The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  “Sir?” She felt her teeth chatter.

  “Stop shaking, Lieutenant. If you’re in the Army, you get paid to be bored most of the time but scared shitless at least once in your career.”

  Joe Ciampi brought coffee and donuts. “Rocky, want me to come along on this?”

  “Naw. You hold the fort. If I call you, get Colonel Bibbs out of the sack, but I think we’ve got all the bases covered.” He frowned a moment, then added: “Joey, I need to speak with Senator Mattoon.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Moments later Ciampi popped back in. “The cellnet is out of the loop, and the land lines are down.”

  “Dammit,” Devereaux said. “I know they’ve got a field phone someplace in there. Could you see if you can raise Montclair’s staff? Who’s the Acting?”

  “Someone named Colonel Bronf,” Ciampi said.

  “Get me Bronf,” Rocky said, rubbing his hands together in cruel anticipation. Tory saw a look in his eyes that suggested he might order steak sauce with his request.

  “Yessir.” Ciampi hurried out of the room.

  Minutes later, the phone blipped. Devereaux picked up. “Yes?--Colonel Bronf? This is General Devereaux. I need you to get me in touch with Senator Mattoon.--What’s that?” He gripped the receiver in both hands and hollered into it: “--To hell with your chain of command.--You hear me?--Are you deaf or something? Chuck you and chuck your chain of command. You get a runner up there to Mattoon on the double”--he looked at the receiver and said in amazement, “that hair ball rang off on me!” He slammed the phone down. “Who else do we know in there?”

  Ciampi suggested: “How about Bellamy, the Provost Marshal?”

  “See if you can raise him.”

  “Sure, Rocky.” Ciampi spoke softly into the phone, then waited for his request to be forwarded through the Emergency Satellite Command. Devereaux, waiting with his phone, put his palm over the speaker. “Breen, have some coffee. You’re shivering.” He moved his cigar around in his mouth, rose, and went to a closet. Out came a long, wool Army greatcoat with Iowa markings. “Put this on. I hate to hear your teeth rattle like that.”

  Tory put the coat on. “Four stars on each collar end. Have I been promoted?”

  Devereaux pointed his cigar at her. “You might get there one day.”

  Joe Ciampi came back. “You got it, Rocky. Bellamy’s on the com.”

  “I’ll talk to him. Bellamy? Yes, this is General Devereaux. What the hell is going on in that building? What? Oh for Chrissake. Have they lost their minds? Years ago, I’m afraid. Builds up like ring around the tub, you see. Can you move around in there? No. You what?” He put his palm over the phone. “His ankle’s bent or broken or some damn thing. He’s got someone with him. A David Gordon.”

  Tory jumped up. “My David Gordon? Is he all right?”

  Rocky said: “I got a Lieutenant Breen here who wants to know if Gordon’s in one piece.” He nodded to Tory. “He’s fine.”

  Tory sped through a series of emotions, from rejoicing through fear, to mortal concern for David. Rocky, however, appeared to see things differently. “Okay, if you got a bum leg, then Gordon can do the walking. You know where Mattoon is? Then get him to the tenth floor service elevator in Tower 1. Tape his big goddamn mouth shut if you have to. I don’t care how he feels about his little pet convention; we can’t let these buzzards have him. We’ve got to get him to the White House so he can issue a statement and cancel this godforsaken stupid idea. You think you can do it? You gotta do it. You have no choice. I am giving you an order, Colonel. You get Mattoon to that spot as fast as you can, and I don’t care if you have to kill everyone in the hotel to do it, yourself included. Just so Mattoon comes out alive. Got it? God bless you, son. And tell David Gordon there’s a girl named Tory here waiting for him. If I know young men, that boy will carry Mattoon in his arms like a baby if he has to. Hang on a sec.” He handed her the receiver.

  “David?” she whispered into the phone. “David?”

  “Tory. Darling. I love you.”

  “Oh, I love you too, David. Are you okay?” She choked up. “I want you back in one piece--do you hear?”

