mirror behind her.

Susan spent a fraction of a second a.n.a.lyzing the possibility of a follow-up shot on the President, saw that Grace was unreachable under a pile of protective bodies, and adjusted her aim. Secret Service agents would burst through her door within minutes, she knew that. But if she was going to die, why not take the man with the rifle with her? Because if anyone deserved to die, it was the army of a.s.sholes who supported Grace and kept him in office. Susan found her target, and prepared to squeeze the trigger. Then she saw the left side of the man's face. "Nathan!" That was when a sledgehammer hit Su san's head, and the long fall into darkness began.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

YANKEE DOODLE DANDY.

Near Madison, Wisconsin Thursday, December 20, 1951 It was one-day down in the stink hole, which meant that another group of doomed prisoners had been led away, and the survivors were going to live for another forty-eight hours. Well, most of the survivors anyway, because Henry Walker was determined to kill the son of a b.i.t.c.h responsible for his wife's death.

Walker couldn't prove prove that Marcus Tolly had engineered Myra's death. And he was fully cognizant of the fact that that Marcus Tolly had engineered Myra's death. And he was fully cognizant of the fact that all all of the prisoners were going to die, the only question being of the prisoners were going to die, the only question being when when. But logical arguments didn't matter, because Walker had to kill Tolly, or lose his mind. So having named himself judge, jury, and executioner, Walker had made a study of the one-eyed committee-man's habits, and created a plan. And, as darkness fell over the pit, that plan was about to be implemented.

Tolly had finished his boil by then, and having returned his empty hubcap to the outdoor kitchen, he began to make his way over to the tent he had appropriated from a family of three. Tolly stopped every now and then to schmooze with his cronies, but Walker knew it was only a matter of time, and was content to wait within a recently abandoned lean-to located only yards from his quarry's tent.

But as he sat there, peering out through a hole in the wall and waiting for his prey to arrive, Walker knew it was the last thing Myra would want him to do. In fact he could almost hear her talking into his ear.

Killing Tolly won't bring me back, Henry ... There's been enough killing. We'll be together soon enough.

And Myra was right. Walker knew that. But watching Tolly swagger around the pit, pus.h.i.+ng people around, and taking whatever he wanted, was more than Walker could bear. That's what he told himself anyway, although deep down he knew it was about revenge, and a desire to strike back at the man he felt sure was responsible for Myra's death.

Finally, having completed the long circuitous walk to his tent, Tolly paused to look around. Then, having satisfied himself that it was safe to do so, he bent over to enter his shelter. A shadow appeared as Tolly lit the lantern within and began to prepare his bedroll. That was the moment Walker had been waiting for. The key was knowing exactly where the big man was within the tent.

Walker had been a Marine, and he had killed before, but never like this. His heart beat wildly and his hands shook as he rose, and emerged from concealment. Three careful steps carried him over to Tolly's tent. The homemade dagger was one of dozens of such implements that had been manufactured in the stink hole and pa.s.sed down to the living from the recently dead. The weapon was in Walker's right hand, and it made a ripping sound as it sliced through the patchwork quilt collection of fabrics that had been painstakingly sewn together to form a serviceable tent.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Tolly swore as a hole appeared above him. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it!"

Walker poured the better part of a gallon of gasoline onto the committeeman's head and shoulders. The fuel had been siphoned out of one of the mining trucks and stored in a rubber bladder made from an inner tube. It gave off its characteristic odor as Walker opened a Zippo lighter. He flicked the wheel and sparks appeared, immediately followed by a blue flame.

Tolly looked up, saw the flame, and screamed, "No!" He was kneeling as if in prayer, and a thin trickle of pus flowed out from under his leather eye patch as he stared upward. But the pitiful sight wasn't enough to stay Walker's hand as he dropped the lighter into the hole and was rewarded with a loud whump! whump!

Walker took a full step backward as Tolly was enveloped by flames and a wave of heat hit his face. The air around them was extremely cold, so it felt natural to bring both hands up, and enjoy the sudden warmth.

The committeeman was on his feet by then, having stuck his head up through the hole Walker had made, and he began to scream as he beat at the flames. People came on the run, but when they saw Walker standing there, warming his hands over the fire, they knew what had taken place. None of them chose to intervene. And that was a wise decision, because Burl had arrived on the scene, by that time along with other members of the Fair and Square Squad, all of whom were ready to deal with Tolly's fellow committeemen, should that become necessary. So as Tolly flailed about, and his tent caught on fire, there was no one to help him.

