Day of the Delphi

by Jon Land

  McCracken rushed back to the primary duct he had dropped through initially and was pretending to work the cover off when the roof door crashed open. He made sure the troops saw him toss the duct cover away before they were upon him, led by Colonel Smeed.

  “I think we should have another talk, Mr. McDowell,” Smeed said, a pistol tight in his hand.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Matabu,” Kristen Kurcell greeted the man staring intently at her from behind the desk.

  Bota Matabu leaned his tall, thin frame forward, his chair creaking slightly. “After the great assistance you provided my delegation during our visit to your country, it is the least I can do for you, Miss Kurcell.”

  “I hope so, sir, because I’m about to ask you for a great deal more.”

  Matabu’s huge, deep-set eyes did not waver. He folded his fingers together and rested his chin on his thumbs. His silk suit looked to be a top designer label, Italian probably, Kristen surmised. The patterned tie picked up the slight cream windowpane in the gray to create a look befitting the powerful and controversial leader Matabu had become. As the African National Congress’s third-ranking member, he was Nelson Mandela’s chief troubleshooter who supervised the strikes, work stoppages, and armed resistance to white reactionaries and police brutality in the townships.

  “I’m listening, Miss Kurcell,” he followed, but Kristen paused before resuming.

  Since the FBI had assigned men to her for protection and not restraint, she’d had little trouble slipping out of the hotel in Washington without their knowing. She had timed her escape to coincide with catching a flight to Johannesburg, where she was determined to find Blaine McCracken. He had confided the rough sketch of his plan to her before they had parted, and in the succeeding hours she’d had time to see the folly of it. There were too many things that could go wrong, and if any of them did, McCracken would be left utterly alone.

  Instead of sitting passively by, Kristen decided to do whatever she could to aid Blaine. The helpless feeling that still remained inside over her brother’s death was torture enough. She couldn’t sit idly by and wait for someone else she cared for to die.

  Kristen had contacted Matabu before leaving Washington, and one of his private cars was waiting to pick her up when she reached Johannesburg in the dark early hours of Friday.

  “Your phone call from the States was very disturbing,” Matabu continued when Kristen did not speak. “Also vague. You said our movement was in great danger. May I assume this has something to do with a policy of some sort your government is considering?”

  “No,” Kristen told him. “Not at all. The danger to the ANC comes from my country, but it has nothing to do with the government.”

  Matabu’s large eyes narrowed. “I am confused, Miss Kurcell.”

  “Mr. Matabu, there is strong reason to believe that American nuclear weapons have fallen into the hands of the AWB.”

  Matabu’s eyebrows flickered. Beyond that, he showed no reaction. “I would have thought such a powerful and dangerous revelation would have been delivered through considerably different channels.”

  “As it would surely have been, if the force responsible was not also mounting a concerted effort to overthrow my country’s government.”

  Matabu’s head rose slowly from his hands. “Am I to assume that there is a connection between these two pursuits?”

  “The force I speak of is determined to seek international domination by the radical right, to forge a worldwide cabal of men like Dreyer.”

  Matabu’s stonelike composure wavered ever so slightly. “And how have you come by this information, Miss Kurcell?”

  “Through a man who saved my life after I was taken prisoner by the group behind this threat to both our nations.” Kristen paused. “The only man who might be able to stop it from happening.”

  “Yet you have come to me.”

  “Because that man came over here to infiltrate Whiteland, Mr. Matabu. And I think he’s in trouble.”

  With the stage set, Kristen proceeded to tell her tale from the beginning. By the time she had finished, Bota Matabu’s gaunt face glistened with a shiny layer of sweat. His deep-set eyes had lost their harshness and their certainty. When he finally spoke his tone was softer, almost muted.

  “Then this man, this …”

  “Blaine McCracken.”

  “ … sought to gain access to Whiteland to uncover the substance of the … What did you call them?”

  “The Delphi.”

  “ … the Delphi’s plan in order to stop it.”

  “Here and in the United States, Mr. Matabu. And if he fails, both of our nations will pay the price.”

  “What exactly would you like me to do, Miss Kurcell?”

  “Find out if he’s in there. Help him if he’s in trouble.”

  “You believe me capable of a great deal.”

  Kristen tried to look as determined as she felt. “I know, Mr. Matabu, that you have held a number of meetings with members of the ECC,” she said, referring to the End Conscription Campaign that had been founded by young whites fed up with forced service to uphold the policy of apartheid they did not support. Often called the “alternative Afrikaners,” these whites were part of a grass-roots movement to bring the races together in peace.

  “I believe,” she continued, “that several of these meetings had as their basis the planting of ECC members in Whiteland to provide accurate intelligence of the AWB’s plans.”

  Matabu nodded, obviously impressed. “Just suppose that I have been able to place a small number of white sympathizers inside Whiteland. Suppose these sympathizers have cellular communicators with them that they use to forewarn us of planned AWB strikes against the townships.”

  Kristen’s spirits lifted. “Then you must be able to make contact with them.”

  “I’m afraid only they can contact me. Their next report from inside Whiteland is due at dawn. We will have to wait until then.”