  “I’m gonna do my best.”

  She sniffled. “That’s not good enough. I’m giving you an order, do you hear? I don’t care if you’re a captain and I’m just a lieutenant. I’m wearing four stars here, come to think of it. I love you and I want you back here because maybe we can sorta hang out, you know, get married, adopt a few kids. Want to do that?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask. Tory, will you marry me?”

  She burst into tears and laughter. “Yes,” she said, “yes, yes, yes...”

  His voice sounded distant, but full of passion and desire: “I fell in love with you from the start, as those idiots were waving smoky weenies.”

  She laughed warmly at the memory, then choked up at the terrifying physical distance between herself right now and the man she loved. “Please come home to me.” There wasn’t just the possibility that he’d leave her, but that they might never see each other again if something happened to one or both of them. Things were happening too fast, and she decided it was silly to worry about getting hurt again in romance. “I gotta go, Love. Come back in one piece, please.”

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  “That general there with you--he’s on the level?”

  “I can vouch for him,” she said. She thought of Granddad, and Vietnam. “He’s our only hope. He and General Norcross.”

  “Okay, Tory. I’ve got my orders. I’m getting out of here, and I’m bringing Mattoon with me. Mouth taped up if necessary. I’m going to think about how I want to share a pillow with you tonight, and we’ll just talk, talk, talk all night like a couple of love birds.”

  David always has that sense of humor, she thought. “I want you here in my arms, David Gordon. Do you hear me? As soon as you can. I want you here.” Tears rolled down her cheek at the thought she might not see him again. Through the blur, she noticed Devereaux and Ciampi had left the room, probably to give her some privacy.

  Shortly, Rocky Devereaux strode in. “Breen, you were right. Those idiots are trying to bargain with the White House right now. Not another minute to waste. Let’s go!”

  Joe Ciampi brought a .45 caliber antique with canvas holster and belt. He offered it to Tory. “I won’t need this tonight, but you might.”

  “Thank you.” It was all the words she could get out. She belted it on.

  Devereaux said: “I hope granddaddy is watching, because he’d be mighty proud of you.”

  At that moment, the lights went out. There was a tangible sigh as computer systems shut off, lights faded, generators died. A blackness descended, silvered by moonlight. Gas heaters guttered eerily. Tory heard distant explosions.

  The phone blipped, and General Devereaux picked up. “What the hell is that?” A minute later, he hung up. “That was the Pentagon. It’s gone a step farther again. A couple of generals in the hotel have started a coup d’etat. They’re not just out to kill CON2. They’re taking the country over. At least that’s what they think, before I wrap my hands around their stinkin’ adams apples. Those sounds are the main power lines and road intersections getting blown up by these altar boys from hell. So far, the President is still safe, and General Norcross will join him at the White House for solidarity.”

  Chapter 36

  After speaking with Tory, David felt a warmth inside that was quickly replaced by yearning. He might never see her again. He might not get out of here alive. What irony, to have met someone like Tory who’d turned him inside out, and now this.

  Bellamy’s expression mirrored frustration. “I wish I could do something more than sit here waiting to get an artillery shell down my neck.”

  “There is something you can do, Sir. You can help me plan a way to get Mattoon out of the hotel.”

  Bellamy shook his head. “You’re nuts. The place is crawling with rock-heads.”r />
  “They’re plenty busy, and they’ll be busier yet when the war gets closer.”

  Bellamy thought for a few minutes. “You know,” he said, “I know a few quirks about the hotel. Look here, on every floor there are maid cupboards. Know what those are? The maid wheels her supply cart down the hall, and uses her master key to open all these little doors in the walls. She puts new supplies on the shelves--towels, linen, soap, you name it--and then she moves on. Each of the master suites has one, that can also be opened from inside the bathroom. What if we--?”

  Together they hatched a plan. When they were done, David said: “Granted, it’s dangerous as all get-out, but it’s better than sitting here.”

