The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  Wait. And hope not to be discovered.

  The bathroom door opened and a heavy man entered. The door closed, and David pushed the inner maid’s door open an inch. Mattoon washed his face at the sink, sighing deeply.

  “Chairman!” David whispered as he pushed the door open.

  Mattoon whirled.

  David held a finger over his lips. “I’m a good guy. I’m here to get you out.”

  Mattoon’s mind seemed to run a thousand calculations. “If this is a trick--” He eyeballed David’s strange uniform.

  “Why would it be? Sir, I’m Captain David Gordon, U.S. Army, and I’m going to ask you to follow me without too many questions. Please whisper and move quietly.”

  Mattoon finished his calculations. He glanced back at the door, saw he had nothing to lose, and said: “You’re a hell of an optimist, sonny.”

  “This way!” David whispered. Mattoon heaved himself through the opening. It was a tight fit. David pushed the table away and helped him out on the other side.

  Inside, fists pounded on the bathroom door. “Hey! What’s that noise in there?”

  “Come on!” David whispered. They ran down the corridor.

  Behind them came the sound of splintering wood as bodies repeatedly threw themselves against the bathroom door that Mattoon had locked for privacy. There were several gunshots. “They’ve blown away the lock,” Mattoon said.

  “Hurry!” David hoped the bigger, older man could keep up with him. But Mattoon had been an athlete and an Air Force officer in his day, and he stayed right behind David. They were running all out, feet thudding in the carpets, arms pumping like locomotive pistons.

  “Hey! There they go!” someone bellowed.

  Involuntarily, David glanced back and saw a head sticking out of the maid closet.

  The door marked Utility was just ahead on the left. “Damn,” David said huffing.

  “What’s the matter?”

  David glanced back. The head had withdrawn. “Didn’t want them to see--” He pushed the door open. “Follow me.”

  “Right behind you, Sonny.”

  David heard shouting behind them, police whistles, running feet. “Mattoon got away!” someone yelled. “Everybody, look for a tall nigger and a dirty looking white private.”

  David let the door slip shut. They were in a janitor closet, attested by mops on the walls and a drain in the floor. A steel ladder embedded in the wall from about six feet up rose into a service shaft in the ceiling. “It’s our only way,” David said.

  They turned a bucket-cart upside down and used it to climb up, David leading. With luck, it would be a minute or two until the skinheads figured out where they’d gone. The path took David into a claustrophobic, chimney-like tunnel.

  David heard the door below open. Footsteps milled about below.

  He and Mattoon stood immobile, hoping nobody would look up.

  He held his breath.

  The footsteps faded away and the door slipped shut.

  Mattoon whispered: “They’ll be back. They’re not that dumb.”

  “We bought a few minutes. Keep moving!”

  They came to a wider service area on the next higher floor, a brick tunnel, painted white. Some inexplicable dusty machines stood against one wall. “Air conditioning,” Mattoon guessed. “Okay, Captain. What now?”

  “We are in the upper portion of Tower Three. Colonel Bellamy and I took a call from General Devereaux at the Composite. We are to rendez-vous with his people in two hours on the tenth floor of Tower One.”

  “How is that possible? The hotel is sealed off from the world--”

  “I don’t know, Sir. But right now, we need to get to that spot and hope for the best.”

  Mattoon shrugged. “Not much else we can do.”

  The tunnel went on forever, but about twenty feet further along they found another steel ladder. “Let’s go,” David said, climbing the rungs. “We need to go downward to the lobby level, which connects across.”

  They climbed down, hand over hand, foot over foot. David heard their breathing, the echoes of their shoes, and hoped the sound did not carry. Someplace up there a light shone dimly down the shaft.

  They dropped onto a concrete platform just high enough for a man to stand up in. They were entombed by concrete on all sides except one--a quadruple elevator shaft that dropped 30 floors into the basement of Tower 3. There was no railing, and the drop was dizzying.

  “We have to get down to the 5th floor,” David said. “Colonel Bellamy told me the building is riddled with these service tunnels and shafts.”

  Mattoon said drily: “It appears we are completely out on a limb here. Or is that a ledge?”

