by John Bromley
Mike felt sick to his stomach. He pushed the paper away and rose unsteadily to his feet, looking for a way out of the room. He moved precariously toward the door, under the smug gaze of Sam, and the watchful eye of Cynthia.
“In my example, I used the name ‘Mike’, but believe me, I didn’t pull that name out of my ass,” Sam said grimly, as he watched Wilkins leave, and at the same time held the document in front of Parker. Jim looked at the page and he saw it immediately.
The fourth signer of the Charter: Michael A. Wilkins the Fifth.
CHAPTER 30
Lt. Dirk Tedeschi had almost arrived at the “enemy's” camp when he heard an unmistakable “whizzing” sound in the air. Quickly pulling off the road and looking back, he could see that the disturbance had been caused by an artillery round, fired from a tank or a mortar; he couldn't be sure. What he could tell was that when it landed near his battalion's location, it caused a sizable explosion.
Whoever they were, they weren't firing “blanks”—that was real ordnance. The first shot had fortunately landed well away from troops and machines, but if—no, when—their aim improved, it would inevitably lead to real injuries, and real death.
He had to do something about this. Now.
Since he was so close, he decided to enter their camp and find out what he could.
It didn't take long. As soon as he entered a grassy area off the side of the road, his way was barred by two black-uniformed, helmeted men, each one almost as big as he was, and each one pointing an automatic weapon at him. Dirk had no doubt the guns were loaded with live ammunition.
He stopped, and each man approached a side of the Jeep.
The man nearest to Dirk spoke succinctly. “Get out.”
“Who the hell—“
Dirk was cut off by the first man, who wasn't used to being disobeyed. He spat out the words again, like bullets from the gun he was holding.
“Out. Of. The. Jeep.”
On the last word, he grabbed Dirk by the sleeve and physically threw him from the driver's seat. Dirk stumbled, but did not fall. The two armed men fell in behind him and escorted him none too gently up the field until they came to a third man, wearing a black uniform similar to the first two but with more braid and ribbons. He appeared to be even younger than Tedeschi himself, and about six inches shorter. Dirk’s first impression of this person was that of a boy “playing dress-up” as an officer, and the riding crop he carried under his left arm did little to disabuse Dirk of this notion. He was convinced otherwise, however, by the deference that the two armed thugs paid to their “leader.” Dirk had no idea what rank he held, but judging from the crowded condition of the insignia tab on his collar, it was quite high.
The officer appraised him, but didn’t seem terribly impressed when he finished. Dirk thought that was only fair, as he was not impressed by this “boy,” either.
Finally the braided man spoke. “Who are you, Lieutenant?”
Dirk snapped to attention, per his training. “Lt. Dario Tedeschi, North American Army, Serial Number—“
“I know you're with the Army, and I'm not interested in your serial number,” the officer said. “Are you in charge of that unit over there?”
Dirk remained at attention but gave no answer.
The enemy officer stood directly in front of Dirk and tried to look him in the eye. Dirk did not lower his eyes to accommodate him, but continued to stare over the other man’s head. “Let me put it this way, Lieutenant,” said the officer. “If you're not in charge of those men over there, then I have no further use for you, and you will be dead in fifteen seconds. So, for the last time—are you the man currently in charge over there?”
Dirk hesitated as long as he dared, but finally said, “Yes, I am.” He pointedly left off the word “sir” to demonstrate that he did not recognize this man's authority over him.
“Excellent. Now see, that wasn't so hard, was it?” the man asked with a forced smile. “Where are your superior officers, if I may ask?”
“You may not,” Dirk responded, knowing that his insolence might get him killed, but just annoyed enough to take the chance. In fact, one the armed escorts raised him machine gun to the firing position, but lowered it again on a signal from the commander.
“It doesn't really matter,” the officer said expansively. “Since you are the ranking officer, I have a job for you.”
He turned away and Dirk took the opportunity to ask, “Who are you people anyway?”
He didn't really expect an answer, but to his surprise he got one.
“We are the Secret Service,” the officer answered, as though it should have been obvious.
“Since when does the Secret Service have a mechanized unit?” Dirk wondered.
“Since the need for one arose,” was the answer.
Dirk looked around the compound at the various vehicles and weapons.
“This stuff is all Army equipment,” he told the officer.
The man was nonplussed. “Was Army equipment. Now, it’s ours.”
“How did—“
“We needed it; we got it,” the commander said, adding dismissively, “but that’s not important right now. What is important is what you will do for me.”
Dirk stiffened again. “What makes you think I will do anything for you?”
The officer, whatever rank he held, was clearly losing patience. “If this is the level of intelligence you display to your commanding officer, Tedeschi, then you will remain a lieutenant for the rest of your life. If you continue to display it to me, the ‘rest of your life’ will indeed be very short.” When Dirk did not respond, the man assumed his point had been made. “Now—your task is very simple. You will return to your company and convey a message from me to your commanders.”
Dirk couldn’t help but feel relief when he heard that they would let him go.
“What is the content of this ‘message’ you want me to deliver?”
