by Bob Mayer
“No. And no one I know, knows you.”
“Excuse me,” Kincannon said.
“Present company excepted,” Evie allowed.
“What’s the message?” Kincannon asked. Ducharme handed his phone over his shoulder to Kincannon as Evie began scrolling on her phone.
“It’s the history of a computer search,” Evie said. “Starts with the saying ‘Don’t give up the ship.’”
“Got the same thing here,” Kincannon confirmed.
“Who said that?” Ducharme asked.
“Some navy person,” Evie replied.
“Now you get vague,” Ducharme chided. “Wasn’t it a battle on the Great Lakes?”
“Hold on,” Evie said as she scrolled down on her iPhone. “Not the Great Lakes. June 1813. Captain James Lawrence, commander of the USS Chesapeake. A battle near Boston Harbor. Lawrence was mortally wounded. His last command was: ‘Tell the men to fire faster. Fight ‘til she sinks, boys. Don’t give up the ship.’”
“Firing faster isn’t always best,” Kincannon noted. “It’s better to fire accurately. I’ve seen guys fire on automatic in combat when accurate single shot would have--”
Evie moved on. “Apparently, you’re right. It didn’t work.” She scrolled further down on her iPhone. “The Americans surrendered. Let’s see. OK, here’s what you were thinking of. Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry had the phrase sewn on his battle flag and he won a victory in the War of 1812, defeating a British fleet on Lake Erie.”
“Who the hell sent us this?” Ducharme asked. “And what does it mean?”
“Whomever sent it had both our numbers,” Evie said, “so I’d assume it’s one of the other—“ she paused. “Hold on a second.” Her fingers were flying over the face of her iPhone. “OK. 215 area code is downtown Philadelphia. Then I would assume APS stands for American Philosophical Society. McBride was a member of it.” She was nodding. “That makes sense. Yes. It makes a lot of sense. The APS was founded by Benjamin Franklin even before the Society of Cincinnati. Thomas Jefferson was President of it for a long time.”
“So the call came from one of the other guardians of the Cipher?” Ducharme was trying to put the pieces together and wondering about the quick leaps in logic she was making.
“Most likely.” She looked back down at her iPhone. “Perry was known for the saying: ‘We have met the enemy and they are ours’.”
“So why is this unknown person sending us this history lesson?” Ducharme rubbed the back of his skull.
“Must be the clues to more disks,” Evie said. She scrolled further. “Yes. Whoever it was, was looking for more graves. He—or she-- checked where Perry was buried. Rhode Island. Then Carpenter. Buried in Halifax. Wait. He was re-interred in Trinity Church Cemetery in New York. Damn.”
“What?” Kincannon asked from the back seat.
“Trinity Cemetery in New York. You know who else is in that cemetery?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Alexander Hamilton is buried there.”
Ducharme glanced over at her. “Someone put their disks in the grave of the leader of their mortal enemy?”
“Maybe. It would be good misdirection.” Evie had the thousand yard stare again and Ducharme figured she was off in whatever lala land she went to when deep in thought.
“Kincannon,” Ducharme said.
“Yeah?”
“Call that number back. Find out who sent us this.”
“Roger that.” Kincannon hit callback on the cell phone. There were a few seconds of silence. “Who is this?” A pause. “Hey, you texted me.” Another pause. “Fuck you.” Kincannon clicked the off. He met Ducharme’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “That was an FBI agent at a homicide site—which is indeed the American Philosophical Society headquarters. I think whoever sent the message isn’t with the living any more and like your Uncle’s message, it was sent on a time delay.”
“Damn bitch,” Ducharme said. “Third one down from the originals,”
“You know,” Kincannon said, “if the two of you got this message, then there’s probably two others who go the same message.”
“What do you mean?” Ducharme asked.
“Each of you got a disk from people you considered mentors,” Kincannon said. “That wasn’t by chance. You’re their replacements. And since there were two other Philosophers, that means there are two other replacements out there.”
“The next generation like us,” Evie said.