  “Unless we can ride down on top of an elevator,” David said. “Only I’ve never done anything like that before. I’ve jumped out of airplanes, but nothing like this.”

  “Did I mention that I have fear of heights?” Mattoon grinned.

  “And you an Air Force officer, Sir?” That broke the ice a bit.

  Just then the shaft began to hum. They flattened themselves against the wall. David could not help notice the mix of fear, courage, and determination on Mattoon’s face as he squinted upward into the path of a descending elevator. A wall of cool air moved down and enveloped them; then the car passed on silently oiled wheels. Its back was turned to them, so the doors would open and close on the opposite side. David’s eyes followed the car as it sped downward; he could hear men talking inside; heard the name Mattoon. He looked at the Chairman, who looked grim. “They’ll be looking for you everywhere,” David said. “We have no choice. Did you notice? There is a platform on top of the car for a workman. If we can hop across, and if nobody is in the elevator--” (Mattoon rolled his eyes up at these ifs)--”we can ride down and then make our way across.” He added: “Are you airborne qualified? It would help.”

  Mattoon closed his eyes as if in pain--or prayer. “Okay,” he said, visibly gritting his teeth. “Okay, Captain, you crazy son of a bitch. Oh God, why do I let myself get talked into things like this?”

  “Sh!” David said. “Here it comes, back up. We’ll wait until it comes down again. We can listen and maybe catch it when nobody gets on.”

  The car sped silently past, apparently empty.

  It stopped a few floors above, took on a noisy load of passengers, and started down again. “...Loose in the building somewhere, and we have to find them. Can’t let Mattoon escape or else...” The elevator trundled past, its sound gritty because of the weight its pulley wheels exerted on the steel cables dangling in the shaft.

  Twice more the car made the trip, each time ferrying more troops downstairs to search the corridors. Each time, David and Mattoon lay flat and held their breath, afraid their breathing or their pounding hearts could be overheard.

  Then there was silence. A faint wind whistled in the shaft, bringing in a smell that cut through the machine oil and raw steel--a smell of freedom, an aroma of open skies and fresh air. “We can’t sit here all night,” Mattoon said.

  “Here comes.”

  The elevator rose to the 29th floor and stopped. The doors slowly rumbled open, but nobody appeared to get in.

  “Now!” David said. He propelled himself off the edge, leaping about three or four feet, and catching the heavy cable. It was more rusty than greasy to the touch, but he felt like kissing it. Mattoon landed shakily, rocking the empty car with his huge weight. The door rumbled shut. “Down, down, down,” David whispered.

  “Shh!” Mattoon whispered back.

  “Oh no,” David whispered. The elevator started to rise. Faster and faster. Wind rushed through his hair and filled his clothing. They were going to die. He knew it. Faster and faster. The car was rushing headlong straight up, for a collision with the ceiling. They’d be squashed like bugs. David closed his eyes and hung on to the service bench until his knuckles whitened. The thick, rusty cable crackled and grumbled near his ear. Out of control. Everything was out of control. He was clinging to a p
ostage stamp about 35 stories off the ground, headed for a final bloody slam of destiny.

  David felt the wind rushing through his clothes as the elevator speeded upward. Numbers--black, on white squares--flashed by: 32, 33, 34. Abruptly the ride ended. Weak and limp, hanging on to the bench, David saw the number 35 and realized they were at the top floor. Their shelf was about six feet from the naked, raw concrete and steel girders of the roof of Tower 3.

  The elevator door rumbled open, and several pairs of feet pounded inside. “Sir,” a man said, “General Devereaux is on his way here with a column of mechanized infantry.”

  “That old fool.”

  “He wants Mattoon.”

  “Mattoon is loose in this building, and I want him too. If we can’t have him alive, then I want him dead, but I want the corpse in our possession, do you understand?” The door rumbled shut, and the cab started downward.

  “Yessir.”

  “It’s vital to our operation. Meanwhile, I’m going down to meet Devereaux.”