“Five small words: ‘You have something we want’. Even your limited intelligence shouldn’t have a problem with that.”
Dirk didn’t take the bait. “And what might this ‘something’ be, that you want?”
Once again, he didn’t expect an answer, but as before, they surprised him by giving him one.
“And, if we choose not to part with that particular ‘item’?” Dirk wanted to know.
The commander almost laughed. “This is not a negotiation, Lieutenant. Either your people deliver what we want to us, or we will come to you and take it. And when I say ‘we’, I mean…”
He swept his arm beside and behind him, indicating the five tanks and eight armored personnel carriers which constituted some of his arsenal.
“Furthermore,” he added, getting into Dirk’s face again, “I will not wait forever. If I haven’t gotten that… item… in the next two hours, then ‘we’ will be visiting you anyway.”
Jim confronted Sam. “Just what the hell was that for?”
Sam seemed unruffled. “I wanted your boy to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I don’t think too highly of anyone whose family participates in legalized extortion, legalized murder, or sexual slavery. And that exactly what this ‘Stork’ is, no more and no less. And if you are OK with all that, then maybe I got no use for you, either.”
“I am not ‘OK with that’ at all,” Jim answered, “but it should be obvious, even to you, that Mike didn’t know anything about this.”
“How could he possibly—“
“You can’t fake a reaction like that!” Jim interrupted loudly. “Besides, a couple of days ago, he said that his old man never told him about the origin of his family fortune. But you probably didn’t hear that, ‘cause you were too busy wanting to hate him, without a good reason.”
Sam didn’t say anything to that, as he grudgingly acknowledged in his mind that maybe Parker was right, and maybe Wilkins was a halfway decent sort, after all.
Jim started to walk away, but then got in Sam’s face again and continued his
tirade.
“I’ll admit, we would never have known about, or gotten into this place without you. But that man in there has saved my life on several occasions—at least twice in the last week alone. You yourself told us that getting out of here would be tougher than getting in. If your bullshit antics have cost me the use of an excellent officer like Captain Wilkins, then, when we leave, you better be ready to pull your own weight and his. You got that?” This time, Jim did turn and stalk away.
Sam still didn’t say anything. He looked cautiously around the room. Most of the soldiers were talking among themselves or with some of the women. When he did manage to catch someone’s eye, they quickly looked away.
It was clear to Sam that, no matter what other good things he had done that day, causing emotional injury to the very popular Captain Wilkins had made him persona non grata.
He moved slowly around the edge of the room, in the direction which Mike had gone. Sam found Mike in the next room, sitting in a chair with his face in his hands. Cynthia was with him, rubbing his back and attempting to console him, but that was proving very difficult.
Sam cleared his throat to announce his presence, at which Cynthia looked up. Her gaze was not welcoming at all.
Mike also raised his head, looking at no one in particular. There was hatred in his voice, but it was not directed at Sam.
“How could he do something like this?” he demanded of no one in particular. “How could an ancestor of mine, my own great-grandfather, who was supposedly so wonderful—how could he get himself involved in this ‘Stork’ thing? And not just ‘be involved’—be a Charter Member, for chrissake!
“What kind of man was he?” he wailed. Cynthia, sitting on the arm of Mike’s chair, reached around his back and gave him a reassuring hug. This seemed to help, as he reached up and stroked her hand with his. At this point, they both looked at Sam.
Sam realized that he was now in the “hot seat,” and fumbled for the right words. “Look, uh, Captain… look, Wilkins… I, uh…” This was obviously not Sam’s specialty, but he pressed on anyway. “I… well, I thought for sure that… you had to know about this, but… now, I don’t…”
Mike said nothing, as he had no intention of making this easier for Sam.
“I guess what it is, is this,” Sam continued, his thoughts finally becoming more organized. “I hated anyone who was involved in Stork, including your ancestor, and I guess it was easy to pretend that you were the same person that he was. My stupid little show in there, and your reaction to that piece of paper, certainly showed me different. Your boy Jim was right—I didn’t really give you a chance, but I’m willing to do that now… if you are. Besides, Jim says you’re about the finest soldier he’s ever served with, and, well… if you can’t believe a ‘national hero’, who can you believe?”
This brought a chuckle from all three of them, and when it passed, Sam offered his hand to Mike.
“Friends?”
Mike looked down at the proffered hand, waited a few seconds to make Sam sweat, then clasped Sam’s hand and gave it a hearty shake.
Jim was talking quietly with his mother in the large meeting room when he heard the unmistakable sound of Sam’s voice. Looking up, he saw Cynthia come into the room holding Mike’s hand, with Sam following close behind. The two men were not only talking, but laughing together. Sam caught Jim’s eye and gave him the “thumbs-up” sign.
Jim felt a great deal of relief at this turn of events, but even better things were to come.
When he turned back, he discovered that his mother had excused herself, and he was now face to face with Angela. For at least the thousandth time, he mentally reminded himself how beautiful she was, when she unexpectedly stepped forward, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him as tightly as she could.
I was right about her softness… and her strength, Jim thought as he gladly returned the embrace.
