Thoughts were clicking through his brain, like a speeded-up slide show. Sandy, the first time he saw her at the consulate. Their conversation out on the balcony. Walking through the rubble of the Kennedy compound. That first night together. The flight into Manhattan, being ambushed, discovering the secrets of PS 19 and Manhattan, and then—
Black-and-white surveillance photographs, scattered across a general’s desk.
‘Well, take a moment or two right now,’ he said. ‘Who do you work for, Sandy? And is that your right name?’
‘Oh, Christ, of course it’s my right name. And I work for the Times. That’s all truth.’
‘And MI6?’
She took a deep breath. ‘It’s pretty simple, really. I was spending a few weeks over here, covering the tenth anniversary, and I had some interesting contacts lined up. My father ... well, Papa works in Whitehall and I’m sure he’s got intelligence connections, though he’s never come right out and said it. So before I came to the States, I was approached and asked to do a few favors. They taught me a little spycraft, real cloak-and-dagger stuff, and sent me on my way. All overseas journalists are asked to do favors. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last.’
‘What kind of favors?’
She shivered. ‘I’m sorry, I’m getting cold and I must get going.’
‘Come on up, stay for a while,’ he said, surprised at how much he wanted to talk to her.
A quick shake of the head. ‘I can’t.’ She motioned with an arm over to the park. ‘I’ve got my own watchers, making sure I don’t get into any more trouble. They made a hell of a fuss over my coming here, but I had to see you, even if it was just for a moment. You ... you got me out of Manhattan, just like you promised, and I’ll never forget that. Ever.’
‘You’ve got to tell me more,’ Carl said. ‘Damn it, back in Manhattan you said you wanted to help Jim Rowley and his people. Is that still true, or are the people you’re doing favors for, are they helping the paras? Were you there to gather intelligence for them, find out about the secret Manhattan?’
She looked down again. ‘Carl, I’ve got to go.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow there’s an antidraft rally on the Boston Common. Surely you can sneak away to go there, tell your folks you have to cover one more story before you leave.’
He stared at her, this woman from a foreign land who had taken him places he never thought he’d go, had reminded him of things he thought he had forgotten.
Sandy looked over at the park, at her hidden watchers. ‘I suppose ...’
‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow, at twelve-thirty. There’s a famous Civil War statue on the Beacon Street side of the Common, showing a group of black soldiers marching. Meet me there.’
She smiled nervously for a moment and said, ‘All right. I’ll try. Now, I have—’
He stepped forward and kissed her. She was reluctant at first, but then kissed him right back and his arms were around her and she whispered in his ear, ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay. I have so much to tell you. But those people watching ...’
He squeezed her gently. ‘I understand. Thanks for saving my butt, back in New Jersey. And Sandy ... it was good to see you.’
She squeezed him back. ‘The same here, Carl. The same.’
Sandy broke away and they touched hands, and he watched as she jogged across the street, and into the park. She disappeared behind a tree, and when he was sure he couldn’t see her anymore, he went upstairs’ to his empty apartment, remembering the photos he had seen, showing that she was a spy, a foreign spy in his land, and he found him-self thinking of her touch, her taste.
Four days left.
~ * ~
EMPIRE: FIVE
A MATTER OF EMPIRE: FIVE
* * *
It was cold and Major Kenneth Hunt stood on a makeshift stage in the aircraft hangar. Before him were the nearly two hundred men who made up his company, the men whom he would lead into battle against an old ally. Beside them were a unit of Royal Engineers, who were coming along for the ride, as they so flippantly put it. They all sat in wooden chairs, lined up in rows. The first part of the briefing was over, and he could see by the shocked expressions on their faces that it would take one hell of a speech to make up for what they had just heard, no matter if most of them had earlier guessed the true nature of their mission.
He didn’t know if he had it in him.
Major Kenneth Hunt managed a small smile as he stepped to the edge of the stage, one hand in his pocket, curved protectively around his pipe. Behind him, the briefing boards that had said ABOVE TOP SECRET had been re-covered, just in case someone not cleared for the mission managed to blunder his way into the hangar. He looked over at them, taking his time, and said, ‘Right now, you know, is the time when I’m supposed to launch into my Henry the Fifth speech. All that nonsense about “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’”
There. A few smiles from among the lads. A small victory. He pressed on.
‘But I don’t have to say it. You already know who you are. You’re the Paras. The best among the best. And we’ve been called upon to prove it yet again.’
He gestured to the far door. ‘Out there, in the other hangars, are your comrades of B and C Companies. They have a difficult job ahead of them, just like we do. But they are going into New Jersey and Manhattan. They are moving against civilians. But not us. You know our mission. We are going against America’s Air Force, at their Plattsburgh base in New York. It will be difficult, quite challenging. Which is why it was assigned to us, to A Company. You know, the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment were in Plattsburgh before us, in 1812, and they took on the Yanks and won. So we have a tough act to follow, a reputation to uphold.’
The lads were silent. He walked a few paces, wishing he could wrap this up, wishing this could all be done so he could be alone in his quarters with a nice bottle of single malt, gazing at his picture of Rachel. Ah, that would be nice.
