The whereabouts and involuntary nature of the residence of the former Speaker of the House of Representatives was on a need-to-know basis. The windows were sealed and there was a twenty-four-hour guard, always one of the same three men on rotating eight-hour shifts, with the guard who came on at six a.m. every morning providing their daily rations.
The guards were stone-faced, communicating by gestures and curt commands, obviously instructed to limit interaction. Tremble gently chided them at every opportunity, carrying on unfailingly pleasant, if one-sided conversations, telling jokes and doing anything he could to provoke a reaction. None wore name tags, but he’d named them all, and called them by their fictitious names. Come what may, it wouldn’t hurt if their keepers viewed him and Keith as people, rather than assignments. He had no doubt these same guards might one day be given other, harsher orders, and if he built some rapport, no matter how tenuous, the guards’ actions or facial expressions might telegraph the change.
He’d made most headway with the guard he’d named Sam, the morning man who brought the daily food ration. In recent days Tremble had even seen a suppressed smile tugging at the corners of Sam’s mouth from time to time as he delivered the punchline of a particularly funny joke. Not much, but it was there. Sam, or whatever his real name was, acted a bit less guarded when he came into the apartment with the rations or when he stuck his head in for the head count every two hours.
Tremble picked up on other things as well. The guards did periodic visual checks during the day and entered the apartment to check on their sleeping forms at night, which told him electronic surveillance was unlikely. That made sense given the ‘ad hoc’ nature of their confinement in a totally isolated and secure facility like Mount Weather. Apparently neither the President nor the Secretary of Homeland Security felt there were any conversations between Tremble and his teenage son that warranted eavesdropping. If only the bastards knew.
His thoughts returned to Keith, the center of his universe for the ten years since cancer had taken Jane. He’d do anything to keep his son safe, but he knew Keith would never be safe under Gleason and Crawford’s control. Tremble had no doubt as soon as he’d served his purpose, both he and Keith were loose ends. His worry was tempered with pride at Keith’s response when he’d explained the situation to him yesterday, just laying out the facts without attempting to influence his son’s opinion. Keith had fallen silent while he weighed the options.
“Do you really think President Gleason is setting himself up to be some sort of dictator?” Keith asked.
“A month ago, I’d have laughed at the suggestion,” Tremble replied, “but after meeting him face to face, I have no doubt. As the saying goes, power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. If he has his way, we may get limited electrical power restored to serve the needs of those he’s deemed worthy of saving, but we’ll have paid for it with the complete loss of democracy.”
“Then there are no options, Dad. You can’t do what they want, and I’m sure not becoming one of their thugs. They might as well kill us both now. We know they’re probably going to sooner or later anyway. On the other hand, as soon as you resist, they may separate us to increase the leverage, so I’d say pretend to go along and then we take a shot at getting out of here. Right now they need you, so they’ll be hesitant to kill you, and if they kill me, they know you won’t cooperate. That means if we try and fail, we’re not any worse off than we are now.”
From the mouths of babes, Tremble recalled thinking, then revised the thought—at eighteen, his son was a powerfully built young man and mature beyond his years. When did that happen? he wondered, a wistful smile on his face. Keith’s bedroom door opened and his son walked into the living area, fully clothed.
“Fresh coffee in the pot,” Tremble said, nodding toward the small kitchenette.
Keith returned his nod. “Might as well enjoy it while we can.” He moved toward the kitchen, returning a moment later with cup in hand to sprawl on one end of the small sofa.
“You been up all night?”
“Since about two,” Tremble replied, “I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. I was just about to come in and wake you.”
Keith shook his head. “I’ve been awake an hour or so myself. Nerves, I guess.”
Tremble nodded. “Same here. You sure you’re okay with this, son? Maybe I can play them a little while longer and form a better plan?”
“But what if they separate us? Then we’re screwed. We’re on borrowed time as it is, Dad.”
