“They don’t have polio here,” Polanski explained when Peter marveled at it. “Or TB, or smallpox. People can afford vaccinations and decent health care.” When his companion didn’t reply, he said, “This is what we’re fighting for, Peter. America was like this once. Better than this. It will be again.”
Even so, as he walked through the streets—sidewalks that weren’t cracked and crumbling, pavements without a single pothole—he couldn’t help thinking they’d stepped off the ship into a futuristic utopia. They’d both flinched and laughed at themselves when the first 3D holo-ads had popped out of the air to beckon them into a shop, and they’d both gaped at the first telepresence bot they saw traveling among the other pedestrians and chatting to a human friend. People seemed happier, faces were open and curious, not closed and anxious. The atmosphere filled Polanski with a renewed urgency and determination. It was only on reflection that he realized how silent and withdrawn Peter had become.
They’d met friends at the station. England was full of people who wanted to help restore democracy to the U.S. Some of them did more than just talk about it. They promised to get Polanski and Peter to London where they could spend a day or two preparing for their task, and then they would provide the van for them to travel up to Norwich. They arranged for the flight to the Netherlands too, for after the abduction.
“What do you think of the girls?” he’d asked Peter in London, nudging him and grinning. He’d seen his young friend ogling the women for the past couple of days.
“They all look like whores,” the young man said. “Or worse.”
“They can look like they want here,” Polanski said, at the time not seeing the boy’s surliness as anything more than embarrassment. “They’re free. Imagine that, Peter. Free to be what they want and do what they want. No-one to call them names, or beat them up, or rape them, or kill them for not doing what they’re told.” It was a dizzying prospect. It filled Polanski with awe.
Peter said, “I don’t get it. If they’re so free, why do they want to look like whores?”
And Polanski had laughed, thinking it was a joke.
“Zak?” Polanski turned back to his friend on the bed. “What hit me? I mean, something sure hit me hard. I feel like my insides are all hollowed out.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine in a couple of days. Just try to rest.”
What else could he tell him? That he’d been kicked in the head by a girl he didn’t even remember meeting? That, even if Polanski told Peter who she was, he’d have forgotten again in half an hour? That he was most likely dying of brain injuries, but the medical care that might save him was reserved for the super-rich? That none of it mattered a whole lot since the lob was just a little over an hour away and everyone for many miles around would be dead soon?
“Peter, would you mind if I just got down on my knees here and said a little prayer for your safe deliverance? You wouldn’t be embarrassed?”
“I ain’t dying am I, Zak?”
Polanski made himself smile. “I just want to put in a word for you with the Big Guy. Our medics are doing what they can, but it might help just to say a couple of words.”
“Can’t hurt, I suppose.”
Polanski knelt beside the bed and clasped his hands together.
“Zak?”
He opened his eyes and looked into Peter’s troubled face.
“I can’t remember getting here. We was over in Boston making plans for the trip. Then suddenly I’m on my back in the Shanty.”
“A knock on the head can do that sometimes.”
“Yeah. I guess. You’ll wait for me, won’t you? You won’t go to England without me?”
“Don’t worry. I ain’t going to leave this building without you right there with me.”
A smile flickered in the boy’s face. “I sure was lucky the day I met you, Zak. You can thank God for me when you start your prayers. OK?”
Polanski nodded and bowed his head.
-oOo-
“We need a word.”
The little group of men blocked Polanski’s way, filling the narrow corridor between rooms. As soon as he saw them, he knew it was trouble.
“What’s up, Jed?”
The man looked scared as hell to be confronting Polanski but, for some reason, he was the spokesman for this little delegation and backing down now was not an option.
“We need to talk about this timesplash thing.”
Polanski took his time and looked at the faces of the men. These were not hotheads or crazies. They were people he knew and trusted. At the back of the group was Ira Frohock. Ira was an ambitious man, and fancied himself as a future leader of the country. But Polanski had other ideas. The people he had in mind to found the new Republic were all safe and far from Washington. If anyone had put these guys up to it, Ira was the man.
“So talk,” he told Jed. “But can we keep our voices low? Out of respect for Peter.”
Jed glanced back the way Polanski had come. “Right. How is he?”
“He just died, Jed. Thanks for asking.”
The man started as if he’d been slapped. “I don’t mean to show no disrespect, not at a time like this, Zak.”
Polanski was bone weary. And he didn’t have time for any of this. “What’s this all about?” He locked eyes with Frohock. “Ira? You got anything to say?”
“Why don’t you hear Jed out?” Frohock said in his deep, slow voice.
More games. He turned to the spokesman. “All right, Jed, spit it out. I’m on a timetable here.”
Jed swallowed, licked his lips, and plunged in. “People been overhearing things, Zak, about the timesplash. That foreign bitch who killed Peter, she’s said things that don’t square with things we been told.”
“What kind of things, Jed?”
“Things about how big this splash thing is going to be. Shoot, Zak, you always made it sound like we got plenty of time to get clear. You always said it was aimed at the folks in DC. They was the ones who’d get their asses kicked, not our own people. Now there’s talk of destruction out past the Beltway, maybe the whole Metro Area. How’re people going to get clear, Zak, if they’ve only got an hour from when you set off?”
