Ceramic candle filters were short, cylindrical devices that could be attached to the bottom of a water drum. Pores in the shell were small enough to block bacteria while still allowing water to pass through. The colloidal silver kept bacteria from growing on the shell while the activated carbon inside absorbed dangerous chemicals and impurities.
“I think that can work,” Marshall said. “Although, God willing, we won’t need this camp for much longer.”
“I hope you’re right, but what if you do?” John asked him. “I’m just as optimistic as the next man, but a healthy dose of realism never hurt. That’s why I’m also worried about the sleeping conditions. I don’t see why we can’t look at building some simple barracks where people can sleep. We can model them after the Iroquois long houses which slept dozens and kept them warm through the winter months.”
Marshall let out a raspy laugh. “John, you’ve going Native on us.”
“I use what works,” he replied, ignoring Marshall’s slight dig. “When it came to survival and living off the land, the Natives sure as heck knew what they were doing. Take crops for example. They used an ingenious technique called the Three Sisters. Corn, beans and squash. Each one complemented the other. Since the beans needed tall poles to grow on, they were planted next to the corn. In turn, the bean roots captured nitrogen helping to enrich the soil for the corn. The squash was then planted between the rows of corn and beans. The shade from their leaves helped the corn’s very shallow roots and kept the ground moist, which in turn favored the growth of the beans. A perfectly circular system.”
“Okay,” Marshall spat, throwing up his hands in surrender. “I’m sold. All this talk of food is making me hungry. I’ll get someone on it in the next day or two.” His eyes fell to John’s tactical vest and the S&W on his hip. “Moss has the kinda guts most men dream of,” Marshall said. “But there’s one thing he doesn’t have. Something you can’t teach.”
“Experience and wisdom?” John answered.
Marshall nodded. “I wanna make you my number two, John.”
“But you won’t,” John said. “And you shouldn’t. I’m not here to step on anyone’s toes. This isn’t about validation or ego for me, although I appreciate your vote of confidence. You know why I’m here.”
“The same reason we’re all here, John. But I respect your position.”
The two men shook hands.
“When this is all over where you gonna go?” Marshall asked him.
“I’m not sure,” John answered. “I wanna say back home to rebuild. I mean, that’s the right answer. It’s just I don’t know where home is anymore.” He drew in a deep, stinging breath and held it for about as long as he could. After letting it go, he found Marshall standing there, watching him curiously. “What about you?”
“There’s only one thing I’m aiming to do before I die,” Marshall told him. “Give my wife and son a proper burial.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know they’d passed. When you mentioned we’d all suffered loss I just assumed they were being held in—”
“And a perfectly normal assumption that would be. The Chairman’s responsible, so we have common cause there, no need to worry. But Jane and Greg are lying in a pair of unmarked graves on Cedar Ridge. Wasn’t time to give them the burial they deserved. That’ll come later, once we free Oneida from that tyrant.”
“My son’s name is Gregory too,” John offered and for a reason he couldn’t explain, something as simple as a name made Marshall’s loss seem all the more devastating.
Chapter 33
The guard led Diane to a small greasy spoon called Fran’s Diner on the corner of Main and Church. The sun had already begun to set, dousing the streets in creeping darkness. A flickering light from inside the diner told her someone was inside, waiting for her. After opening the door, the guard ushered her inside. Diane entered, her heart thumping in her neck. Tucked into the brim of her panties was the paper pouch with the crushed Ambien. The knife was wedged into the tall boot on her right foot. The act had made walking a little awkward, but so far she’d managed to avoid drawing suspicion.
For a moment, Diane wondered whether the restaurant was empty. Then in a corner, sitting at a table with the warm glow of a single candle, she spotted the Chairman. Next to him were two men in dark suits, standing rigid and yet nearly invisible. One of them was black and thick with muscle, the other white and shorter by a full head. It didn’t take her long to determine they were either military in plain clothes or Secret Service. Figuring out which wouldn’t be easy.
“There you are,” the Chairman said, rising and setting his napkin on the table.
The suits both stepped forward and intercepted her as she approached, patting her down.
They’re gonna find the drugs or the knife, she thought with a burst of terror.
“Please, gentlemen,” the Chairman said. “You have to treat a woman with respect, not paw her like a common criminal.” He turned to Diane. “I’m so sorry.”
She nodded, unsure if she could bring herself to speak.
“Come,” he said, motioning to the booth. The table was set with fine china and wine glasses.
As she slid into her seat, the men who’d tried searching her stepped back into the shadows.
“Something to drink?” the Chairman asked. “It’s so hard to find good wine in this tiny backwater of a town. Washington’s positively brimming with them, but with so much power and corruption concentrated in one place that’s hardly a surprise, is it?”
Diane smiled, her mind going to the paper pouch. “I’d love a drink, Mr. Chairman,” she told him.
“Please, call me Charles.” He opened a hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of Leoville Barton and filled her glass till it was three-quarters full. He was trying to get her drunk, of course, and she would need to play along until she had an opportunity to do what the resistance had asked of her.