  “Sir, there is no time. Your broadcast is set to begin in a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine. I want to give Devereaux one chance to join us. At his age, they’re usually the last to hear about a new idea that makes sense.” The men in the car laughed--deep, hearty, mean laughter that was so close David realized if he sneezed they’d lift the flimsy grating, see him out there, and that would be the end. He lifted a finger to his lips and looked at Mattoon. The Chairman hung on in terror as the car plunged through space, leaving their stomachs a few floors behind.

  Chapter 37

  Tory sat with General Devereaux in the lead one of fifty infantry vehicles or LXs, each with ten soldiers and light equipment. The vehicles were rugged and utilitarian inside. The men sat on canvas and steel seats. The cockpit up front had two high-backed seats and glittered with red lights. Slit-like windows of bullet-proof glass ringed the bulkheads at standing eye level and kneeling eye-level. Radio equipment occupied a wall niche. Tory and the general sat in the front pair of seats. The two young infantrymen they displaced sat on their backpacks in the aisle. Each vehicle had exit hatches high middle right and in several low areas where men could egress, crouching low, to avoid flying bullets.

  The column passed through hastily thrown up checkpoints manned by National Guard and Reserve personnel, visible to Tory through mesh-covered windows. At several checkpoints a similar scenario played out. A sentry challenged: “Who are you?”

  The vehicle commander shouted: “399th Iowa, the President’s.”

  “Right on, 399th! Go get ‘em!”

  Within an hour, they rolled through the familiar checkpoint outside the Atlantic Hotel, past Towers Three and Two. The hotel was surrounded by troops in blue-yellow camouflage, with automatic weapons and NBC masks. They look ghoulish with their reptilian snouts and large inhuman eyes, Tory thought.

  They stopped near the gate where Tory had only yesterday joined sick call in her desperation to escape. Now there was a makeshift barrier of parked cars, piled furniture, and commandeered civilian delivery trucks preventing access to the hotel. A large civilian garbage truck blocked the one entrance through the barrier. The glass entrance to Tower One, raised on concrete steps and tucked between sculpture gardens, was about 300 feet beyond. The garbage truck was apparently fully loaded, for papers and rags hung from its rear loading mouth.

  “Wait here,” Devereaux told Tory. “Everyone wait. I’m gonna handle this myself.” At his wave, a tech opened a side hatch.

  Tory’s stomach gave a twist. Fifty unmufflered LX engines racketed, and diesel smoke drifted over the sidewalk as she watched. One by one, at Devereaux’s order, the engines shut down, leaving an eerie silence. Tory could hear wind blowing among the tires. Flags snapped in the night, high up on the hotel’s display masts. She smelled gasoline, grass, something else--food! Gravy, beef, something. Her stomach growled, but her skin crawled more noticeably at the moment.

  General Devereaux climbed down the side with surprising energy for a man of his age. He wore a long Army coat with four stars on each lapel. He had an old-fashioned steel pot helmet with four white stars in a horizontal row, front and back. He had a cigar stuck in his mouth, and the .38 dangled in a holster by his right hip.

  He climbed down and marched swiftly toward the garbage truck.

  Sentries appeared on top of the walls. Rifles pointed at him from the lower, nearer hotel windows. Two men emerged at a crouch, assault rifles pointed and ready to fire.

  Tory heard him say: “I’m General Devereaux. You boys stop this right now.”

  “You can’t come in here, Sir,” a young fellow’s voice quavered.

  “Now don’t be silly, son, I’m a general. I give the orders and you do what I say. Don’t we pay you to do that?”

  “Yessir, but--”

  “Young man, I didn’t drive all the way over here to chat with you. Go get me General Montclair right this instant! I want to talk with him person to person right out here in the street.”

  “Sir--,” the boy stammered.

  A short, massive looking colonel appeared from around the truck. Colonel Bronf, Tory realized. She’d seen him go up and down in the elevators. David had told her about him. He was a dark, ominous looking individual. On him, even a regulation Army uniform looked somehow totalitarian, his saucer cap resembling something an SS officer might have worn. And he carried a swagger stick! He moved a gloved hand in a brief but formal salute. “General, my compliments to you.”