‘This job has been planned, practiced, and planned again,’ he said. ‘Our flight will go over the border, with the other flights. The radar along the Canadian border will only see air traffic that they’ll be expecting. Then, we’ll divert to Plattsburgh, saying we have engine trouble. And that’s when we’ll start dropping in.’
There was some whispering among the troops. He raised his voice, just a little. ‘We should have the element of surprise. Their Air Force units won’t know what to do at first. Remember, they’re not as sharp as they used to be. Years of poor food, minimal training, and resistance to their draft means units that shouldn’t put up much of a fight.’
Major Hunt nodded to the engineers. ‘We’ll help get the Royal Engineers into the weapons bunkers quick enough, get what we need, and then load the warheads and be off. By the time the sun comes up, we’ll be back at RCAF Trenton. Just a few hours and it will be over.’
There. One more thing and he’ll bloody well be done. ‘Any last minute questions, lads?’
Silence. Good.
He started to speak, to say, very well, off to your quarters you go, when a voice spoke up.
‘Beggin’ the major’s pardon A sergeant stood up, arms clasped behind him.
He tried not to show his irritation. ‘Yes, Sergeant? What is it?’
‘What about retaliation, sir,’ the sergeant asked, anger in his voice. ‘What happens when we’re done? Won’t the Yanks retaliate? What happens if other units miss a couple of bombs. A small country like ours... A couple of bombs could destroy us!’
Some murmuring, some catcalls of ‘hear, hear.’
‘Good question, Sergeant,’ Major Hunt said. ‘It’s been thought through and planned, all the way to the top. We know where every bomb, every warhead is located, whether it’s a bomber or a missile or a submarine. I don’t know the details but other units will be on the move while we’re dropping in. Royal Navy, SAS, Special Boat Squadron. We won’t be there for a long fight. Just to take the bombs and go. And even if there are one or
two left, we’ll still have most of them in our possession. They won’t dare retaliate.’
‘And what then?’ came another question. ‘What happens once we get those fuckin’ evil things? We’ll just say “here ye go” and give ‘em to the UN?’
He kept his voice even. ‘I’m confident that will happen. We have no need for them. Our mission is to make this world safer, to disarm a nation that shouldn’t have these weapons.’
A loud whisper, again, from someone who wouldn’t stand up. ‘Oh, right. Overnight we become the most powerful nation in the world again, and we’re gonna give ‘em up. Pull me the other one, why don’t you.’
Some mutters and other whispers, and Major Hunt went out to the edge of the stage. ‘Lads, we have something awful to do. I know it and you know it. But we’ve been asked to take action, and we’ll do it honorably and with courage. Not for the bloody PM and his ministers, or the Ministry of Defence, or those high-and-mighty twits in Whitehall.’
They were silent, now, staring up at him. He went on. ‘We’ll do it because it’s our job. And we’ll do it for the Regiment. That’s all. Dismissed.’
He stepped off the stage, his legs trembling like the first time he had been in an aircraft, years ago, preparing for his first jump.
~ * ~
He had strode a handful of yards out into the compound when the shooting started. He turned, hearing the shots, the stuttering sound of automatic fire. Shouts. Horns blaring. A siren. He started running toward the noise, his hands itching, wanting the comforting feel of a weapon in his hands. Others were running out of the hangars, carrying weapons or torches.
Saboteurs, he thought, as he ran. The Yanks, they found out about Operation Turnabout. They know what we’re really doing next week and they’ve gone pre-emptive. Damn Whitehall and the PM and every other bloody idiot. Never underestimate the Americans. Never.
And he was embarrassed at feeling hopeful, hopeful that the Americans were shooting first, that this disaster in the making could be canceled. Oh, Rachel, please let it be true.
He kept on running, to where the rows of transport aircraft were lined up, the big four-engined C-130s. He saw knots of men standing around. The shooting had stopped. Someone was yelling. He started to push through the crowds of men, engineers, paras, aircraft personnel, RCAF officers, and he heard someone say, ‘Medic! Get a medic in here!’
He stopped inside the ring of men and saw, lying on the tarmac, an RAF ground crewman in a jumpsuit. He was writhing in pain, blood seeping through fingers that were clenched around his left thigh. Armed Canadian soldiers had their weapons trained on him, as two others examined his satchel. The whole scene was lit by torchlight and the headlights from lorries that had driven up.
‘Poor fellow went nuts,’ an RCAF officer said. ‘Was going to the transports with a bag full of hand grenades, he was. Wouldn’t halt, wouldn’t stop. So they shot him.’
The RAF crewman started screaming. ‘It’s not too late! You can all stop it! Don’t you see what’s happening? If we go through with this, we’ve lit the fuse for the next world war! Is that what you want? Is it? When we get these bombs, do you think Germany and France and Japan will sit on their backsides and watch us?’
The assembled men watched him in silence. ‘Hell, no! They’ll start buildin’ their own bombs, start another arms race! And we’ll have another war, another world war, and millions more of us will die! Millions! In Japan and France and Germany and England, we’ll all die! It’ll be our turn! Your mothers and wives and sweethearts and children and grandparents, all of them dead, all of them to ashes, because of us! Because of what we’re going to do!’