“Such nice plates,” she commented. “Are they antiques?”
“Seventeenth-century Chinese porcelain, donated by the former mayor of Oneida after his imprisonment.”
Or more like stolen, she thought, but didn’t say.
“You certainly have fine tastes,” Diane said.
His eyes narrowed and held hers for a moment. “I know what I like,” he told her, before breaking away to fill his own glass. Once done, he raised it.
“A toast,” he said. “To new beginnings and second chances.”
When they chimed, she noticed his wrist was bandaged.
“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” she lied.
“Oh, this? No, not at all. It’s more of a fashion statement.”
He giggled and Diane joined in, hoping she sounded genuine.
“You’re nervous,” he observed. “I can feel your leg bobbing under the table.”
“Wouldn’t any girl be?” she asked, laying a hand on her knee to keep it from moving. “I mean, you practically own the town.”
The Chairman grinned the way rich men did when their egos were being stroked. “I wouldn’t say own. I’m running it at the behest of the president. We’re living in dark times, Diane, and I’m not just making a bad pun here. I’m doing my duty as any American would. Someday soon I may be asked to relinquish my position as Chairman and a civilian mayor will once again be elected. At the present, it’s my job to restore order. Not a responsibility I enjoy, but one I’m compelled by my patriotism to fulfill. You see, I don’t like punishing people. At heart, I’m really a lover.”
“So you’re not a military man then?” she asked, probing for information. She took a sip of wine in an effort to encourage him to do the same. No one liked to drink alone and she wanted him to feel relaxed and maybe soon enough a little drunk.
The Chairman tilted his glass back and drew in a mouthful of wine, seeming to savor the taste. “You’re attracted to men in the armed forces, are you?”
She nodded. “Who isn’t?”
“How do you feel about the Marines?”
&nbs
p; “You’ve got my attention.”
“Good, because I was a medic with the 1st Battalion 2nd Marines before being honorably discharged and joining the diplomatic corps. I told you I was a lover.”
Diane smiled, trying to hide her concern. One of the details in the Chairman’s story was setting off alarm bells in her head. The Marines didn’t use the term medic. That was the army. In the Marines, the men and women who provided medical treatment on the battlefield were called Corpsmen.
“Fascinating,” she said. “Where did you grow up?”
The Chairman took another long sip of wine. “A small town outside of Philadelphia. My mother worked fourteen-hour shifts in a factory making children’s bicycles. My father was a butcher and dedicated his entire life to the state.”
“State? You mean Pennsylvania?”
The Chairman stammered and ushered the awkward silence away with more wine for both of them. “Yes, he was a patriotic man, but he was from another generation. Back during a time when the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. Now, everyone wants nothing more than fifteen minutes of fame and easy money.”
“So why would the president send a diplomat to run a small town?”
“Ah, a question built on several assumptions.” The Chairman’s words were sticking together in the most subtle way. A clear sign the alcohol was starting to hit him. “First of all, I’m not the only one. The president sent hundreds of men and woman just like me all over the country.” Diane wasn’t understanding and, seeing that, the Chairman paused. “Do you remember Paul Bremer?”
“The head of the provisional government in Iraq after the war? Of course.”
The Chairman clapped his hands together. “Paul was a special envoy sent over to lead as Director of the Office for Reconstruction and Humanitarian Assistance. He was a diplomat, sent as a special envoy.”
“To a Third World country,” Diane countered. She’d come out of character as the sweet, easy conversationalist she’d been playing and hoped she hadn’t blown her cover.
The Chairman’s eyes became glassy. “What kind of a country do you think you’re in now, darling? America’s now part of the Third World.”
Diane smiled sheepishly, pretending to be a weak woman who’d been put in her place. She was appealing to the Chairman’s oversized ego. Her eyes then rose to the Secret Service types standing a few paces behind him.
“Is there any way we can be alone?” she asked, biting her lip.
The Chairman’s gaze shifted between his men and Diane. “Give us a moment, will you?” he told them.
The smaller white one didn’t look so sure.
“Stay in the kitchen if you must, but I’ll be fine.”
Reluctantly, they turned and shuffled through the swinging door into the diner’s kitchen area. Diane spotted a handful of other figures back there, working by candlelight.
“What’s going on in there?” she asked.
The Chairman laughed at the foolishness of the question. “How else do you expect to eat?”
The sight of pampering and opulence in a world where so many were struggling to scrape by made her sick, but Diane had to swallow it down and play the part.
Over by the counter, next to an empty cake fridge, was an antique gramophone.
“Oh, wow,” she said with genuine surprise. When she’d entered the diner, her gaze had been pulled toward the candlelight and she hadn’t noticed the giant horn-shaped device sitting on the counter. “My great-granny used to have one of those. Oh, it’s been years.”
“And months probably since you heard any music, am I right?”
“You’ve thought of everything, Charles. Would you play me a song?” she asked, summoning the sweetest voice she could and batting the doe eyes that always seemed to work on John.
The Chairman grinned, his teeth stained red from the wine. “I thought you’d never ask.” Depositing his napkin on the table, the Chairman rose, then braced himself for a second when the alcohol hit home.
