Face Blind

by Len Melvin

  Simon now doubted that. I bet there’s someone up there right now. But a lone shooter wasn’t enough. Not to really land a blow against the government. Just killing the President wouldn’t be enough. The others were as bad and corrupt as he was. It would most likely be a coordinated effort designed to get them all. But how?

  The area had been swept for explosives multiple times and there would be another sweep before the rally began. A six-foot high wrought-iron gate, anchored every twenty yards by square brick columns, ran around the perimeter of the field on three sides. The long brick building with the bell tower provided a barrier on the fourth side. Twenty yards outside of the wrought-iron gate an electrical fence provided a second impediment to entry. And thirty yards outside the electrical fence they’d set up another barrier with a temporary checkpoint. People entering the rally had to go through the checkpoint and check their weapons. Before they could approach the entrance to the electric fence, they had to proceed through another checkpoint where they were body scanned for weapons and explosives and their retinas examined to see whether they got a match on any criminal or terrorist database. They were then funneled into the security fence entrance by a wall of razor wire set up on either side.

  So everyone had to go through three levels of security before they had access to the field in front of the podium. A ground assault, even from coordinated forces, would face intractable obstacles, not to mention the array of weaponry and assault forces that would be providing protection.

  And not the air. The Apaches and the F-15s would make sure of that. Drones floated fifty yards over the field at each corner of the perimeter, their laser guns swiveling mechanically at brief intervals from one side to another. Hover Bikes flew to and fro on the fringes of the field, their black clad riders, with assault rifles slung around their shoulders, seeking out any potential threats beyond the security fences.

  So not on the ground or in the air. Simon was puzzled. The area was virtually impregnable. To attack the rally with this much protection in place would both be crazy and suicidal. Maybe I made a mistake. The Malouf thing is crazy. Maybe I’m just spooked and too tired to think clearly.

  No. He had studied enough assassinations to know that lots of leaders had been killed in situations where they thought they were safe. And it was Malouf and his friend next to the motorcade. He knew it.

  Fine. He would assume he was right and there would be an attempt today.

  So when? For sure, sometime after the President exited the limousine. It was a beast. And that happened to be its nickname— ‘The Beast.’ It was armor-plated with a blast proof undercarriage and weighed over four tons. Unless you had something like a stinger missile it was virtually impenetrable. And no one, for sure, could get a weapon that big close to the rally.

  Maybe it was just a lone shooter then.

  No, it was too big an opportunity. In two years, he had never seen a rally with so many higher-ups on one stage. It’s almost as if it was planned.

  “Hmmm,” he said aloud, as the thought occurred to him. So someone, somewhere, in a very high leadership position, instead of having a briefcase slipped into a crowded room, had decided to do it in a public forum when everyone was in one place. Who? he wondered. Well, who is the highest ranked leader not on the stage?

  A heavy-set man moving with a slight limp, interrupted Simon’s train of thought. “You’re here a little early, Burdette.”

  “Couldn’t sleep. My goddamned knee is acting up,” Burdette replied.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. It’s an old football injury.”

  “Don’t tell that to Mick. He’ll put you behind a computer in Protective Intelligence.”

  Burdette knelt and rubbed his knee, “Maybe that might not be so bad.” He grimaced and raised up. “At least I won’t have to listen to that same goddamned speech the Boss gives at every rally.”

  Simon laughed for the first time in a while. “I know what you mean. It’s one reason I try to stay on the fringe of the crowd—so I don’t have to see the faces of all of the people chanting the same slogans.”

  “I know. They can be vicious. I always think, if there’s an attempt on him, let it be at the beginning so we don’t have to hear that same goddamned speech.”

  Simon’s hand went reflexively to the SIG Sauer P365 nestled in the holster under his shirt. Burdette might get his wish today, he thought. An attempt will come and it will be well-coordinated, deadly and probably from different sides.

  The question was only when and how.

  ◆◆◆

  Gaby grabbed the jugs, empty water bottles, and the leftover swabs and stuffed them into her backpack. Her orders were explicit. Nothing except the rifle was to be left behind. She packed away everything that might have her DNA attached to it, then dropped the backpack.

  She dragged a box to the window and stepped up for a better view. The field in front of the podium was full of security people. Overhead a jet flew over followed by the distant sound of the rotors of a lone helicopter. The sudden whir of a hover bike startled her and she took an involuntary step back off of the box. She stepped back up on the box and saw the mini-helicopter, hovering in place with a pilot and a gunner both staring at the Bell Tower. Gaby stepped away from the window as it neared the slatted opening. It lingered there for a moment and then peeled off and headed toward a wooded area.

  She glanced back at the men on the ground working on the podium and shook her head in annoyance. She wasn’t sure from where she stood, she’d have a shot. I can’t back out now, no matter what. The others will be waiting on me to fire the first shot.