The Hybrids stationed around the rim stared down into the pit and watched impa.s.sively.

Finally, having lost consciousness, Tolly collapsed in a smoking heap. Walker spit on the badly burned corpse and heard the liquid sizzle before he turned away. He felt sick to his stomach, and his knees were weak, but for the first time in days he knew he'd be able to sleep.

"Tunnel I is ready!"

Those were the words that flew mouth to mouth at roughly noon that day. And, as Walker knew from personal experience, it was true. Because he'd been in the shaft, working as a donkey, when the long-hoped-for breakthrough occurred. He hadn't been there himself, up at the top of the steeply slanting tunnel where the patch of gray sky suddenly appeared, but he was among the first to hear about it as word of the accomplishment rippled down the line.

It was joyous news, but troubling as well, because with the next three-day only hours away everyone everyone would want to scramble through the tunnel, even though they knew that most if not all of the escapees would be caught and probably executed. So it was all Walker and the other members of the Fair and Square Squad could do to try and impose some sort of order on the situation. would want to scramble through the tunnel, even though they knew that most if not all of the escapees would be caught and probably executed. So it was all Walker and the other members of the Fair and Square Squad could do to try and impose some sort of order on the situation.

The key was to present not only the perception of fairness, but the reality of it, which was why all 278 prisoners were given an opportunity to pull a number out of Burl's hat. A process that had to be carried out surrept.i.tiously lest the collaborator, Collins, or one of the Hybrids take notice.

There had been talk of more complicated systems designed to give tunnelers, medics, and kitchen workers some sort of priority in recognition of their service to the rest of the prisoners. But such schemes were deemed too difficult to manage in the amount of time available. Besides, as Burl pointed out, "The only reason Tunnel I exists is because people who knew they wouldn't get the opportunity to use it were willing to dig it anyway. We're going to die. Get used to it."

As luck would have it Walker drew the number 131, which wasn't very good, since it was generally a.s.sumed that at least some of the earliest escapees would be caught. That would draw attention to the rest, which would bring the entire exercise grinding to a halt and a predictably b.l.o.o.d.y end.

Still Walker couldn't help but feel excited as he went to retrieve the tape recorder and the evidence that would surely bring the Grace administration to its knees. Then, mindful of how demanding an escape from Chimera-held territory would be, Walker went to his tent to sort through the few possessions he had and load his pockets with those that were likely to be the most important.

Once that ch.o.r.e was complete, the only thing he could do was lie down and wait for darkness to come. At 10:00 P.M. P.M., the first person would leave the tunnel. Walker tried to sleep, but couldn't, and was still wide awake when the time came to crawl out of the lean-to and make his way through pitch blackness to the point where the line had already started to form. Then, having located numbers 130 and 132, all Walker could do was wait.

Harley Burl had drawn number 23.

A very low number-and one that gave him a good chance of actually clearing the hole. What happened after that would be primarily a function of luck, although those who were smart and in good physical shape would have a definite edge. And Burl, who thought he was reasonably smart, had a plan. A crazy, audacious plan that was so counterintuitive it just might work. Especially against a bunch of stinks.

So when the appointed hour finally arrived, and a chiropractor named Larthy crawled out of the tunnel onto the snow-covered ground beyond the rim, Burl was tensed up and ready to go. And as the line began to jerk forward, and giant shadows oozed across the walls, Burl felt his heart bang against his chest.

Would one of the people in front of him make a stupid mistake?

Would someone get caught within a matter of minutes, leaving him trapped in the tunnel? All he could do was hope.

Time seemed to slow as the line crept forward-each pa.s.sing second bringing additional risk of discovery-as those at the head of the tunnel forced themselves to count to thirty before leaving the relative safety of their burrow. The gap was supposed to s.p.a.ce the escapees out in hopes that the thirty-second intervals would prevent the prisoners from b.u.mping into one another in the dark. But each pause felt like an eternity.