She then surprised him again by pressing her lips to his. Oddly enough, he didn’t find this gesture revolting, as he might have in any other situation. Despite having never performed this particular ritual before, he was amazed to find himself not only enjoying it, but responding in kind to it.
When their lips finally separated after several seconds, she did not pull away, but pressed her cheek to his. Jim whispered, “Don’t want to sound like I’m complaining, but… what was that all about?”
“It’s called a kiss,” she explained quietly, her mouth very near to his ear. “In ancient times, a woman would kiss a man when they were about to be separated. Especially if he was a man she… cared about.”
“Do you… care… about me?” Jim asked, his mind reeling at the possibility that she might actually say…
“Yes, Jim. I’m not sure why, since we just met, but yes, I do… very much.” She emphasized her point by giving him another little kiss on his earlobe. His spine tingled at the unfamiliar sensations.
“In fact,” she continued, nestling even closer to him and rubbing her cheek against his softly, “my mother and I were discussing the idea of ‘love at first sight’ a few days ago. She didn’t think it was possible… and neither did I.” She kissed his ear again and stroked his hair before speaking again.
“Now… I’m not so sure.”
Jim was totally at a loss for the correct response to this statement, so he said nothing. He desperately hoped that she would not be offended by his silence.
She was not; in fact, she had expected it. She backed away slightly so that she could look him in the eye again.
“Another ancient custom was for men and women to kiss each other when they were reunited after being apart.” She smiled. “I like the way the ancients thought.”
“So do I,” Jim said. This time he initiated a kiss, which Angela returned, not only willingly but, his mind thought, hungrily, as though she could not get enough of him. When they finally broke the kiss this time, they were both out of breath.
“We haven’t been separated yet,” Angela noted with a smile.
“I was just… practicing, for when we are,” Jim replied.
She looked down and toyed with one of the buttons on his shirt. “I know you must leave soon, but when you come back—“
“If I come back,” Jim corrected, feeling the need to be realistic.
“When you come back,” she insisted, placing a finger on his lips to silence his objections, “I think I would very much like to indulge in some of this… ‘recreational sex’ that I’ve heard so much about… with you.”
Jim found her admission of desire for him very flattering.
“I’ve… never tried sex before,” he said needlessly.
“Neither have I,” Angela said. To his astonished look, she responded, “I’m what is known as a ‘virgin’, as are you. I’ve never wanted to before, and I’ve been fortunate not to have to… until now.”
“What is different ‘now’, that you might have to?”
She answered his question with another, although it was clear that she found the entire subject distasteful.
“Haven’t you wondered why Cynthia and I are assigned to the so-called ‘Second White House’?” Jim nodded.
“Did you make it to the very end of the videos? Then you remember that it said the President always has two women set aside for his ‘personal use’, and that they had just been replaced.”
“Don’t tell me—let me guess,” said Jim.
“That’s right,” she nodded, indicating Cynthia and herself. “The President’s new ‘playthings’? You’re looking at them.”
The emotional side of Jim’s mind was outraged by this news, but the rational side told him to file this away as information that might come in handy later.
He had very little time for any other reaction. At that moment, one of the soldiers, who had been standing guard at the front door in case the Secret Service execution squad decided to drop by, came running into the room. Jim and Buck Keller both turned at the commotion.
“Red flare in the
sky!” the sentry said breathlessly. He then turned and retreated from the room.
Jim and Buck exchanged grim glances, as they both knew what it meant
The Fourth Battalion was under attack.
CHAPTER 31
While Sam and Mike were repairing their relationship, and Jim and Angela were redefining theirs, ‘Dirk’ Tedeschi was back in his Jeep, making the short return trip to the Fourth’s campsite. He should have been relieved to still be alive, and he was. He should have been racing back home as fast as he could, but he wasn’t. He had a message to deliver, but no one was at the base to receive it. He also had the promise of an impending attack and, as the ranking officer, the responsibility for finding a way to minimize that threat.
He had a few ideas, but they were only the standard plans for basic camp defense, and in this situation none of them were very good. He was driving slower than normal to give his brain time to invent a more effective strategy.
Dirk arrived at the compound, and parked in almost the same place from which he had set out. Sgt. Greg Hendricks was there to greet him when he stopped. Absently, he wondered if Greg had moved from that spot during the entire time he had been gone.
He got out of his Jeep and signaled Hendricks to walk with him.
“We’re about to be attacked,” he told the sergeant.
“The war games are going to start?” Hendricks asked. “But, the colonel—“
“I’m not talking about ‘games’,” Dirk interrupted. “We’re going to be attacked for real.”
This news stopped Sgt. Hendricks in his tracks, and when he recovered, he had to run to catch up with the much taller, and faster, lieutenant. When he did, Dirk asked, “How much ammo do we have in camp?”
“Real ammo?” Hendricks was still having trouble absorbing the idea of imminent danger and very possible death.
“No,” Dirk responded sarcastically, “they’re going to be blasting away at us with tanks, and we’re going to retaliate with blanks. Of course, real ammo! How much have we got?”