“Lucky us,” Ducharme muttered.
“It’s a great honor,” Evie said.
“Isn’t it primogeniture, or whatever you call it?” Kincannon corrected. “Inheritance?”
Evie shook her head. “No. We were chosen because of who we are, not who we were born to. For some reason Mister McBride saw something in me and General LaGrange saw something in you. They’re trusting us with the fate of the country.”
She sounded so excited, Ducharme almost expected her to burst out in song, release some balloons and do a cartwheel. “There might have been more deaths in this.” He looked over his shoulder briefly at the Sergeant Major. “Charlie LaGrange. I think he was the General’s first choice. I was back up.”
Kincannon’s face got hard, eyes flat. “Somebody needs dying.”
“Someone does.” Ducharme shook his head. “Not her style though. She’s always used the blade.”
Kincannon wasn’t fazed. “Then someone else needs dying.”
Ducharme was groping around in the dark, searching for a truth he didn’t understand. He knew Evie was withholding something from them. Maybe a lot of something.
He focused back on the road. If what Kincannon said was true, there was a high possibility one of their ‘comrades’, for lack of a better term, would be en route to Hamilton’s grave.
“Fuck,” Ducharme exclaimed, another piece tumbling into place.
“What?” Evie was startled.
“If whoever sent that message is dead, there’s a good chance our killer got the same information off the phone that sent it. She’ll be heading for Hamilton’s grave too.”
“Let’s go kill her,” Kincannon had his pistol out, checking it, as if New York were a block away.
“One thing at a time,” Evie counseled from the front seat. “Plus we’re probably closer than either of them, even continuing to West Point and then back to the city. And something’s not right about this.”
“There’s a lot not right about this,” Ducharme said.
She held up her iPhone. “Whoever sent this message was searching for disks. But they sent the information to both of us. Which means they know who we are. But we don’t know who the other new Philosophers are.”
He didn’t quite follow. “So?”
“And the message was sent from APS headquarters in Philadelphia.”
“And?” Ducharme ran a finger across the scar under his eye. “We know that.”
“It’s not adding up the way we just added it up,” Evie said.
“You going to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?” Ducharme demanded, out of patience.
“We need to find out who died in Philadelphia.”
Kincannon had his secure cell phone out. “Wait one. We can tap into classified FBI commo traffic on the terror alert net. The military does at least coordinate that with them.” He typed. “OK. FBI has a possible homicide of one General Atticus Parker, US Air Force retired at Philosophical Hall in Philly. Seems he took a header out a window.”
“Could be suicide,” Evie said without much conviction.
“He was tortured before falling. Blade. Flame. Probably not a suicide,” Kincannon dryly noted.
“That’s definitely our friend from Baltimore,” Ducharme said.
Kincannon continued. “There’s a second body at the site: a Major Elizabeth Peters, US Air Force. Killed with a blade.”
“Parker’s replacement?” Ducharme asked.
“Most logically,” Evie said.
“So we’re down to three,” Ducharme said
.
“And,” Kincannon added, “We got us another killing outside of Annapolis. Admiral Hazard Groves, US Navy, retired. Tortured also, killed with a blade. He was gutted, hari-kari or whatever the fuck style that is the Japanese do. Since the blade wasn’t still in his gut or at the scene I’d say he didn’t kill himself either.”
“Damn,” Ducharme said. “She had a busy night.”
“Is that what you call it when five people are murdered?” Evie demanded. “’A busy night’?”
“You were thrilled with our great honor just a minute ago,” Ducharme said.
“Easy.” Kincannon leaned forward between the seats. “Fighting among ourselves aint gonna help none.”
Ducharme slumped back in his seat and focused back on the road. “So all the old guards are all dead,” he said. “LaGrange, McBride, Groves and Parker. And two of the new. Peters and Charlie LaGrange.”
Evie held up her iPhone, pointing at the screen. “Groves’ disks are the ones these clues are for. Which is strange. Why would Parker send us Groves’ clues and not his own?”
