And Thy Mother

by John Bromley

  The reaction to this development, in the airport and around the country, was in stark contrast to the shooting of “Colonel Jim.” In most locations, not a tear was shed. One person at the airport was actually heard to say, “Good riddance.”

  The Secret Service men left the terminal and went to the nearest car rental facility. Here they ran into another unexpected benefit. They were told that their uniforms entitled them to one day’s free car rental, but that anything beyond that would be at the normal rate.

  “One day should be all we’ll need, if everything goes as planned,” said the largest of the three men, taking the keys to the rental car.

  The men climbed in, with the oldest man driving, because he knew where they were going. A little less than an hour later, they had reached their destination. Not wanting to remain at this facility any longer than necessary, they looked for and found a parking spot near the front door. They placed their car there, ignoring the fact that it was “Reserved for the Secretary.”

  Carrying their cases, they entered the Department of Education.

  The three men strode up to the information counter and rang the bell on it. This was unnecessary since the receptionist, whose nameplate identified him as a Mr. Kesselman, was standing right there. Producing no identification of any kind, the oldest of the visitors said to him, “We need access to your computer systems.”

  The man regarded them with an “is-this-a-joke” look. “I don’t think—” he began.

  “Now,” the SS officer finished.

  Kesselman gave a hand signal, and two armed security guards moved in.

  “Now, why would I grant you that, Mr. Whoever-you-are?” he asked, noticing that while his visitors bore rank insignia of various levels, none of them had name tags on their Secret Service uniform tunics.

  “We have reason to believe that the late Colonel James Parker may have ordered some of his associates to try to compromise the Treatment computers,” the Secret Service officer explained slowly and clearly, “in preparation for his anticipated television broadcast tomorrow night. Obviously, that broadcast is not going to happen now, but we still feel that we must ensure the integrity of the Treatment process.”

  “That’s all well and good, Major. …?” Kesselman said, waiting for the officer to fill in the blank by volunteering his name.

  When the SS man said nothing, he continued, “The Department has its own computer experts, sir, and we will test the system ourselves, if we feel the need. So, who exactly is this ‘we’ that you speak of?”

  “We are working for a high government official,” the largest of the visitors answered. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him? A man named… Billings?”

  The Secret Service men noticed that Kesselman’s face paled by several shades.

  “You’re under orders from… Mr. Billings himself?” he hesitantly asked the oldest officer, who nodded curtly.

  Trying not to appear as rattled as he felt, he asked with forced calmness, “May I see your orders, gentlemen?”

  “No.”

  This unexpected refusal shook him further. The SS officers could see that he was near panic. He said weakly, “I’m supposed to verify your orders.”

  “Then I suggest you call him,” the oldest officer said, moving the desk phone so that it was within Kesselman’s reach.

  He looked at the phone as though he didn’t know what it was. Finally he picked up the handset and asked, “Do you know Mr. Billings’ number?”

  “Yes.”

  Kesselman prepared to key in the number, but the SS officer said nothing more.

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “No. Look it up yourself.”

  To the clerk’s questioning look the SS major replied, “If I gave you a number, it might occur to you or someone else that I was directing you to an accomplice of mine, who would pretend to be Mr. Billings and ‘confirm’ my orders. This way, you can satisfy yourself that you are actually speaking to the real man.”

  Kesselman saw the logic in this, and punched the button to connect him to the Department’s operator. “Get me the office of Mr. Billings, please… yes, that Mr. Billings… I know it’s unusual, but it’s urgent.” After a short pause, “Would I speak to his assistant? Well…” He looked at the Secret Service officers for the answer.

  The oldest man shook his head. “No, you must speak to Billings personally. This is such a top-secret matter that I doubt any of his assistants are aware of it.”

  He relayed this information and, “Now I’m on hold.”

  The visitors could tell when the phone was answered at the other end, as Kesselman suddenly stopped leaning against the counter and stood up ramrod straight.

  “Mr. Billings… sir,” he sputtered, “My name is Kesselman, from Education… yes, sir, and I have three of your officers in front of me… no, sir, I don’t know their names…”

  The SS men could hear Billings’ side of the conversation, since he spoke quite loudly, but so far he had said nothing of interest.

  “Anyway,” Kesselman continued, “they say they’re here on your orders, sir.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Billings huffed. “Why would my people be at your department?”

  “They told me it was your idea, sir,” the clerk replied, trembling. When Billings said nothing, he continued, “They said that you thought some of Colonel Parker’s people might try to sabotage the Treatment system, and that you told them to come here and check its integrity… sir.”

  After another short pause, they could hear Billings say, “Oh, yes… that… well... I, uh… did order them to, uh… make that check. Yes indeed, Kesterman.”

  “It’s, uh, Kesselman, sir.”

