by John Bromley
“Finally got some time off, and I feel like celebrating,” he told the man, producing a large denomination bill to prove that he could afford it.
When the bottle came, it turned out to be only a fifth, not the magnum that Ted had hoped for. He popped it open somewhat noisily, attracting the attention of the men seated around him. When they turned to look at him, he smiled at them, while pouring himself a glass of the bubbly. He then reacted as one might to a vibrating cell phone. When he reached into his tunic pocket with his left hand, his fellow passengers lost interest and returned to what they had been doing. Ted held the phone wedged between his chin and shoulder and spoke quietly into it, while simultaneously opening his capsule-like container. He placed a single grain from within it on his napkin, then resealed and pocketed the capsule. Placing the bottle between his knees, he used the napkin as a funnel to drop the salt-like grain into the champagne.
When this task was finished, he placed the bottle back on the tray and looked surreptitiously around. No one had been watching him.
He hung up his cell phone with a disgusted expression, even though it had never rung, and he had been speaking to no one. Once again, he summoned the flight attendant.
“Got new orders,” he grumpily informed the man, loudly enough for those around him to hear if they wanted. “Now I gotta be on duty when I get off this plane. Shit. They give you three days off, and then turn around and take it away. Anyway... since I can’t drink it now, thanks to those assholes, why don’t you take the champagne and, you know, pass it around the plane? Don’t want it to go to waste, since it’s all paid for and everything.”
“I think the passengers would like that very much,” the steward said.
“Well, I hope so. You don’t have to say who it’s from—just some guy feeling generous. Just because I had some bad luck doesn’t mean everyone else has to. Who knows – maybe some of these guys got something to celebrate. One thing, though...”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wouldn’t be giving any to the pilots. Don’t want any tipsy guys flying the plane now, do we?”
“Absolutely not,” agreed the steward, as both men laughed at the idea.
The bottle disappeared and Ted settled back into his seat for the remaining half hour of the flight. As they began to descend, the pilot gave the order for the flight attendants to “secure the cabin for landing.”
Ted detected no movement in the aisles by the crew.
The pilot, unaware of anything amiss, brought the plane in for a normal landing. The two rear landing gears made a thump as they contacted the ground, followed almost immediately by another thump from within the cabin. As the plane came to a stop at its assigned gate, Ted stood up and looked around.
Some passengers were getting to their feet to retrieve their luggage from the overhead bins, but Ted could see that many of them remained seated. Some had closed their eyes and appeared to be sleeping; those with open eyes were staring blankly into space. The three airline stewards had all been seated on jump seats. Two of them remained sitting there, motionless, staring at each other. The third had fallen off his seat and was sprawled on the floor; that was the other thump that Ted heard when the plane touched down.
As he stepped through the door, Ted smiled inwardly to himself. By his count, his one little grain of poison had produced thirteen bodies; ten men and three six-or seven-year-old boys.
“Imagine,” he thought to himself, “giving champagne to a six-year-old. What were these people thinking?”
Anyway, he thought as he resumed his internal dialogue, it's good to know this stuff still works.
Yes, it is.
I was afraid that some potency might have been lost over time.
That doesn’t appear to be the case... at high altitude anyway.
Quite right. One more test is necessary.
Then... the nation’s future is sealed.
CHAPTER 49
Tuesday evening. Buck moved briskly down the pathway toward the “Second White House.” Peter followed him but wound up lagging behind. This was because he took time out to politely greet each woman he passed, most of whom smiled at him in return. He allowed his gaze to linger for a time on many of them, somewhat longer on the ones he considered especially attractive.
A whistle from Mike, standing at the door of their destination, put an abrupt end to his appreciation of the varieties of female forms, and he hurried the last several yards to the house. When he arrived, Mike pointed to a door and informed him that he was wanted “in there.”
Peter entered the designated room, stopped and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Nothing changed. Standing before him was...
“Mr. Colonel, sir!” Peter shouted ecstatically. Forgetting whatever military decorum he might have known, he rushed over to Parker and enclosed the man in a bear-hug.
“Peter... Peter,” Jim gasped, the air having been almost completely squeezed out of him. “Mr. Colonel, sir!” Peter shouted ecstatically. Forgetting whatever military decorum he might have known, he rushed over to Parker and enclosed the man in a bear-hug.
“Peter... Peter,” Jim gasped, the air having been almost completely squeezed out of him.
Moments later, Peter remembered that this was not exactly the way that “soldiers” behaved. Feeling somewhat foolish, he released his grip on the colonel and stepped back a pace. He tried to render a proper salute, but he couldn’t wipe the joyful grin off his face, no matter how hard he tried.
“It’s good to see you again too, Peter,” Jim said as he returned the salute crisply. Peter vowed to himself that he would practice until his own salute was as good as that.
“You're not dead, sir,” Peter stated the obvious.
“No, Peter,” Jim responded. “I decided to steal a page from Sam’s book, so to speak, and fake my own death. In the back of his semi, Sam had some Hollywood-style ‘special-effects blood’, and capsules to release it at the right time. He has quite an arsenal of supplies in that truck of his.”