  Gaby picked the 300 Win Mag from its case and surveyed the podium through the scope. She had already cleaned it three times, out of caution and boredom, and resisted the temptation to do so again. Pulling the bolt back, she checked to make sure there were cartridges in place and then rammed it back in place and leaned the rifle carefully against the wall, the barrel pointed to the ceiling. She wiped away the beads of sweat trickling down her face and stood once more on the box. The crowd began to swell and even though it was early they were shouting the familiar chants.

  It won’t be long now.

  ◆◆◆

  “Goddammit,” Connor swore under his breath. In front of them sat a computer monitor, it’s screen flickering with grainy grey images. Of the remaining monitors in the tunnels, only one was functional. And they needed to be able to communicate for the plan to work.

  Cori stood just behind him, eyes narrowed in concern. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

  Everyone gathered in a semi-circle around Connor, only their eyes visible through the masks, waiting for his response. Connor chewed on the corner of a fingernail and then, in frustration, thumped the side of the monitor with an open hand. “Okay, let me think this through. We go on the first shot of the sniper but from down here, only the person in front of the monitor can tell when that is. And the only monitor that’s active in a tunnel is hers.” Connor motioned in Cori’s direction. “The monitor in the cavern works too, but how do we get word to everyone that the attack has begun if our cell phones don’t work?”

  “How come they don’t work?” one of the men asked. “You think they’re on to us?”

  “If they were on to us, we’d already be dead.” Another grunted from under his mask. “It’s probably standard procedure.”

  “Well, we should have thought of that,” another said.

  “We should have but we didn’t,” Cori said. “What about if we use e-mail?”

  “I thought of that. The data centers have been disabled.”

  “Satellite watches?”

  “Scrambled.”

  “Shit. What are we gonna do? We have to be able to communicate for this to work.”

  “You are going to be in the cavern in front of the monitor here,” he told Number Eight, then turned to Cori. “She will be able to see from her monitor by the exit. Hers is the farthest from the stage so maybe th
at’s why they missed it. When all hell breaks loose you and she will be able to see it from your monitors.” Connor pointed to Cori and then looked at the others. “She starts the attack from our end. Then,” he looked at Number Eight, “you’re going to have to contact the rest of us.”

  “I want to be above ground killing Fascists,” Number Eight protested.

  “Why are you going to let him stay down here?” Cori gestured toward Number Eight without looking at him. “You’re putting him in the most responsible position and he’s, like, the fuck-up of the group.”

  “Hey, you little shit,” Number Eight snapped, whirling in her direction.

  Cori whipped the Zombie Knife, the serrated edges glinting in the light, from the leather scabbard attached to her belt and brandished it in Number Eight’s face. “Take another step, you fat motherfucker.”

  “Hey, hey!” Connor pushed himself between Cori and Number Eight, arms extended, “let’s remember why we’re here.”

  Neither of them moved at first, and then Cori took a step back and put the half-machete back in its scabbard.

  “He stays down here in the cavern and coordinates things,” Connor told Cori, his voice firm. “You,” Connor turned to Number Eight, “are going to coordinate the attack. Do your job right and you’ll be responsible for a lot more dead Fascists from here than you could be above ground. Got it?” Connor’s voice had risen and the question lingered in the air.

  “Okay,” Number Eight grumbled.

  Connor stepped from between the two and turned his attention to the rest of the group. Now,” he continued, “we have to be able to communicate to attack effectively. Anyone got any ideas on how to do this?”

  “What about we just come out of the ground blasting at a designated time?” Number Four asked.

  Cori shook her head. “He could be late. In fact, he’s usually late. We could come out blasting with no one there.”

  “She,” Number Six pointed at Cori, “will have a monitor in front of her. When she sees that someone’s shooting, she comes out and fires her dynamite arrows. We could come out of the ground when we hear the explosions.”

  “If we can hear the explosions underground. That hasn’t been tested. And what if we can’t hear them and she’s out there by herself?”

  There was a long silence and then Number Two held up a hand. “My kids got these walkie talkies for Christmas a couple of years ago. I think they’re in my attic. I could try to find those.”

  “What?” asked Number Five.

  “What’s a walkie talkie?” Number Six added.

  “I’ve heard of those before. I think they were used like eighty years ago in World War Two,” Number Three said.

  “How does it work?” Connor asked.

  Number Two shrugged. “I don't know. I know the kids talked through them and had fun for about a week and then they stopped using them.”

  “They work by radio transmission,” Cori said. “We use them out in the swamp when there’s no cell phone coverage. They work pretty well.”

  “Swamp?” Number Six asked.

  “I work in the swamp sometimes in my work.”

  “Tell me about it,” Connor said.

  “Well, they’re kind’a big and awkward to hold. There’s a speaker in one end and a microphone in the other. It has an antenna on top and uses a radio channel. You push a button to talk.”

  “Can one transmit to more than one person?”

  “Yeah. Only one person can talk at a time but anybody who’s got one can listen as long as you’re on the same frequency.”

  Connor was silent for a moment and then turned sharply to Number Two. “How many do you have?”

  “Four, I think. If I can find them.”

  “And they work?”

  “They should. They were only used for about a week.”

  “How long would it take for you to get them?”