  “I’m, uh, just surprised that… they’re there already. Put the senior officer on the phone, Kesterman.”

  “It’s…” He sighed and handed the phone to the oldest visitor. “He wants to speak to you, Major.”

  “Good to hear from you again, Mr. Billings,” the SS officer said, holding the phone close to his ear so that only he could hear the other half of the conversation.

  “Who is this?” Billings demanded.

  “Yes, sir, we got here as fast as we could,” the officer replied loudly. “The Secret Service prides itself on its efficiency and timeliness, as you have stressed to us on countless occasions.”

  “I said, what is your name, mister?” Billings asked menacingly.

  “Yes, sir,” was the strident response, “we’ll get right on it, sir. I’m sure these boys will be happy to cooperate fully. And, may I say, sir…”

  The officer lowered his voice to just above a whisper.

  “Thanks… Ted.”

  He hung up the phone quickly and picked up his case.

  “You heard him, Kesterman, Get that door open.”

  “Actually, it’s Kesselman, Major.”

  “I guess it is,” he allowed as he rounded the desk, followed by his colleagues. When they got to the door of the computer center, it was being held open by one of the receptionist’s associates. The major stepped aside, allowing the other two to precede him. He then spoke to the man holding the door.

  “Would some of your men like to observe what we do in here?”

  “I think the Department has a regulation requiring that there be at least two witnesses.”

  “I thought that might be the case,” the SS major replied. “That’s why I asked.”

  “Unless, you think, maybe,” the Education guy wavered, “Mr. Billings… wouldn’t like it.”

  “Well,” he pondered, “It sounds like your Department wants you to watch. Now, Mr. Billings didn’t say you couldn’t watch, or that you shouldn’t.” When the doorman signaled to some of his associates, the officer spoke again. “On the other hand… this is a hush-hush operation, and he didn’t exactly say you could, either. So, would he mind? You never know.”

  The Education man waved off his fellow workers, because he did know what happened to people who crossed Mr. Bill
ings.

  “You guys just go and… do your thing. We’ll wait here.”

  The Secret Service officer smiled slightly, turned and went in.

  Once inside, the junior officers took their equipment and assumed their assigned positions, while the Secret Service major opened his case and removed a laptop computer. He attached a few wires to one of the mainframe units, started up a program and within seconds had achieved a connection with its operating system. Using a combination of software from both computers, he was able to drill down to the databases which he found, to his surprise, were not encrypted. He did have several passwords to get through, but his password-deciphering programs quickly made mincemeat of them. Some of them, in fact, were so simple that he was able to guess what they were with no computer assistance.

  He worked fast, but only about ten minutes into the procedure, the three men detected a commotion in the vicinity of the reception desk. Several loud voices were followed by a two-second burst of automatic gunfire, at which point the voices abruptly stopped. Less than a minute later, the door to the computer center burst open, and a single man entered. He was wearing a dark suit and brandishing a submachine gun.

  The SS major did not look up, but made a few final keystrokes on his laptop. A progress bar appeared on his screen, indicating that something was happening. Satisfied with his work, he spoke to his two associates.

  “Gentlemen, in case you are unfamiliar with his face, the man who just came busting in here is none other than my old pal, Edwin Billings. He will tell you that his friends call him ‘Ted’, which would be true enough… if he had any.”

  He turned, and the two men looked at each other.

  “I knew it,” the newcomer said, pointing his weapon. “I knew it had to be you, Sam Swenson.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Once the executions were concluded and the TV camera had been turned off, the body of Jim Parker was placed in a plain casket and loaded into the back of a personnel carrier. Two soldiers sat in the back with it, General Chambers climbed into the passenger seat, and Dirk Tedeschi drove. They left the compound and headed west, driving slowly so that the casket and the men around it were not subjected to too many bumps.

  They arrived at the Stork building and parked as near to the door as they could. Between the four men, they were able to carry the casket to the front door, which was held open for them by Mike Wilkins. He had arrived at the building some time earlier, to be certain of intercepting his father when he showed up for his three o’clock appointment that afternoon.

  As quickly as they could, they brought the coffin into the vestibule and with some trouble, managed to navigate it through the door which separated the lobby from the carpeted hall leading to the dining room and the stairs which went down to the trains. This door had been propped open since the first time they were here, as none of them had a thumbprint which would activate the door’s scanner from the lobby side, and the body of the “snooty bellboy,” whose thumb was the last one to open the door, had long since been removed.

  They were about halfway down the corridor when trouble began. Mike came running through the door, allowing it to close behind him. This was not a problem, since the door could be opened easily from the hall side, but the news he brought his fellow officers was.

  “The President just arrived!” he whispered fiercely to the general and Dirk. “His party just pulled into the lot.”

  “He must have heard what Jim said about his ‘playthings’,” Dirk commented.