  “Remember one thing,” Bellamy said, “I’ve never seen one of these troopers alone. I think they make them travel in groups to keep the brainwashing active. One individual alone might start thinking, God forbid. Two individuals might start conspiring. What I’m saying is that it’s only a matter of time before someone stops you and asks where your unit is. Or asks to see your I.D. What are you going to say then?

  “I’ll figure something out.” He picked up the Bible the skinheads had left for him. Thoughtfully, he tucked it under his arm.

  Bellamy, using a nail file he’d found, laboriously and painstakingly unscrewed the lock on the door, pausing every few instants to listen for footsteps. All one heard was the slamming sounds of artillery. “Who is shooting at whom?”

  “I don’t know, but our friends here will be busy enough,” David said. The door swung open, and he poked his head out. The gloomy corridor was lit only by battery-powered emergency lights. The atmosphere was almost holy, almost serene, except for the clicking noises in the window-rooms across the hall, where weapons were being taken apart and oiled for a last time. “Good luck!” Bellamy said.

  David shook Bellamy’s hand and started down the hall. A cool wind gave him a taste of freedom, a false sense, he knew, but an enjoyable difference contrasted to sitting in that room. The first stop was the laundry area down the hall, exactly where Bellamy had said it would be. David pawed his way through several gurneys until he found blue-and-yellow camouflage fatigues that roughly fit him. He was athletic and slim enough that it would take a few moments for someone to notice that he did not have that crazed look in his eyes, and on his lips that all-knowing smurk of the fanatic, his face a radiant mix of ignorance and bliss. He found fatigues; and a cap to hide his scab.

  Furtively, looking right and left, he walked down the hall to where Mattoon was being held. Twice he passed small groups of commandos. A few nodded and one or two spoke a greeting. He waved the Bible, and they waved back. Naive, unsuspicious boys, they would be like savage dogs if called on; one word from an officer or NCO, and they’d fall on him and tear him to pieces.

  Next, he went to the end of the corridor and found the maid’s station. The master key would be in there.

  Locked. He remembered an old trick. At least they’d left his wallet. He took out his military ID card and thrust it between the door and its jamb. Tight fit, but there was a teeny rattle. As he worked up a sweat, moving the card up and down, he felt the bolt give a little. Standing on tiptoes, and shoving the card down until it frayed, he felt drops of sweat flying away. Then the door gave. The card pressed against the beveled edge of the bolt, pressing it out of its hole. The door swung silently open into a small, dark room that smelled sweetly of bath soap and clean towels. David stepped inside, in a wan emergency light, and skimmed his fingertip along a row of keys as Bellamy had instructed, until he found the right key. He turned off the light and prepared to leave.

  As he turned to close the door, a voice pinioned him and a shiver ran through his system. “You there!” It was a booming, almost hoarse voice. “What are you doing?”

  He turned and faced a huge sergeant with a blond haircut and little pig eyes, mouth twisted up at the corners showing yellow teeth.

  “I asked you what you’re doing, Private.”

  David remembered the Bible and held it up. “I was looking for more of these.”

  The giant’s eyes became one percent less pig-like; his snarl softened, and the teeth went away. “What is your duty station?”

  “Downstairs, Sergeant.”

  “Where downstairs? Where exactly, Private?”

  “Down by the lobby desk, Sergeant. I’m, er, part of the reception group.”

  “The what group?” The snarl came back, a little. “You look like a bright one, Private. Got some education?”

  “Yes.”

  “That there book will see us through what’s coming, but right now you hie your behind to your station and stand by your pals, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Thank you.”

  “If I see you wandering around by yourself again, I’m going to have a serious talk with your boss.” The sergeant went one way, and David went the other. He had no intention of going anywhere but to the suite where Bellamy had said Mattoon was being held. There were no guards in the hall in front of the suite, which first made him think Bellamy was wrong. Then he heard shouting inside. He recognized Mattoon’s voice; after all, everyone in the world had been listening to it for the last few weeks. He heard several men trying to reason with Mattoon about something. David also spotted a doorway marked Utility nearby.