“Who’s spreading these tales, Jed?”
“I—I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.” The question seemed to have thrown him, but he rallied. “Everybody here’s heard the talk, Zak. That’s why we come to ask you about it.”
People nodded. The point was made. Now they were waiting for Polanski to speak. He took the opportunity to look into their faces one more time. It might be the last time he’d see most of them. He could tell them the truth now and there would be a chance for them to save themselves and their families. The temptation was powerful, almost too much to resist. But he needed everyone to stay put so that nobody in the Government got spooked and ran. Even if that meant he was talking to a bunch of dead men.
He took a long, deep breath. “The lob’s in less than an hour. Soon as it starts, I don’t need anyone to guard the place or keep things looking normal. It’s going to take an hour for me to go back and do what I have to do and then it will be another fifteen minutes after I get back before the backwash hits. That’s an hour and fifteen minutes you’ve got to get out of here. Me? I’ve got just fifteen minutes. Think about that. Fifteen minutes. Would I leave myself just fifteen minutes if I didn’t think there was a chance I’d make it?”
“Seems to me,” Frohock said from the back, “that you might just be willing to sacrifice yourself, thinking that’s what had to be done.”
Polanski could have strangled the man. “Damn right I’m willing to sacrifice myself. I reckon there ain’t a single man or woman in this whole place wouldn’t lay down their lives in a heartbeat for freedom. There’s not a true American patriot anywhere in this whole beautiful country who wouldn’t gladly give his life to set our people free. Am I right?” People nodded and muttered their agreement. “Did I ever tell you there wouldn’t be risks? D
id I ever tell you the path to freedom would be easy? Don’t we all live with the knowledge, every day of our lives, that the Feds and the SOBs and every armed thug on the Government payroll might come crashing in here with their tanks and their guns and kill every last one of us? Don’t we? And does it scare us? Hell yes! And does it stop us dreaming of freedom and working for freedom? Hell no!”
He could see he had them stirred. He could see they were good people. If they thought about it the right way, they’d gladly do the right thing—the only thing that would shake this country loose of its chains.
“Listen,” he said. “I know there’s been some wild talk. I know that foreign hellcat has got people feeling edgy with her crazy prophecies of doom. I know we’re standing on the verge of a revolution, a civil war no less. It’s enough to rattle the nerves of the bravest of men. But I also know that no-one here is a coward. Every man who has come this far with me has already proven his mettle a dozen times over. So this is what I say, if anyone wants to head on out of here, to go now and make sure you’re safe, you just go right ahead and leave us. I won’t think you any the worse for it. Nobody will. You won’t hear a single reproach from me. If that’s what you want, you go right ahead.”
There was a silence. Once more, he scanned their faces.
“I’m staying,” one man said.
“Me too,” said another, then another, until they were all clamoring to let him know their resolve. He smiled and thanked them. They shook his hand and patted his back and stood aside to let him through. He noticed Frohock had gone. The would-be leader had slipped quietly away while Polanski had been speaking. It was no big deal. There was nothing he could do about it now anyway.
-oOo-
“Well?”
Matthew raised his head to look Polanski in the eye. The teknik was sagging, his head wobbling a little, his breath labored and uneven. When he spoke, his words were forced out between teeth clamped together by a too-hasty repair to his broken jaw.
“You were right. The bitch screwed with the parameters. Disguised the real settings. She planned to send you to 1796.”
Polanski looked across at Sandra. Even bound hand and foot to a chair and wearing tattered clothing, the woman was stunningly beautiful. The look she returned was serene and dignified, even though she must have heard what Matthew said, must now know her last attempt to thwart him had failed. It was impossible to look at her without feeling admiration, and, he had to admit, desire. If she’d worked with him, if she’d seen the necessity of what he had to do, perhaps they would have found a way to bring him back safely. He had known for a long time now the impossibility of building the country he dreamed of with the death of so many on his conscience. He would be a monster and monsters could not also be saviors. Yet, with a woman like that at his side, what miracles of redemption might not have been possible?
He looked away sharply, ashamed of himself. For her to have helped him, she would have needed to be a completely different person. Not his Eva Braun but his Evita Perón.
“Check it again,” he told Matthew. “Look deeper. She’s got something else in there, something you haven’t found yet.”
Matthew looked at him, breathing heavily for a few seconds. “I can’t do anymore.”
“You must.”
“I’m fucking dying here.”
Polanski leaned in close so only Matthew could hear him. “If you want that ride out of DC, you will do exactly what I tell you. So stop wasting your energy arguing with me, find whatever else she’s hidden in there, and fix it.”
He turned away from Matthew’s malevolent eyes and stepped across to the platform where the plastic sphere stood. It seemed to Polanski that he was already inside a bubble, its walls perfectly clear but impenetrable. They all watched him, all the people he’d condemned; cool, judgmental Sandra; the bored, watchful guards; the child, nervous as a thoroughbred colt.