Tremble nodded again and fished something out of the back pocket of his slacks before sitting down on the couch beside Keith and handing him the flattened ziplock bag. Inside was a document, folded small.
“What’s this?”
“You’ve read it,” Tremble said. “It’s my official copy of Secretary Crawford’s memo to the President detailing the ‘recovery plan.’ I got a copy because I was Speaker, and since we were already ‘sequestered,’ no one bothered to take it back. I put it in one of the ziplock bags from our food ration to protect it. I want you to take it.”
“But why? You should keep it to prove—”
Tremble cut him off. “We have to get word out about what’s going on. If we both make it, I’ll take it back and get copies spread around. But if … if I don’t make it, nobody is likely to take the word of an eighteen-year-old kid. I’m sorry, that’s a fact. However, some documentation gives you at least a fighting chance to be heard. And if … if …”
“If I don’t make it,” Keith finished for him. “You’re Speaker of the House, so people are much more likely to take your word without any backup documentation. Okay, Dad, I got it. Makes sense.”
Tremble nodded and glanced at his watch. “Sam should be bringing the food soon. Let’s go over the plan again.
‘Sam’ was right on time, and forty-five minutes later Tremble and his son were sitting on the sofa when they heard the low murmur of conversation outside the door, signaling the change of shift. Tremble nodded to Keith and pretended to turn his attention to the briefing script while his son quickly retreated to the small bathroom. There was a tap on the door before it opened to reveal the more genial of their keepers, who closed the door behind himself and moved toward the kitchenette with a plastic grocery bag, looking around as he did so, as was his routine.
“Good morning, Sam,” Tremble said, “and what wonderful treats did you bring us today?”
The man scowled as he set the bag on the small counter separating the living area and kitchenette. “Where’s the kid? I gotta see you both for shift change. You know that.”
Tremble inclined his head toward the bathroom door. “Answering the call of nature, I’m afraid. I’m sure he’ll be out any time.” Tremble rose and walked toward the kitchenette. “There’s fresh coffee, want a cup?”
The man shook his head as Tremble moved past him into the kitchen to refill his empty cup and returned to lean with his butt against the counter. He held the coffee in his left hand and studied the guard standing a few feet away, glaring at the bathroom door.
“KEITH! HURRY UP AND GET OUT HERE. SAM’S WAITING,” Tremble yelled. The door to the bathroom opened, right on cue.
Keith came out muttering apologies, then stumbled and went down on one knee, drawing Sam’s full attention. Tremble threw scalding coffee into the guard’s face, and the man closed his eyes reflexively and stepped back, groping blindly for his sidearm. Tremble connected with a rising punch starting from his waist and landing on the point of the guard’s chin, snapping the man’s mouth shut and dropping him like a rock. Tremble was on top of the unconscious man immediately, stripping him of sidearm and stun gun, and handing Keith the man’s handcuffs as his son reached his side.
“Hurry. Turn him on his stomach and cuff his hands behind his back in case he comes to,” Tremble whispered. “Pete will be outside waiting for Sam to take over the shift so he can leave.”
No sooner had Tremble spoken than the doorknob began t
o turn, and he crossed the small living area in four long strides and stepped behind the opening door. ‘Pete’ rounded the door to find a nine millimeter an inch away from his forehead.
“Just come on in, Pete. Lock your fingers behind your head, and don’t make any sudden moves. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you make me.” Tremble’s tone left no doubt he meant it.
‘Pete’ nodded, his eyes wide, and did as instructed as Tremble closed the door with his foot, then pressed his back against it until the latch clicked, never once losing focus on the man in front of him. He instructed his captive to face the wall, then used his free hand to remove the guard’s sidearm.
“Now keep looking at the wall and strip, very slowly,” Tremble said. “One wrong move and you’re dead.”