  Matabu called Kristen back into his office Friday morning after the report from one of his Whiteland infiltrators had come in.

  “Please describe this McCracken,” he told her, standing rigid before his desk.

  “Tall and broad, with black, wavy hair,” Kristen said, picturing Blaine McCracken in her head. “He has a closely trimmed beard and a scar running through his—”

  “That is the man,” Matabu confirmed. “Apparently last night he was caught trying to sneak into the AWB command center.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Only for now, I’m afraid.”

  The first rays of the morning sun turned the hole Blaine was stuffed in into an oven. Touching the iron walls with his bare skin singed his flesh, and it took every bit of selfcontrol to keep his breathing steady. They had stripped him down to his shorts the previous night before sealing him in this cramped cubicle, where the heat seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the air. The humidity was stifling, and with each passing minute the sun fed it further.

  The sun was a major problem, but the boxlike hole itself posed an even greater one. When he was in a seated position, Blaine’s head was close to the grated top, which focused the light into even harsher beams. The hole was too small for him to stretch his legs out fully in any direction without his bare shoulders rubbing up against the sizzling walls. So Blaine had no choice but to keep his legs tucked in close to his chest, the cramping in his already weary muscles starting almost instantly.

  He stretched them as best he could, knowing he had to stay strong and ready. Once the opportunity for escape arose, he must be prepared to seize it. If not, the President and the entire United States were going to fall into a deadly trap.

  The shadow of one of his guards passed over the grate above him. Blaine stilled his thoughts as if they were words. The logistics of the setting ruled out a desperate dash for freedom, even if there had been a way to pry the grate off. Guns would be trained on him at this very moment. Dreyer had been waiting the night
before when McCracken was brought down from the roof. Secure in the notion that Blaine had not managed to learn anything of value, the leader of the AWB had chosen the most dramatic of demises for him:

  Blaine was to be shot by a firing squad at noon, right about the time the President would be embarking on a path certain to ensure the fall of his administration.

  In the Situation Room of the White House, General Trevor Cantrell had the floor. He stood before a color-coded map of Washington, indicating various pickup points keyed to one of the three destinations the government was going to be moved to.

  “How long to manage total evacuation?” the President asked.

  “Eight to ten hours for those currently in the capital, and that’s a liberal figure, sir.”

  “I’d like to hear the procedure again,” requested National Security Advisor Angela Taft.

  “A simple message will be played over every Washington radio station every fifteen minutes. CNN and all other news broadcasts will carry a certain commercial every ten minutes. A number of selected group leaders will be personally telephoned and asked to begin a chain system to reach all those readily accessible. Beyond that, Emergency Communications, or EMER-COM, has on file all the numbers of those on the Evac list who carry beepers: roughly seventy percent. That will insure we don’t miss anyone.”

  “Have you determined exactly how many are in town?” asked Charlie Byrne.

  Cantrell looked to Ben Samuelson of the FBI before responding. “With Mr. Samuelson’s help, I’ve determined that number to be between ninety and ninety-two percent. Best strategic estimates in the past have run somewhere around three-quarters, so we’re well ahead of the game.”

  “No effort, I assume, has been made to contact those who are not readily accessible,” said the President.

  “No, sir, and for obvious reasons. A possible leak has to be avoided at all costs. I’m afraid those not included in the Evac will have to accept being left out of the government for as long as it takes to restore order.”

  “Assuming we end up losing that order,” said Charlie Byrne.

  “And just how do we keep the city from realizing the people governing the nation have taken their collective leave?” followed the President.

  “None of the pickup points are in public areas. All helicopter drops will be made by army choppers, hardly an unfamiliar site in the city.”

  “What about those charged with the transportation end of things?” raised Angela Taft.

  “All pilots and drivers are currently on alert, ma’am. We run drills constantly, so they’re none the wiser about what’s going on. We won’t lose time on their account.”

  “But if we try to pull all this off in eight to ten hours,” started the President, “plenty of people are going to take notice, the media included. I think we should spread it out further, through all of tomorrow if necessary.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” reminded Ben Samuelson, echoing his sentiments. “The people we’ve got to get out won’t be working anyway. Makes perfect sense.”

  “Agreed, but I strongly suggest that those slated for Mount Weather leave as soon as we go to alert status,” Cantrell stated, referring to the justices of the Supreme Court, Cabinet members, and selected other government officials. “That would include you, sir.”

  “And I’m willing to accept that so long as you’re confident we can control things from inside Mount Weather. I had only a cursory tour and there wasn’t much I understood about the technical aspects.”

  “You can run the country as confidently from Mount Weather as you can from the White House, sir. In fact, replicas have been constructed of the Oval Office and White House press room to make the country think you’re still in Washington, if you so choose.”

  “I’d still be more comfortable overseeing things from where I am now,” the President said, hedging.

  “Speaking of which,” began Ben Samuelson, “someone’s got to coordinate security for the city if the siege comes. That’s the job of the FBI.” He looked toward Cantrell. “The general and I have already discussed this.”