“Comes from spending twenty years trying to outwit the Secret Service,” Mike added, having slipped into the room unnoticed. “It takes a lot of tricks, and the stuff you need to carry them out, to be successful.”
“You knew the Colonel was still alive?” Peter asked Mike.
“Yes, he did,” Jim answered for him. He could tell that Peter seemed to be getting upset at being left “out of the loop.”
“Everyone in the chain of command knew what was happening,” Jim explained to Peter. “General Chambers had to command the firing squad, so that he could make sure that all the rifles were loaded with blanks. The fact that Mr. Billings ordered him to do it was just good luck on our part—we had hoped he would do something like that, to be especially mean to the general for daring to be on ‘my side’, but we couldn’t be sure. The general did a good job of pretending that he was ‘outraged’ by the command, but in the end, as we planned, he ‘agreed’ to do it.”
“I saw you getting shot on TV this morning,” Peter said. “We were sitting in the airport terminal, and they were running the whole thing on TV while we waited to go to Washington. They said a Secret Service commander had come to your tent with a gun in his hand.”
“That was true,” Jim admitted, “but what they didn’t say was that he was holding the gun by the barrel, and presenting me with the pistol-grip. He knew he had been beaten, so he was making the universal gesture of surrender.”
“Why didn't they just say that?” Peter asked irritably. “It would have made me feel a lot better. Seeing it on TV made me feel terrible all over again.”
“They didn’t say anything because I told them not to,” Jim responded.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Peter grumbled.
“No, it wasn’t. I didn’t like keeping you in the dark, but it was necessary. Remember what I once told you about having to do things in war that you don’t always like? Well, we won this battle, Peter, but the war is not yet over. See, it’s very important that cer
tain people think the Secret Service won yesterday, and that I am now dead. If they believe that, then the General and I think we can figure out what they’ll do next, and be ready for it. And you actually helped us convince the ‘bad guys’ of my death.”
“How did I do that?”
“Just by being... who you are.”
“You mean, because I’m not very bright,” Peter blurted out.
“No, not that so much,” Jim answered, “but because you ‘wear your emotions on your sleeve’, as they say. Right now, you’re upset because we lied to you, and anyone who looks at you can see that. When you saw me being ‘executed’ on TV, it upset you, and if anyone had seen your reaction, they would have been more convinced of my death, since it was even making a Secret Service ‘officer’ unhappy. That was the reaction we needed from you.
“Now, if you had known that the ‘execution’ was a fake, you might have found it funny, and might even have smiled or laughed about it, without thinking. If someone had seen that, they might have begun to wonder if the whole thing was real.
“It was the same with the soldiers on the field and in the firing squad. They had to keep their faces away from the TV camera, just in case anyone in the audience recognized them and figured out that we had Army soldiers pretending to be Secret Service agents. These were probably long shots, but they were risks that we just couldn’t take.”
“So... I did help, didn’t I?” Peter asked, his face brightening.
“Yes, you did,” Jim affirmed with a smile of his own. He extended his right hand. “So, are we friends again?”
Peter’s instinctive response was to give Jim another hug, but half a step into it, he thought better of it. “You bet we are, sir,” he said enthusiastically, shaking the colonel’s hand.
“Good,” said Jim. “Now, the reason I asked you to come in here is that I need your help again, with another thing that’s bothering me.”
“Anything, sir.”
Jim moved over to a chair, and sat down in it, first picking up the blank sheet of paper which had been resting on the seat.
“Something is written on the other side of this piece of paper, Peter. I'm going to give it to you, and when I tell you, I want you to turn it over and read what it says. Don’t look it over first, don’t study it at all—just read it.”
“Out loud?” Peter asked nervously.
“Definitely out loud,” Jim replied. “I need to hear what you say.”
“But I don’t read very well, because... you know.”
“That doesn't matter. Yes, there are some hard words on the paper, but don’t worry—I don’t care if you mispronounce them. Just do the best you can, OK?”
“OK,” Peter said dubiously, taking the proffered sheet of paper, blank side up. Jim could see that his hands were shaking.
“Here we go,” Jim said, settling back in the chair. “Turn it over and read it—now.”
Peter flipped the page over and, as instructed, immediately began to read, slowly and hesitantly.
“‘You are a... dis... grace... disgrace?... to the... uniform and you are... here... by... dis... honest...’ No, I mean... ‘dis... honor... ab... ly... dis... charged from the Army.’”
Jim stood up and took the sheet of paper from Peter’s clammy hands. “That was fine. Thank you, Peter,” he said as he strode out of the room.
Peter wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. “I didn't do too good, did I?” he asked Mike.
“On the contrary,” Mike responded, “I think you told him exactly what he wanted to know.”
Peter heaved a huge sigh of relief and smiled.