  Devereaux removed his cigar and said: “Are you in the U.S. Army?”

  Bronf’s lips formed a grim line, and his eye cavities darkened. “Yes.”

  Devereaux’s voice was smooth as an aged whiskey, with just that much hint of warning in it, as he returned the salute. “Well then, howdy, Colonel, my compliments to you. Say, who am I complimenting here?”

  “Colonel Bronf, Sir. Assistant Chief of Staff, Security, 3045th M.I. Detachement, Reserve. General Montclair is getting ready to make a radio address and unfortunately is not available right now.”

  “Colonel, I don’t have time to wait around, and what I need is for him to surrender this place to me immediately. Not only that, but I demand that you turn over Mr. Mattoon to me personally right this minute, and release all the delegates. Why don’t we begin by you dropping your gun on the ground and ordering all these fine red-blooded American boys to throw down their arms and just walk up the street there with their hands up?”

  “General, we don’t have time to play games.”

  Devereaux shouted. “You hear me, boys? I represent the President here. On behalf of your Commander in Chief, I am ordering you to throw down your weapons and come out here. You won’t come to any harm, I pledge my good name on that.”

  “General--,” Bronf barked, stamping his foot and stepping forward.

  The young soldiers exchanged a chorus of boos and pleas with each other.

  “You better hurry, boys!”

  After another minute it was clear that nobody was surrendering.

  “Okay, Bronf, have it your way,” Devereaux said and turned.

  Bronf stood staring, while Devereaux walked toward the row of LXs.

  Bronf shouted after him: “General, it’s very important that there be no bloodshed. This is a peaceful and temporary transfer of power until the country can be be restored to order and tranquility.”

  Devereaux half turned, but didn’t stop walking. “What’s your idea of order and tranquility? Taking hostages? Terrorizing the entire nation? Why don’t you begin by stopping your crazy scheme? You can’t win.”

  Bronf stood silently glowering.

  Devereaux raised his hand in a signal, and the engines coughed into life.

  As Devereaux climbed up the ladder into the open port, Tory heard him mutter, “Well, we brought our toys.” Devereaux climbed down and dusted himself off. The coat flapped, and the .38 swung in its holster. The half-burned cigar had gone out, and he stuck its dark, soggy corpus
between two radio buttons on a wall panel. A private pulled the hatch shut and turned the crank to lock it.

  Devereaux waggled his finger, and Tory stepped near. “Look out there,” he said. As she bent forward, the LX lurched forward. “I had to borrow something from Mark Nash. Remember Mark? Commanding general, 699th Tank Regiment, Reserve, Bangor, Maine? He just happened to have one old M-60 gathering dust in his armory.”

  At that moment, a blocky tank clattered past Tory’s window. It was streaked with mud and dirt. Its barrel was pointed backward and the chassis rocked in rolling motions as it charged toward the garbage truck.

  Bronf jumped out of the way just in time as the ancient tank raged at the truck like a dinosaur, tipping the truck over. Truck and tank disappeared into the darkness. Shots rang out, but then someone must have ordered the young soldiers to cease fire. Bronf! He ran up and down, waving his arms and yelling--probably that there must be no shooting.

  “I know what he’s saying,” Devereaux rasped. “He’s telling them we’re trying to provoke them. That’s a damn lie. I don’t want to see a single American boy killed or hurt here on the streets of our own capital.”

  Careening wildly, the aging tank made a circle under the stairs of Tower One, tearing out aluminum frames and causing picture windows to blow out explosively and then turn to powder under its churning treads. The tank rolled back down the stairs, ran right over the garbage truck which flattened in the middle and bent up at both ends like a banana. The tank then attacked the piled barriers, shoving parked cars out of the way, overturning trucks, and flattening furniture.

  “Enough,” Devereaux said. “Let’s exploit our advantage. Tell him to take off, and tell Mark thanks.”

  The tank wheeled, flag flapping, and raced away into the night toward its next errand.

  The LXs lurched forward with wheezing air brakes--directly into the maw of the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center. Tory hung on to a metal rail and wondered--was Rocky Devereaux insane?