Two medics forced their way through the crowd and knelt beside the wounded man. They pried his fingers loose and tried to work on his wounds, but he flailed at them with his fists. ‘They’ll all die, just like my daddy did,’ and then he started crying, great gasping sobs. ‘Just like my daddy ... He was in the RAF and he died in Omaha, at the American base ... And for what? Is that what you want? Is it?’
By ones and twos and threes, the uniformed men, all representatives in one way or another of the resurgent British empire, all of them started walking away, including Major Hunt. Good Lord, he needed that drink, and bad.
He walked slowly to his barracks, ashamed at what he had just seen, and ashamed at that brief joy of hope he had felt, that the Americans were going to put a stop to this idiotic mission.
~ * ~
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was the whistles and d r u m s that began to irritate Carl, standing on Beacon Street near the famous statue of Major Shaw and his doomed regiment. It was a sunny day and he was hungry and tired. He hadn’t eaten any-thing for breakfast—save two cups of coffee—because he was nervous about the day’s events. If things went well with Troy - and he had no idea how that would play out—then the next several hours would be interesting indeed. And if Troy didn’t show up, or if he didn’t talk, or if any one of a dozen other things happened, well...
Damn it, he wasn’t sure. Jim Rowley was hundreds of miles away, trusting in Carl Landry, and Carl had one shot, just one shot, to make it right. For Jim and the country. And he also had Captain Rowland back there in the shadows, ready to grab whatever Carl might find, and to reward Carl with a couple of rounds to the back of his skull.
And then there was Sandy.
He shook his head and resumed watching the crowd. One problem at a time, soldier. One problem at a time. His reporter’s notebook was in his hands and at his feet was a small knapsack, with water and a few other things. Ever since coming back from Manhattan, he had felt the need to have supplies with him, readily at hand. In some ways he was probably getting closer and closer to Two-Tone’s world, and instead of scaring him, the thought was almost comforting.
Along with the drums and whistles came other sounds. Shouts and yells. Some chants. Amplified music, from a stage set up at the State House end of the Common, up by Park Street. All kinds of people walked by—young and old, dungarees and peasant blouses mixed in with suits and ties. He knew what would be written tomorrow in the Globe and Herald. There would be solemn opinions about the ill-dressed and unbathed crowds of ruffians who crowded in among the haze of pot and booze in the Common, though so far Carl hadn’t seen or smelled any dope. Along with the youngsters he saw a middle-aged couple, walking slowly and with quiet dignity. The mother held a framed photo of a young man in an Army dress uniform. The father held a handmade sign to his chest: MY SON ROY, DEAD OF CANCER AT 21. STOP THE DRAFT. STOP THE KILLING. As they passed by Carl saw how the man’s hands were quietly shaking, holding the sign.
There were other signs as well, most of them handmade, most hoisted up by sticks:
FALLOUT ISN’T GOOD FOR PEOPLE AND OTHER LIVING THINGS.
TEN YEARS IS ENOUGH—DECLARE VICTORY AND END THE DRAFT.
WAR CRIMINAL GENERAL CURTIS: ROOM FOR YOU AT LEAVENWORTH END THE NATIONAL SECURITY STATE.
And many professionally made MCGOVERN FOR PRESIDENT signs, scattered like bright pieces of confetti among the crowd.
Carl noticed other things as well. Like the hard-eyed young men with short hair who tried unsuccessfully to blend in with the crowd. He wondered who their target was. The ranks of the protesters, or Carl Landry? Jesus, he thought. Don’t let your paranoia get the best of you.
He checked his watch. Five past noon. Where was he? He looked around the statue, past the shrubbery and the trees. More and more people were crowding up Beacon Street, cutting in front of cars and taxicabs. Horns blew and there were some shouts. A young man with blond hair cut short, wearing an Army fatigue jacket a couple of sizes too large, bumped into him as he went by. Carl paid him no heed. Where in hell was Troy?
Three days left. Jesus.
‘Hey,’ a voice said, close to his ear and a hand tugged at his elbow. ‘What’s the matter, vet, your eyesight gone?’
He turned and there was the young man again, the one with the blond hair and too-large Army coat. He star
ed and everything clicked into focus. ‘I see you’ve gone deep, Troy,’ he said.
‘Well, yeah, that has to be done sometimes,’ he said, eyes casting about, scanning the crowd. ‘Getting, the hair dyed wasn’t much of a problem, but I hate not having the beard. Face feels naked and cold.’
‘We’ve all got our troubles.’
‘Yeah, and I don’t want any more. What do you need, and make it quick.’
‘I need more information about your downstairs neighbor. Merl Sawson.’
The rock music from the stage got louder and Troy shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘That happy crap again? Look, the only reason I came out here is ‘cause I owe you one, from back when you warned me about that raid going down. One of the places they hit was my apartment. So, thanks. Instead of being in boot camp, I’m here and I’m grateful.’
Resurrection Day Page 46