There was no ride arranged for Matthew, or for anybody. After the attack on Peter, he’d sent two men to disable every vehicle his followers owned. His last words in this life would be lies, bullying commands, evasions, and covert betrayals, but he would not let a crowd of fleeing, hysterical cowards give the Government even one hour’s warning.
There were forty minutes to go. Was there really a point in waiting? He could go now, step onto the platform, push the hatch closed, and give Matthew the nod. He longed for the moment when he could act, for the waiting to be over. But he stayed still and studied the sphere. Forty more minutes. He must wait. He must give Matthew a chance to be sure the woman had not further sabotaged the lob.
It was good that Peter had gone before him. It was good the boy would not be driving through the city when the backwash hit, fighting for his life as the roads buckled and the buildings fell. It was good, truth be told, that Polanski would not have Peter’s survival on his conscience. It had been weak of him to create a chance for the boy. It was better to be fair and play no favorites. Who was he to say Peter should live while the rest should die? Far from being the villain, that damned woman had been an unwitting instrument of God, saving Polanski’s soul from the blemish of that one inexcusable act of compassion.
Without realizing it, he had sunk to his knees and bowed his head in prayer once again.
Chapter 27: Countdown
“Forever and ever, Amen.”
The briefing was without doubt the strangest Jay had ever attended. Certainly, beginning and ending a pre-raid briefing with a prayer was unusual. The Deputy Director had moved straight from the prayer to a short sermon on the theme of discovering the will of God, quoting extensively from the Psalms. Jay had that old down-the-rabbit-hole feeling for a while, until he realized the sermon was probably the FBI’s equivalent of a pep talk before the big raid.
The meat of the briefing was recognizable enough, though. Aerial photographs of the Shanty were projected on the wall. Graphical overlays appeared, indicating where cordons would be set, and where and when various armored and infantry units would penetrate the scruffy maze of streets. There would be air cover from a small fleet of drones, and an artillery unit with mobile missile batteries would set up outside the Shanty in case the “compound” had to be pounded to splinters in a hurry. But the main assault would be led by mobile light armor with armored personnel carriers to take nearly a thousand troops into the “battle zone.”
These guys were not messing about. Polanski’s ragtag mob—probably no more than a couple of hundred if you counted the women and children—armed with Brazilian AK-45s and an assortment of antiques, didn’t stand a chance. It made Jay increasingly concerned as to how he was going to get Sandra and Cara out safely. Although the Deputy Director flashed up photos of both of the “civilian hostages,” Jay was less than happy with the comment that the women should be rescued “if conditions permit their safe extraction.”
When English asked for questions, Jay was back in the rabbit hole. A debate broke out over some fine point of the Church’s theology, which seemed to exempt the FBI from all sins associated with inflicting pain and death, versus another which required that the prosecution of God’s work should involve as little suffering as was necessary. Biblical quotations came thick and fast from both sides. It went on until English called them to order. He was smiling, as were many others, clearly enjoying the debate. He said they’d just have to take their best shots and let God decide where the bullets fell, which got a good laugh and even a ripple of applause.
The final prayer was said with full solemnity, however, after which Jay was taken down to the armory. He was told to put on a jump suit and body armor and to collect his weapon. Everyone else was handed assault rifles and buzz guns, pistols, knives and clubs, but Jay was given a stunner. He didn’t argue. Back home, police raids like this would be undertaken exclusively with stun weapons. They were accurate and effective and left the bad guys alive to face interrogation and trial. Leaving anyone alive at all was clearly not a priority for his FBI colleagues.
“You know how
to work one of these, sir?” his minder asked, handing over the weapon. “Just point it and pull the trigger. Recharges in no time. No recoil or nothing.”
“I’ve used one before.”
“It’s got a targeting spot just like a real gun,” the minder went on, oblivious. “Put that on the perp—it don’t really matter where—and squeeze off the shot. It’s got settings on the back, see?” He showed Jay a little dial that had three settings, illustrated by little pictures. The lowest setting was a man’s silhouette, arms and legs twisted, with sparks coming off it. The middle setting was a man flat on the ground with what could have been wisps of smoke coming off him. The final setting was a skull and crossbones. The dial was turned to the skull.
“You can kill people with this?” Jay asked, shocked.
His minder was equally shocked. “Sure. We wouldn’t send you out there with no kind of protection, sir.”
“No, of course not.” Jay surreptitiously turned the dial down to the minimum setting. He dropped the stunner into its shoulder holster and hoped he wouldn’t need to use it.
They took a lift down to a sub-basement where the vehicles were waiting. Row upon row of armored personnel carriers, painted light gray with “FBI” on the sides and a black crucifix on the front, stood in the artificial light. Each one was the height of a small lorry, and considerably wider and heavier. Each had eight massive wheels that raised the vehicle high above the road and revealed the smooth “keel” of its armored belly, designed to deflect explosions from beneath. The driver’s windows were armored glass slits in the solid, chiseled snout. On the roof, accessed by a hatch, was a machine gun turret. A couple of big, black command and control trucks waited like sharks to lead away their swarm of remora fish. Agents bustled everywhere, finding their allocated vehicles and clattering in through the back doors.
True Path Page 27