“Someone tell the captain the ship is bobbing,” he said, letting out giddy laughter.
“Be careful,” Diane said, noting another instance where a supposed Marine forgot the proper terminology. Perhaps this was why the resistance wanted so badly to get a hold of his presidential papers.
The Chairman staggered over to the record player and Diane quickly went for the pouch she’d stashed in the brim of her panties. It was no longer there. A hot panic rose up her neck and into her cheeks. It had slid further down and she pushed her fingers deeper to retrieve it. The Chairman was by the gramophone now, winding it up.
“I’ve got just the song.”
Finally she found it and with shaking fingers struggled to pry it open. She heard the needle scratch as the Chairman tried to steady it. Tearing a small hole, Diane reached over and poured the contents into his wine glass as the music started to play. It was from the 1859 opera Faust by Hector Berlioz.
Diane glanced over to find the Chairman glaring back at her. He didn’t seem drunk anymore. Gone too was the warm smile he’d been wearing since she’d arrived. That was when she knew for certain she’d been caught.
Chapter 34
In three quick strides he was nearly on her, his face a mask of anger. Diane reached into her right boot and pulled out the knife. Edward had told her this was her last resort if she were caught trying to slip him the Ambien and now she was getting ready to use it.
“Get back,” she shouted, waving the blade in the air. If he took another step she was ready to jam it into his belly.
The Chairman skidded to a stop. He had a smirk on his face, as though he knew she didn’t really have the upper hand.
Sure, Oneida wasn’t the biggest town, but if this was who the president had sent to restore order and protect the people, then the commander-in-chief’s judgment was far worse than she’d previously believed.
In a flash, a choice was suddenly before her. Turn and charge out the door behind her or lunge and end the life of a man who’d already victimized countless others.
“Diane, if you only knew how much trouble you’re—”
Flipping the knife into an overhand grip, Diane took two giant steps and swung down, narrowly missing his chest. Instead, the edge of the sharpened blade pierced the dark blazer he was wearing and tore a long gash down the front. Up went the knife for the next strike when a clump of folded papers dropped from the hole in the Chairman’s jacket. That split-second delay was all the time he needed to turn and run to the kitchen screaming for help.
Were those the papers she’d been sent to retrieve? Diane scooped them up and ran for the door.
The swinging kitchen door blasted open right as she rounded the last set of tables. The humorless Secret Service agents emerged, pistols drawn and firing. But Diane continued running until she slammed through the front door, bullets shattering the glass around her. If she’d been hit, she didn’t know it.
“Get her,” the Chairman screeched from inside.
Escape wasn’t possible. Diane was smart enough to know that. But she needed to find somewhere safe to stash these documents. She ducked around the back of the next building, hoping to buy herself some time, and that was when she saw it. A mailbox not ten feet away. Because of the curfew, the streets here were empty, but she knew that with the gunfire and shouts that would all soon change.
Charging full force, Diane skidded up to the mailbox, pulled open the lip and slid the documents inside, waiting until they landed with a dull thud.
From there she ran north on Main Street, heading back toward the apartment where Kay and the kids were staying.
A handful of shots rang out behind her. They were firing at her with pistols and the rounds went zinging over her head. She was less than a dozen yards from the building when the men on horseback came galloping up from the other direction and surrounded her.
Diane put her hands in the air and let the knife drop to the sidewalk where it fell with a clang.
The men in
dark suits were there a moment later, twisting her hands behind her back and restraining them with zip ties.
She kept expecting them to read her Miranda rights, before remembering those didn’t exist anymore. One of many checks and balances that had once made this country great and had become some of the first casualties in the new world order.
The Chairman caught up a few seconds later, his shredded blazer showing clear signs of her handiwork.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You like to play games, do you? Well so do I.” The Chairman turned to the suit beside him. “Send her to the interrogation room. And bring the others along too.”
Diane gasped. She knew perfectly well ‘the others’ meant Kay and the children.
Chapter 35
The townspeople emerged from their homes as Diane was led away by the two Secret Service men. She could tell by the looks on the faces of those gathering that they’d seen many others carted away.
Although John didn’t often open up about his experiences in the military, he had told her about neighborhoods on the outskirts of Baghdad that were controlled by militants and in some cases Al-Qaeda. He’d tried to describe to her the meek way people watched the injustices going on around them. The fear of being the next victim often made them subdued as yet another member of the community was taken away never to be seen again.
They couldn’t entirely be blamed, John had told her. Risking one’s life for a cause took tremendous courage and extraordinary foolishness. But what these people watching now didn’t fully understand was that by standing by, they were becoming complicit in the crimes they were witnessing.
“Don’t you people see what’s happening?” she shouted. “Is this the kind of country we want to live in?”
One of the Secret Service men swatted her on the back of the head with an open hand. She felt a burst of stinging pain, but kept appealing to the growing crowd of onlookers.
“Shut her up,” the Chairman yelled from somewhere behind them.
Last Stand: Patriots (Book 2) Page 12