  When he got to the nearest stairwell, he grasped the handle and looked around.

  He was alone in the hallway. Quickly, he grabbed a supply cart--abandoned when the civilians had turned control of the hotel over to the military--and wheeled it down the halls. He found what he wanted in a large utility room: a long brown folding table, heavy, about six feet long, wood on top, with metal legs. Also in the room were a stack of dusty-violet hotel table cloths and a cardboard box full of Gideons. He straddled the table over the cart, then loaded the cloths on it. He emptied the box of its Bibles and stacked them visibly. Unless he met the same NCO again, the Bible ruse might work at least one more time.

  Gritting his teeth in fear of being challenged again, he wheeled the contraption out into the hall, right into a group of passing commandos. They stopped, stared at him, and he at them, and then they stared at the Bibles. “Right on,” one of them said, and resumed walking.

  David wheeled his rig to the wall outside the suite, against the small maid’s door for putting towels in the bathroom closet on the other side of the wall. He’d figure something out. One step at a time now. Quickly he opened the table cloths and spread them so they covered the table and hung down to the floor. He placed the Bibles on top to anchor them.

  Then he heard voices.

  He ducked under the table. There, he broke into a sweat.

  Footsteps drew near, vibrating the floor.

  He smelled the dusty carpet by his face, felt the vibrations in his frame, and felt helpless. He tried to control is loud, ragged breathing.

  “Hey, this is different,” said one man, slowing, close to the table.

  “Don’t loiter here,” said another. “We’ve got a job to do, and that’s all.”

  “Don’t even slow down. This is forbidden territory,” said a third.

  Their footsteps fell away, and David let out a breath of relief. With his sleeves, he mopped sweat from his forehead. It was stuffy under the table. He wasn’t particularly cramped, but it was only a matter of time--minutes perhaps--before they discovered him. They might take him out and shoot him, given they were capable of anything.

  In the quiet, he heard Mattoon speaking angrily far away. That would be in one of the bedrooms, perhaps; certainly not in the bathroom, and the maid’s cupboard opened into the bathroom. David pushed the table about a foot clear of the wall. He reached up and stuck the key in the maid’s door.

  The noise reverberated, and he froze.

  Mattoon was still talking. Good. The noise might be loud in the hallway, but it would not be heard past the bathroom in the suite. He listened; no footsteps audible. As quietly and quickly as he could, he turned the key. The woo
den door, which was about two feet square, whispered open a few inches. It was a simple wooden affair on two hinges; no springs involved.

  Hearing footsteps, he closed the door and froze again, then ducked behind the table. Fear made him stiffen helplessly. He nearly peed. Then he thought of Tory. He must make it through this. He must look into her eyes, hold her hand, kiss her rich mouth again.

  Seconds later, several men passed by, carrying something heavy.

  When they were gone, David opened the door. Could Mattoon get through there? He was a big man. The cupboard was about two feet deep. Inside were a few towels, bars of soap, a bottle of shampoo, plastic cups wrapped in sanitary paper; that was all. David inspected the shelves. There were two of them, heavy wood; after a moment’s panic, he realized the cupboard was modular. The shelves could be removed by pulling small metal studs out of the frame on either side under each shelf. David swept the towels, the other items, and the two shelves under the table beside him. So far so good.

  Someone had entered the bathroom and stood there humming to himself, with only the flimsy innner door separating them. David was afraid to move, lest the slightest rustle give him away. He heard urine tumbling into water. Heard a zipper. Water flushing. A door open and close. Silence.

  The inner door was locked, and the key would not work from inside. However, the lock was so simple that David was able to disengage it by pushing the tumbler back with his finger. The door opened a few inches, and David glimpsed the bathroom. Expensive tiles gleamed everywhere, in various shades of luxuriant green, from moss through pistachio, alternating with a background almond. Jesus; what now?