The guard complied, and as soon as he was down to his underwear, Tremble instructed him to lay on this stomach and held the gun on him while Keith cuffed the man with his own handcuffs, bound his feet, and gagged him with strips torn from a bed sheet. Together, they then uncuffed and undressed ‘Sam,’ who was regaining consciousness but showing no signs of fight. When they finished, they put the cuffs back on and bound his feet and gagged him before stripping their own clothes to don the uniforms.
Keith finished first and sat down on the couch with one of the pairs of boots. He looked inside the shoe and quickly pulled his face back. “Whew! Sam here could use some odor-eaters, that’s one rank pair of boots. Anyway, they’re elevens. That’ll work for me. How are yours.”
Tremble sat down beside his son and checked the other guard’s boots. “They’re twelves, I’m good.”
Moments later they stood side by side at a wall mirror.
“What do you think, Dad?”
“Close enough,” Tremble said. “If we pull the caps low, we can definitely pass at a distance, at least until they raise the alarm.”
“What now?” Keith asked.
Tremble held up the keys he’d fished out of ‘Pete’s’ pocket. “I didn’t see any security cameras on the buildings here. My guess is the bulk of the security effort is concentrated on the perimeter fences. So we get in their car and just try to drive out. Best I can tell from listening through the door, they report in randomly, but Pete here was due off shift, so we don’t know if his failure to show up or log out someplace might set off an alarm. We’ll keep his radio, so maybe we’ll know if anyone starts getting suspicious.”
“All right. Let’s do it,” Keith said, but his father hesitated, casting a pointed look at Keith’s sidearm.
“You okay with that?”
“I’ve used it at the range, I’m good,” Keith said.
“Trust me, shooting at another human being who’s shooting back at you is quite a bit different. Don’t hesitate to use it if you have to, but understand up front it’s not nearly as easy as you think. You need to get your mind around that, because it could save your life.”
Keith swallowed and nodded, and Tremble pulled him into an embrace. “I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Tremble fought down his own emotion and patted his son on the back.
Two minutes later, caps pulled low, they were in a black SUV moving at the posted speed limit along a well-paved road winding uphill through the western half of the complex. There were only a few people moving around the many buildings they passed, and Tremble heaved a relieved sigh. The early hour was working in their favor.
“How much further?” Keith asked.
“A mile or so on this road because of all the switchbacks,” Tremble said, “then we’ll pass over Blue Ridge Mountain Road. That’s a state highway that cuts the camp in two. They couldn’t close it, so they put high fences on either side and then built an overpass on this road to connect the east and west halves of the surface facility. The overpass is just around the next bend. After the overpass, we pass the back side of the main gate security building one street over and go down about two hundred yards to make a one-eighty back toward the gate. Then it might get hairy.”
“So we just drive through the gate? No one’s gonna stop us?”
“Not hardly, that’s why it gets hairy, but the security is set up to keep people out and we’ve got that going for us. That and human nature.”
“I don’t follow,” Keith said.
“There are steel barrier posts at the gate which hydraulically retract into the pavement to let vehicles pass. They’re kept deployed on the entrance side of the gate and have to be lowered every time to admit a vehicle. The same thing is SUPPOSED to be true on the exit side, but it takes a minute or so to raise and lower the posts and is a bit of a pain in the ass. The bigger concern has always been people coming in rather than going out, and I noticed the few times I’ve been here the barrier posts on the exit gate were kept down in favor of using the secondary, and fairly flimsy, bar gate. We’re pretty remote here, without much in the way of external threats, so I’m hoping they haven’t changed their ways. We can crash the lift bar.”
“What happens if the posts are up on the exit gate?”
Tremble’s jaw tightened. “Then we’re screwed.”
They made the sweeping turn in silence and were moving across the overpass when the radio sprang to life.
“Unit Twelve, this is Control. Do you copy? Over.”
Keith looked at Tremble. “So are we Unit Twelve?”
“Not a clue, but I’m guessing yes,” Tremble said.
“Should we answer?”