CHAPTER 50
Late Tuesday evening. Edwin Billings had deplaned without incident at the Winnipeg airport, and by sheer good fortune had encountered a Secret Service agent named Clyde Mathers who had a car. The uniform Billings was wearing indicated that he outranked Mathers, so Ted ordered him to drive him to the Stork building. Mathers’ protestations that he was waiting for someone went unheeded by Ted, who gruffly directed his underling to the parking garage.
The drive to Stork headquarters was long, but Mathers was able to keep awake, thanks to the coffee Ted had been nice enough to buy for him.
Shortly after midnight, Mathers pulled into the unlit parking lot in front of the unlit Stork building. Billings asked his driver if he would mind getting out and opening the passenger door for him, as his broken right arm prevented him from doing it himself. Mathers thought about reminding his rider that his left hand would work just fine for that task, but he had already seen how useless it was to disagree with this man. He got out, came around and opened the door for Billings, who picked up his belongings, thanked Mathers for the ride, and walked off toward the door of the building. The agent was somewhat miffed that Ted had not offered to reimburse him for any of the gas this rather long detour had consumed, but said nothing of it. He climbed back into his car, calming his nerves with a sip of the now-lukewarm coffee. He drove out of the parking lot and headed back to the south.
From the doorway of the building, Ted watched as the glow from the headlights moved uniformly down the road. A few seconds later it abruptly stopped moving but continued to shine. This could happen, Ted knew, if someone were to, say, die behind the wheel—a very real probability if a grain of Ted’s poison found its way into, say, someone’s coffee cup while that someone was opening a door for his passenger—and the unguided car were to then strike, say, a tree at high speed. He also knew that if the impact had enough force, it might even produce a fireball, which would engulf the car, the tree and the driver. Before he had finished the thought, that exact chain of events took place.
So, it does work at ground level, he nodded in contentment.
That is good to know.
He proceeded through the front door into the Stork building’s lobby, which was deserted and seemed to be lit only by emergency lighting. He crossed the room and was unnerved to see that the door leading to the tunnel, which should have required a thumbprint to open, was ajar. Cursing a nameless person for his inefficiency, he went through the door, past the canteen, and down into the tunnel. The sight which greeted him gave him pause.
Neither of the trains was at this end of the tunnel, but that was the least of his concerns. It was sufficiently bright around the platform for him to see that, down the tunnel, there was no light, and where the shadows began to form, there were large piles of dirt, pieces of concrete from the tunnel roof and floor, and twisted bits of steel from the rails.
The tunnel had been destroyed.
A lesser man might have paled at this challenge, but Billings had never been a “lesser man.”
Traversing ten miles of tunnel on foot, around and over piles of debris, in complete darkness, with a broken arm, carrying a briefcase containing a lethal poison.
Not the easiest thing I've ever done, he thought, but...
We must do what we can, for the good of the nation.
Even though the citizens of this country are heartless.
We must ensure their future.
I must persevere. And I shall.
The future of the nation depends on us.
CHAPTER 51
After breakfast on Wednesday, Jim found Peter out on the pathway enjoying the fresh air, and asked him for another favor.
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. Come with me, please.”
Jim led Peter into the house next to the Second White House. They stopped at a doorway leading into one of the larger rooms.
“Angela and I are going to spend most of today visiting with other women in the Ghetto. I need as much information from these people as I can get for my telecast tonight. In the meantime, I wonder if you would look after this man for us.”
Peter looked into the room and his mouth dropped open in awe.
“Mr. Colonel... that's the President in there.”
“I’m well aware of that, Peter,” Jim replied.
“But that’s... the President!” Pet
er exclaimed as loudly as he could and still be whispering. “What do I know about presidents? Can’t someone else do it? Someone who knows more... stuff?”
“Mike and Cynthia are coming with us, and I’m assigning other duties to the rest of the men. Besides, believe it or not, you’re the best man for this particular job.”
“But... how can I be?” Peter asked nervously. “What can I do with him? What do I say to him?”
“Trust me—you’ll think of something,” Jim said, checking his watch. Before leaving, he placed his hand on the shoulder of the terrified younger man. “Remember—he may be the President, but he’s a man, just like you. Take him for a walk; play games with him. Just keep your eye on him until we get back.”
After Jim left, Peter stood looking into the room, unsure what he should do. The Colonel had given him a job, and he had promised himself never to let that man down, but this...
He almost started to cry, but then remembered the colonel’s words.
He’s a man, just like you...
He decided there was no choice. Forcing his feet to move forward, he timidly entered the room where President Thompson sat in a chair doing... not much of anything.
Peter was surprised to see that the President was relatively young. When you saw him on TV, you couldn’t be sure of his age, but he appeared to be no older than Colonel Jim.
Thompson heard him as he approached, rose to his feet and faced him. Peter stopped about six feet away.
“Mr. President, sir? My name is Peter,” he said, tentatively offering his hand.
“Hello, Peter... I'm William,” was the reply, followed by an equally uncertain hand offering.
Peter saw that, even extended, their hands were still about four feet apart. He took the initiative and stepped closer so the men could actually touch one another. The President’s handshake, while not firm, seemed genuine.