“Most likely because he thought Peters would get them or already had them,” Ducharme said.
They continued up the Palisades Parkway in silence. As they crossed the New Jersey/New York border, the Parkway veered away from the river and passed underneath the New York Thruway. The land became hillier, the terrain more forested and strewn with boulders left behind by retreating glaciers ages ago. They reached the traffic circle for the Bear Mountain Bridge. Ducharme turned off the circle onto 9W, images of other times he’d made that turn and under what circumstances randomly passing through his brain like a slide show. Charlie LaGrange was in many of them and Ducharme forced himself to think about other things, facts, anything to avoid the pain and to avoid riling up the beast.
They drove past the Revolutionary war sites of Fort Clinton and Fort Montgomery, which had guarded the southern approaches to West Point. Geography dictated the original placement of a major fort at West Point. It was located on the west bank of the Hudson, where the river narrowed and made a sharp turn. During the Revolution, control of travel on the river had been considered essential to both sides. If the British gained control of it from their base in New York City they could cut off the troublesome New England colonists from the rest of the country and effectively end the Revolution. To prevent that, the Colonists occupied West Point and built a massive chain, which they floated on wooden rafts across the Hudson. They covered the chain with artillery fire to prevent passage of British warships.
Armed military police were stationed at the Highland Falls entrance to the Academy. Ducharme pulled up to the soldier manning the gate and powered the window down, showing the guard his identification card. The MP saluted and waved them through.
“Welcome home,” Kincannon said.
*************
The MP waited until the Blazer was out of sight, then went into the guard shack and typed the Blazer’s license plate into his computer. The result that came back wasn’t good. He reluctantly punched a number into the phone. “Sir, as per the terror alert, we’ve got three people in a vehicle just entering post. Two males, one female. Government plate on the truck, no trace on the plate.”
“Roger that. We’ll take it from here.”
The phone went dead and the MP gave it the finger.
Chapter Twelve
Lily was in the back of an un-marked, black, FBI Bell Jet Ranger helicopter, racing from the FBI Field Office in Philadelphia toward New York City. She was looking at the yellow post-it she’d recovered from the floor of the Philosopher’s office in Independence Hall. There was a red stain on one edge.
She pulled out her satphone and dialed the top number. It rang twice, then was answered by a woman: “Hello?”
“Whom am I speaking to?” Lily asked.
“Who did you hope to be speaking to?” the woman demanded.
Lily smiled coldly. “Someone I’m going to kill.”
“Oh.”
There was a long silence. Then a man’s voice came on, low, with a slight New Orleans drawl. “Next time you won’t be so lucky.”
Lily gripped the phone tighter, blood oozing out of the cuts on her arm. “My friend from the cemetery. Luck had nothing to do with it. You did a sloppy job.”
“I got what I went there for. Did you?”
She automatically put her hand to the side of her head, massaging it where the bullets had impacted.
“You got a name, missy?”
“Don’t call me that. Call me the Surgeon.”
“And I’m Captain America.” The smart ass was silent for a moment. “I saw what you did in Washington, missy. That’s what a butcher would do, not a surgeon. I’m going to stop you from—“
“And your name, or should I call you Captain?”
“Colonel Paul Ducharme. US Army. You had a busy night.”
“You’re going to fail, Colonel Ducharme.”
“You already did.” The connection went dead.
Lily crumpled the post-it and shoved it into the pocket of her Liquid Armor cloak. Then she opened the large plastic case on the floor of the helicopter in front of her and began selecting what she’d need.
************
“That was interesting.” Ducharme handed Evie back her iPhone.
“Feel better?” Evie slid the phone into a pocket. “Yours bigger than hers?”
He didn’t take the bait.
“Why did you tell her your real name?” Evie asked.
Ducharme shrugged. “We already know this person—who calls herself the Surgeon-- has connections to the government. She called you. She can find our names.”
To that, Evie had no comment. They drove past the Thayer Hotel on the right and Buffalo Soldier Field on the left, where Ducharme had spilled blood playing intramural football and soccer as a cadet.