“No. We don’t know their communications protocol and risk alerting them if we say the wrong thing. If we’re silent, they might get antsy, but they’ll still be unsure. We’re only a couple of minutes from the gate, and that’s his first call. He’ll probably try at least a couple of times before sounding an alarm. The cat’s out of the bag when we crash the gate anyway, but maybe we can get there before anyone picks up the problem.”
Keith nodded. They rode in silence, the back of the main gate security building visible one road over on the left. The radio squawked again.
“Unit Twelve, what is your status? Respond immediately. Over.”
“Sounds like he’s at the antsy stage,” Keith said as his father slowed to make the U-turn back toward the main gate.
“All we need is a bit more time, and then it won’t make any difference,” Tremble said as he turned the SUV. As the exit lane became visible, he let out a relieved sigh. “Thank God, the posts are down!”
He increased speed, the gate now only a hundred yards away. The next transmission dampened his elation.
“All stations, repeat, all stations. This is Control. We have a non-responding unit. Initiate Protocol Alpha. Repeat, initiate Protocol Alpha.”
“Hang on!” Tremble said as he saw the guard in the glass booth look down and press something on the console in front of him. He stomped the accelerator and held it there as the tops of the barrier posts began to peek from the pavement ahead.
“Air bags!” thought Tremble, much too late, as the SUV blew by the startled guard and hit the bar gate, smashing both front headlights. The heavy vehicle brushed the lift bar out of the way without slowing or bumper contact and the air bags didn’t deploy. A fraction of a second later, the front tires contacted the rising barrier posts, now ten inches above the ground, and the vehicle leaped airborne, throwing both occupants forward against their straining shoulder belts, inducing a brief feeling of weightlessness before the vehicle crashed down. Again their luck held as the posts were below bumper level and the deceleration alone was insufficient to trigger the air bags.
The SUV careened down the road, tires shrieking, as Tremble fought for control. For three long, heart-stopping seconds, the issue was in doubt. Then he regained control and once again floored it, rushing toward the intersection ahead. Barely slowing, he turned north on Blue Ridge Mountain Road, roaring onto the two-lane blacktop in a controlled skid, then stomping the accelerator once again. He glanced to his right to see his son ashen-faced, knuckles white as he g
ripped the grab rail. Slowly Keith’s face split into a wide grin.
“You did it, Dad! Where we going now?”
“Away from here,” Tremble said, “but we won’t have long. They’ll be after us in a heartbeat and we have to—”
There was a loud bang and the SUV lurched to the right, once again testing Tremble as he fought the car to a stop on the shoulder. They both jumped out and looked down at the shredded right front tire.
“Damn it!” Tremble said. “I guess the damn posts got us after all. Must have weakened the tire.”
“Let’s change it,” Keith said, starting for the rear.
“No time. Get back in. Driving on a flat’s still faster than we can move on foot. We’ll drive as fast and as far as we can, and abandon it on some side road out of sight. We were going to have to ditch it anyway, but if we can delay them finding it, the more time we’ll have to get away.
Presidential Quarters
Camp David, Maryland
Day 17, 6:25 a.m.
Gleason opened his eyes at the low buzz, groggy as he peered through the gloom at the glowing face of the alarm clock. Why the hell was the alarm going off? He groped for the button to kill the noise, then cursed as he overturned a glass of water on the bedside table. Fully awake now, he sat up as he realized the low trilling was not the alarm but the phone.
“What?” he barked into the receiver.
“Mr. President, I’m sorry to disturb you—”
“Then why the hell did you? What was so important it couldn’t wait an hour or so?”
“Mr. President, I have Secretary Crawford on the secure link from Weather Mountain. I tried to take a message, but he insisted—”
“All right, all right. Just put him through.”
“Yes sir,” the operator said, and Crawford’s voice came on the line.
“Good morning, Mr. President—”
“No, Ollie, it’s not good morning. It will be a good morning in an hour or so when I’ve had my coffee. Now what’s so damned important it couldn’t wait until then?”
Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 Page 30