  “I can probably be back in about an hour.”

  “Okay, go.” Connor pointed at the stairs. “Go now and be careful. Take your mask off on the way out and put it back on when you come back in.”

  “Right.” Number Two moved to the stairs and began climbing up. He pushed on the door, peered out the opening and then thrust upward with one hand as the other hand removed his mask. He clambered out and closed the door behind him.

  “It’s taking a big chance. If someone sees him going in and out of the ground, well then…” Cori let the statement hang in the air.

  “I know,” Connor said, “but it’s a bigger chance we’re taking not being able to communicate.”

  “So,” Number Eight began slowly, ticking off fingers, one by one, as he spoke, “we got one functional monitor at the end of her tunnel?” Connor nodded. “And one monitor in the cavern?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The other monitors are out of commission,” He kept going without waiting for an answer. “We have to be able to communicate for the plan to work but there’s no cell phone or e-mail or satellite coverage. But we have four walkie talkies that we don’t even know if Number Two can find and if he does, whether they work and if they do, we have never used them and are not really sure how they’re used.”

  Connor nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “And if he can find them and if they work and if we find out how to use them, there’s still only four walkie talkies for eight people.” There was silence in the cavern. “How is that gonna work?”

  Connor grinned. “I guess we’ll need a new plan.”

  Cori slapped a hand to her brow. “Ah, shit.”

  Beaux rapped on the door to the hotel room. After a moment she heard a noise and the door cracked open. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Can you let me in?”

  The door swung open and Christina raced into the hall and embraced Beaux. “Where have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you.” Christina released Beaux and then hugged her again. “We were so worried about you.”

  “I tried to call. My cell phone doesn’t work.”

  “They always disable them before a rally. Oh, my God, we were so worried.” Christina stepped back and straightened her robe. “Beaux, what is going on?”

  “It’s a long story. Where’s Uncle Simon?” Beaux stuck her hand into her bag.

  “He’s gone. He couldn’t sleep.”

  “He’s not here?” Beaux’s voice trailed off. She pulled her hand back out of her bag, her shoulders sagging.

  “Beaux, something’s going to happen today, isn’t it?” Beaux turned away. “Beaux?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “It’s Malouf, isn’t it?”

  “Christina, I…”

  “Beaux,” Christina put a hand on Beaux’s arm, “I’m pregnant.”

  Beaux froze. “Christina, I…”

  “Beaux, I’m pregnant. I don’t want my child to be born without a father. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

  A lone tear began to trickle down Beaux’s cheek. “Christina…” she hesitated. “I’m sorry.” She backed away. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

  Beaux stared at Christina, then whirled and sprinted down the hall.

  “Beaux.” Christina yelled after her. Christina went to the door. “Beaux,” she called down the hallway.

  Beaux kept on running.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Christ,” Simon muttered.

  He leaned closer to Burdette in order to be heard over the clamor of the crowd. “There’s still an hour until the rally and they’re already chanting.”

  “Yeah, I’ve never seen a crowd this large.”

  “The Boss is going to love this.”

  “Damn,” Burdette sighed, “that means he’ll stay longer. You better get ready for every goddamned applause line in the book and some that you probably haven’t heard.”

  “I hope that’s the least of our worries.”

  “What?” Burdette turned his head in Simon’s direction.

  “Nothing.”

  Across the fiel
d, people had already filled the area closest to the stage. Not even a small patch of grass was available for sitting. Late arrivals didn’t even venture toward the front.

  Simon shook his head in wonder. There had to be over five thousand people inside the security fence already and that amount over waiting to get in. He tapped Burdette on his back. “I’m going to walk around.”

  Burdette nodded. “Okay.”

  Simon ambled toward the far side of the field, eyes behind dark glasses, scanning the forest on the far side of the field, so that he missed the tall, blonde-headed girl behind him, immersed deep in the crowd outside the gate, waving her arms, trying to get his attention.

  ◆◆◆

  “These will have to do.” Connor held the clunky handset, turning it in his hand as he examined it as one might an old heirloom.

  Cori took one of the walkie talkies and held it up. “You press this button and talk into the mouthpiece. The sound comes out here. When you want to stop talking you let off the button.”

  “Number Six, go to the end of your tunnel and let’s see if it’s in range,” Connor said.

  Number Six grunted, took the walkie talkie, and trudged toward one of the cavern’s tunnels. “I’ll try it when I get there.”

  Connor held the walkie talkie to his ear and waited for Number Six to make it to the end of the tunnel. “It’s kind of funny, you know,” he told Cori.

  “What?”

  “All the high-tech shit they have, blocking all the ways of communication and some low-tech contraption using radio waves, of all things, might bring them down.”

  Cori grinned just as a voice crackled through the receiver. “Can you hear me?”

  Connor looked at the walkie talkie searching for the respond button. “Right there.” Cori pointed to the yellow button at the bottom of the device.

  Connor hit the respond button. “Got it. Can you hear me?’

  “I can hear you.”

  “Okay, get on back here.” He looked up at the others. “Some good luck finally.”