Finally, as fresh air began to seep down into the tunnel, Burl was only one person away from freedom. Then number 22's bloblike body was gone, it was his his turn to count, and a light speared down out of the sky a quarter-mile in the distance. One of the escapees had been spotted. There was only one thing Burl could do, and that was to turn to count, and a light speared down out of the sky a quarter-mile in the distance. One of the escapees had been spotted. There was only one thing Burl could do, and that was to run run.

Walker was about halfway up the tunnel when all the people who were still inside Tunnel I had no choice but to turn around and return to the pit. What ensued was a desperate scramble in which people swore at one another, a support beam was knocked out of place, and dirt rained down from above.

There were voices of reason however, including Walker's, as he called on the people within earshot to slow down, and to be careful lest the entire tunnel cave in on them.

But most of the support beams held, which meant that it wasn't long before people began to leave the tunnel and exit through the four-holer set up to hide it. And as they arrived, one after another, about two dozen Hybrids were on hand to receive them.

One of the stinks gave Walker a shove, and another growled at him as he was sent to join the others. All of the prisoners were huddled under the glare produced by three Patrol Drones. They hummed menacingly as they circled the crowd. "Do you think they'll shoot us?" a woman wondered, her teeth chattering from both fear and the cold.

"Naw," the man next to her replied dismissively. "We should be so lucky! It's kinda like when some of my father's chickens would find a way out of the coop. Pa didn't kill em, not right away. That came later. When Ma had a hankering for fried chicken."

Walker wasn't so sure about that, but eventually the chicken a.n.a.logy was proven to be correct, as the stinks left the prisoners unharmed but tore all of the four-holers apart looking for more tunnels. There were two additional shafts, both located on the other side of the pit, but went undiscovered because the Chimera couldn't generalize beyond the example in front of them. Tunnels went with s.h.i.+tters, and vice versa, that was the extent of their reasoning.

The escape attempt did not go entirely unpunished, however. Once all the prisoners were out of the tunnel, and explosives had been used to seal it off, Walker heard a now familiar thrumming sound as a Chimeran shuttle drifted over the pit from the north. The wind generated by its flaring repellers blew snow, flimsy shelters, and bits of trash in every direction as the s.h.i.+p put down next to the poisonous-looking lake. Multicolored running lights strobed the entire area as the shuttle settled onto its skids.

That was when servos whined, a ramp came down, and roughly fifty prisoners were marched down onto the ground. They were newbies, all having been captured over the last few days, and completely unaware of the drama that was playing itself out around them. That wasn't unusual, because newbies arrived every couple of days, though usually on foot. What caught Walker's attention was the fact that rather than be allowed to take charge of the newcomers the way she usually did, Collins was being held in check, and judging from the expression on her normally impa.s.sive face she was terrified.

Then, once all the newbies were off the shuttle, two Hybrids took hold of the collaborator's arms and dragged her up the ramp, where they forced her to turn around and face the crowd. And there she was, still standing on the ramp, as the shuttle lifted off.

The aircraft rose to a height of approximately one hundred feet, and all eyes were still on the s.h.i.+p as it began to hover.

That was when the Hybrids pushed Collins off.

The schoolteacher was expecting it by then, and screamed all the way down. The noise stopped when her body landed on top of a piece of rusty mining equipment, and blood splattered the ground all around it. The stinks were sending a message-and everyone understood it. Even if they didn't feel any sorrow.

"Rot in h.e.l.l, b.i.t.c.h," someone said. It wasn't much of an epitaph-but the only one that Collins was going to get.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

REMEMBER THE ALAMO.

Denver, Colorado Friday, December 21, 1951 The Denver Federal Center had its own detention facility-and that was where maximum security prisoner Susan Farley had been held during the days immediately following the attempt on President Grace's life.

The transfer area was a drab s.p.a.ce with green walls, slit-style windows, and furniture that was bolted to the floor. Ironically enough, the only decoration in the room consisted of three pictures: one of the Federal Center's head administrator, one of Vice President McCullen, and one of President Grace.

Before being allowed to enter the transfer center, Hale was searched, not just once, but twice twice. Two armed guards stood side by side with their backs to a cement wall as he waited for Susan to appear.