They drove onward, passing a low stonewall which flanked the sidewalk to their right. Officer’s quarters were perched on the hillside above them to the left. A couple of cadets, bundled up against the cold in bulky sweats, jogged by, their breath smoky in the cold air. A cloudy, grey sky seemed to be reaching down to blanket the ground. The ‘Gloom Period’ in all it’s dreariness.
Large foreboding buildings covered in grey stone appeared ahead: the main campus of West Point, although Ducharme couldn’t recall ever hearing anyone call it a campus. It was the Academy, pure and simple. Not your average college. A rockbound, highland home to the sentimental; Hudson High to the not.
Mahan Hall went by on the right and New South Barracks on the left, where Ducharme had spent four years as a member of company G-1. Then Bartlett Hall, home to the hard sciences on the right and old Pershing Barracks, still standing from the days of MacArthur, on the left. Ducharme glanced up at the clock tower where, according to legend, MacArthur and several other cadets had hauled the reveille cannon to the top as part of a cadet prank in one night. It took two weeks to remove it.
“Someone liked stone and grey,” Evie noted.
“Keen powers of observation.” Ducharme slowed down as the Plain appeared directly ahead. West Point was centered on a parade field with a large statue of George Washington mounted on a steed overseeing it.
Ducharme had spent untold hours out there drilling and marching. A memory popped to mind and he felt a momentary thrill, remembering Passing in Review as a Firstie—a senior cadet-- in command of his company, barking orders. Which was immediately followed by an earlier memory of the feeling of disorientation from his first day at the Academy, R-Day, Reception Day, when he’d marched out there, head shaven, having been screamed at all day, and raised his right hand and sworn an oath, the words of which had never left his mind:
I, Paul Ducharme, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the ord
ers of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.
“Having a moment?” Evie asked.
Ducharme blinked. He had stopped the Blazer and was staring through the windshield at the Plain. He didn’t remember stopping and that scared him. Traces of snow streaked the withered crew-cut grass, the blast of winter’s fury coming down the Hudson River having left its mark. Looking up, he could see that Storm King Mountain’s top was masked by low clouds.
“I’m all right,” he said. “Was just thinking about taking my oath of office out there, years ago.”
Evie nodded. “Did you—“ she pause, gave a sheepish smile, then continued—“know that the oath of office was the very first Federal law ever enacted? 1 June 1789, 1st Congress, 1st Session, Chapter 1, Statute 1. Apparently, the Founding Fathers took the matter very seriously as it was the absolute first thing Congress concerned itself with. They didn’t want the military swearing allegiance to any person. They wanted the allegiance to be to the Constitution, which is the core of the country.”
“The President is in there,” Kincannon said from the back seat. “You know POTUS? The big cheese? The commander-in-chief?”
“Only that you’ll obey the President’s legitimate orders,” Evie said. “The Oath is to the Constitution with no qualifiers. Pre-empts all else, including the President. Also, there’s the part about all enemies, foreign and domestic.”
Ducharme opened his mouth to say something, but pain stabbed through his mind like a spike of molten metal. He struggled to focus, pressing his foot on the brake. It passed less than a second later and he blinked hard.
“What’s wrong with you?” Evie asked, putting a hand on his right forearm to lessen the thrust of the question.
Ducharme looked in the rear view mirror. Kincannon nodded slightly. Ducharme leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes. “I was in Afghanistan running an MTT—Mobile Training Team—with the Afghan army, teaching counter-insurgency. We were driving down a road and some kid came out with a can of coke, trying to sell it to us. Except it was a bomb. I sensed it, tried to knock it away, but it went off.” He reached up and touched the scar under his eye. “Piece of metal went in. Actually no big deal. But it was the trigger for a larger ambush. Because then a buried IED went off. Threw our Humvee ten feet and buckled it. The kid was pretty much vaporized. Apparently he wasn’t in the know on the bigger plan for the ambush. Or maybe he was and just didn’t give a shit about living any more.”