  “Troops from the Seventh Light Infantry are in position to move in now, sir,” Cantrell explained. “Once in place they could be placed under the direct command of Mr. Samuelson.”

  “Let’s back up a minute, General,” said the President. “How do we move the Seventh LID in without attracting the very kind of fuss we seem so determined to avoid?”

  “My suggestion,” Angela Taft threw in, “would be to say nothing until the siege begins, if it begins. Then, sir, you inform the media—and the nation—from inside Mount Weather.”

  The President nodded, as satisfied as he was going to be. “Okay, people. According to my watch it’s four A.M. I want to be ready to move by dawn.”

  “It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid,” Matabu said with grim detachment after explaining the final elements of his plan to Kristen. In the wake of learning about McCracken’s impending death by firing squad, he had put the plan together quickly with the reluctant support of his plants from the ECC inside Whiteland.

  “It’ll be enough,” she told him.

  “I’m afraid I do not share your confidence.”

  “That’s because you don’t know Blaine McCracken.”

  Matabu checked his watch. “But I do know we’d better get moving if we want to be in position on the chance he makes it out.”

  The sun had continued to sap the strength from McCracken, taking his hope along with it. Brief lapses into unconsciousness threatened his sense of time. He came awake from each one fully determined to remain alert, yet unable to control his drifts. He could barely swallow. His breath came in short, fitful heaves. The sweat had stopped running off him as his bodily fluids dried up.

  McCracken slipped out of consciousness again, welcomed the cool comfort his mind was able to conjure up in that state. A noise drew him back, something familiar yet out of place.

  The wop-wop sound of one helicopter overhead was instantly joined by another. As Blaine tried to angle his body to peer out through the grate, he heard metallic bursts of heavy automatic fire ringing through the air.

  Whiteland was coming under attack!

  He let himself hope this was the work of Barnstable and the Interior Ministry, that a rescue was being attempted. But his hope sank as quickly as it had risen. A hundred helicopter gunships were nothing compared to the single well-placed bullet that would swiftly end his life. Even Johnny Wareagle would be hard-pressed to get him off the grounds under current conditions.

  Still, the fire from above continued, returned by AWB soldiers with their automatic rifles. The ground enclosing his hole trembled as men dashed in all directions. Blaine could hear multiple orders being shouted and easily imagined the pandemonium transpiring above his head.

  Suddenly a pair of shadows crossed over his grate. Blaine heard a key jangling in the lock beyond. Noon, it seemed, was coming early.

  The grate was raised. “Hurry, mate,” a voice called. “We’ve come to get you out!”

  “No,” Blaine said hoarsely.

  “What?” The voice sounding exasperated now, the face attached to it lowering.

  “We’d never make it. Not like this.”

  “But—”

  “Just listen to me.”

  The man did, then sped off, leaving a pair of cohorts over Blaine’s cell. The minutes dragged on as the battle above continued. Then the grate was raised again long enough for a small pack to be dropped through.

  “Hope you know what you’re doing, mate.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Fucking kaffirs!” Dreyer screeched, ivory-handled nine-millimeter Browning pistol held cocked by his side.

  He could see the pair of helicopters fleeing to the north, one bleeding smoke and oil, the ten-minute battle apparently over. Colonel Smeed’s jeep pulled up alongside him.

  “Casualties?” Dreyer demanded.

  “A dozen or so wounded. None killed. Just a nuisanc
e run.”

  “This is the first time Matabu’s hit Whiteland, Colonel. I don’t like that. I like it even less since he’s adding choppers to the kaffir arsenal.” Dreyer’s mind veered in midthought. “What about our prisoner?”

  “Safely under guard.”

  “I want to see for myself,” Travis Dreyer said and climbed into the jeep’s back. “It’s almost noon.”

  Smeed jammed the key home and unlocked the grate while Dreyer waited behind him. A guard hoisted the grate, allowing Smeed to peer down inside.

  Dreyer watched Smeed’s back go rigid.

  “Bloody hell,” the colonel muttered.

  “What?” Dreyer demanded. “What?”

  He shoved Smeed aside and followed the path of his stare. “Fucking shit!” Dreyer bellowed.

  The balled-up shape in the khaki uniform inside the hole belonged to an AWB guard.

  “Find McCracken!” he yelled at Smeed. “I want him in irons and I mean immediately!”

  The chaos that had followed the chopper attack was nothing compared to that which came next. The entire complement of AWB soldiers fanned out through the complex and surrounding brush to search for the escaped prisoner. Dreyer cursed himself for opting for the dramatic, rather than for a simple execution last night when the opportunity availed itself. He longed now for another chance to center McCracken in his gun sights. The man couldn’t have gone far in his weakened condition. Dreyer’s men would find him.

  On McCracken’s instructions, the three ECC plants posing as guards had supplied him with an AWB khaki uniform and Sam Browne belt, and then returned when the rush of troops dispersed in all directions to begin a frantic search. To anyone who bothered to notice, it seemed they were simply removing the unconscious frame of the comrade who had fallen prey to the escaped prisoner. One of them laid out a stretcher. Another feigned lifting McCracken out of the hole.