The chains on her wrists and ankles made a rattling sound, so he heard heard his sister before the steel door swung open and Susan shuffled into the brightly lit room. Her hair had been shaved off and the spot where Hale's bullet had nicked the side of her skull was concealed by a white bandage. Had the projectile been one inch to the right, she would have been dead. Susan was dressed in gray prison garb, including a coat with a hood that hung down onto her shoulders. his sister before the steel door swung open and Susan shuffled into the brightly lit room. Her hair had been shaved off and the spot where Hale's bullet had nicked the side of her skull was concealed by a white bandage. Had the projectile been one inch to the right, she would have been dead. Susan was dressed in gray prison garb, including a coat with a hood that hung down onto her shoulders.

"You've got five minutes," the prison matron said sternly. "Don't touch, don't whisper, and don't exchange physical objects without permission. The clock starts now."

Susan nodded impa.s.sively as she looked into Hale's golden yellow eyes.

"So you came."

"Of course I came," Hale replied. "You're my sister. I hired a lawyer ... He'll visit you in the prison."

"Why bother?" Susan replied bleakly. "I did it. Everyone knows that."

"You sure as h.e.l.l did," Hale agreed soberly. "But who knows? Maybe we can get your sentence reduced."

Susan smiled grimly.

"All of us are under a death sentence. You-of all people-should realize that. The so-called Liberty Defense Perimeter isn't going to work, the Grace administration is more interested in holding on to power than winning the war, and anyone with the guts to oppose them winds up in a Protection Camp ... or worse. The only thing I regret is the fact that I missed. That was your your fault, Nathan ... And you're going to regret it, too," she added bitterly. fault, Nathan ... And you're going to regret it, too," she added bitterly.

"That will be enough of that," the matron said grimly as she noticed the prisoner's agitated state, and motioned to the guards. "Load her on the bus. And keep your eyes peeled. She belongs to Freedom First, and there are plenty of sympathizers in the area."

Hale wanted to say something comforting, wanted to make peace somehow, but couldn't find the words as the guards escorted Susan through the door, and into the cold light beyond. "Don't worry, Lieutenant," the matron said gruffly. "She'll be all right."

"Thank you," he responded, but he wasn't sure anything would be "all right" ever again.

After days spent worrying about Susan, and being questioned by law enforcement officers of every type, Hale was happy to return to work. Even if the first thing he had to do was attend a meeting.

It was being held at the Federal Center, but on the far side of the complex, and Hale no longer had the Lynx. So he set a brisk pace for himself, and after a ten-minute walk, he spotted his destination ahead.

SRPA headquarters-Denver was located in an unremarkable four-story brick building, which, according to the sign out front, was home to something called the "Federal Land Acquisitions Agency." A very real organization that occupied half of the first floor. The rest of the structure served the needs of SRPA staff. They were an extremely hardworking group who were responsible for planning and coordinating SAR missions throughout the West.

The briefing center was located on the second floor, and after clearing a security check, Hale arrived five minutes late. As he entered the rather austere conference room Hale saw that Major Blake, Chief of Staff Dentweiler, and a man he didn't know were waiting for him.

"Sorry I'm late, sir," Hale said. "I had to hike in from the other side of the center."

"No problem," Blake replied. "We just sat down. Have a chair. You know Mr. Dentweiler ... And this is Mr. Burl. He was a prisoner in what was almost certainly a Chimeran Conversion Center until just days ago."

Hale shook Dentweiler's hand, noticed that it was still still cold, and turned to the other civilian. "Mr. Burl ... It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. And congratulations on your escape. If you don't mind my asking, how did you pull it off?" cold, and turned to the other civilian. "Mr. Burl ... It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. And congratulations on your escape. If you don't mind my asking, how did you pull it off?"

Burl had a firm grip and a direct gaze. "I was lucky," he answered simply. "The stinks were holding us in a big pit. We dug escape tunnels, and one of them paid off. A few of us got away."

"Mr. Burl was the last person out," Blake added. "The alarm had been given by then, so rather than run into the Chimera's arms, he found a place to hide not fifty feet from the tunnel. So So close the stinks didn't bother to search it carefully enough." close the stinks didn't bother to search it carefully enough."

"I d.a.m.ned near froze my a.s.s off," Burl put in ruefully. "But I was wearing four layers of clothing, and that helped. The real real break came six hours later when a snowstorm pa.s.sed through. I made use of the low visibility to escape the area." break came six hours later when a snowstorm pa.s.sed through. I made use of the low visibility to escape the area."