  “Probably came to make sure they’re not damaged beyond repair,” added Chambers. “You better get out there and stall him, Captain.”

  Mike swiftly removed his Army tunic and began putting on one that he had liberated from a Secret Service officer. “And you guys better make tracks down those stairs, in case I can’t.”

  Mike made it back into the lobby just in time to resume his position behind the counter, as if he were the agent normally on duty. The two front doors were opened by his escorting agents and President William Thompson came in. Mike had never seen the man in person before, and he was not impressed now. He was shorter, and much less imposing in person than he appeared in print or on television.

  After greeting the President with as much enthusiasm as he knew how to fake, and asking the man to “please be seated for a moment,” Mike found his attention once again drawn to the parking lot by the sound of another approaching vehicle. He glanced at his watch and knew who this had to be, even before his father opened the front door and stepped in. Thankfully, before he recognized his own son behind the counter, the elder Wilkins’ attention was drawn to President Thompson sitting calmly and quietly in the waiting area, as though waiting for a reservation in a restaurant, displaying none of the “take-charge” attitude so often attributed to him by the media and other government officials. He walked over and introduced himself, whereupon the President rose and gave Wilkins a rather limp handshake, all under the watchful gaze of his Secret Service escort. When he resumed his seat, Wilkins turned and looked toward the counter. A look of surprise crossed his face at seeing Mike “working” there in a strange uniform, but before he said anything, he noticed his son giving him an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He understood at once and approached the desk in a business-like manner.

  “Michael Wilkins,” he announced himself. “I was told I have a three o’clock appointment.”

  Captain Wilkins made a great show of checking various computerized listings to verify this information, as the Secret Service escorts would have expected him to do. Satisfied that he had appeared “officious” enough, he looked up at his father.

  “Yes, Mr…” he glanced back at the screen as though unsure how to pronounce the name, “…Wilkins, you are scheduled for induction into Stork today.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what that means, sir.”

  “Not to worry, Mr. Wilkins, everything will be explained to you as we go. In fact, you may be able to gather some information during the short trip to the orientation facility. Because we only have one vehicle at our disposal today, you and President Thompson will be traveling together.”

  “That is unacceptable,” said one of the agents who had entered with Thompson, rising to his feet.

  “I don’t recall asking for your permission,” Mike replied coolly.

  “You know as well as I do that the President always enters that… place alone. And, where’s Quimby?”

  Mike had turned his attention back to his computer but looked up long enough to ask, “Who the hell is Quimby?”

  The Secret Service man produced a pistol and pointed it at Mike. “He’s the agent who’s on duty this time of day. Now, who the hell are you, mister?”

  “Oh yes, the ‘snooty bellboy’,” Mike replied, looking the agent in the eye fearlessly. “He’s… indisposed—the same way you’re going to be if you keep pointing that gun at me.”

  As he talked, Mike pressed a button under the counter. Instantly, all the doors leading into the lobby opened, and a dozen Army soldiers came pouring in, guns trained on the Secret Service men. The agents were outnumbered three to one. Insanely, they made the same mistake that three other agents had made in the dining room a few days earlier when confronted by Buck Keller and his men—they went for their guns. The results were the same. In seconds, Mike’s father and the President were the only non-Army people alive in the lobby.

  Mike immediately took charge. “You guys get down to the train. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Mike opened his cell phone and accessed the walkie-talkie feature. “Stork Leader to Ghetto One.”

  “Honor thy father,” came the challenge, in a strangely familiar voice.

  “And thy mother,” Mike responded.

  “Proceed.”

  “Birthday Present secured. Ready for Tunnel Inspection. And, good news—I’m bringing a Guest for dinner.”

  “Even better than I had hoped,” said the voice on the other end.

  Mike pocketed hi
s phone and said, “Come along, Mr. President.”

  Thompson stood and walked silently toward the door to the hallway which Mike was holding open.

  “You too, Dad.”

  As Wilkins approached the door, Thompson stopped just inside the hall and turned.

  “I take it, you know this officer?” he asked the older man about the younger.

  “Yes, I do,” was the unmistakably proud reply, “this is Army Captain Mike Wilkins the Ninth… my son.”

  They expected a typical Thompson-style response, one that was accusatory or at the very least confrontational. Instead, Thompson merely said, “Oh,” as though the matter was only mildly interesting to him, and proceeded down the hall.

  The elder Wilkins’ stomach was feeling rather queasy from witnessing the carnage in the lobby, and being caught in the crossfire, but this was apparently not the case with the President. He turned toward the dining room, saying, “I usually like to have a little refreshment before going downstairs.” He stopped just inside the entry, looked to his right, turned quite pale and seemingly changed his mind about eating. Father and son looked in as well, and saw what the President had seen. Both found it strange, but hardly terrifying.