The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  “Yes. Take a look at this.” She turned the screen slightly so David could see better. David leaned forward and looked at a handwritten document. He stared at it, using a small hand-shaped cursor to “tug” the image around on the screen. There were several pages of neat handwriting, with many words crossed out and replaced by other words above them. “What is this, Jet?”

  “It’s the document Ib found. The one he wanted to give you the night he was kidnapped.”

  “Huh? Who wrote this?”

  “Robert Lee Hamilton, Sir. Ib says he did a handwriting analysis. This is the document Vice President Cardoza was about to deliver to President Bradley. Now you see why he was murdered that night in Washington State, and these generals made it look like a militia plot.”

  “I still don’t get it,” David mumbled, but it wasn’t true--the awful realization was already dawning on him. As he came to the beginning of the document, it stared him right in the face. There, printed in bold letters across the top of the page, were the words: “Constitution of the United States of America.”

  The words that followed didn’t seem quite right.

  Then he remembered: he’d heard these words spoken in the hotel before the insurrection.

  Jet spoke the words out loud. “This is the constitution that the generals wanted to institute to replace the old Constitution.”

  “I’ll be--,” David muttered. “Those sons of bitches, excuse me.”

  “Hamilton wrote this over a year ago, Sir. He was not only in it with them, he betrayed everyone--he was the leader.”

  “And he’s dead,” David said, “murdered. What does that mean? Someone bumped him off as payment for failure? Because this whole thing is clearly a failure? Or does someone want him out of the way because there is another plot?”

  She handed him a set of head walking goggles and explained: “There is more, Sir. The CloudMaster in the hotel is down. I’ve found one cable connection still up, and I managed to network into the machine at the White House. I’ll show you what I’ve found.”

  David put on the goggles. Instantly, he found himself in a fantastic landscape of cyberspace, a city of the imagination, peopled by blurs and shadows as in an architect’s rendering of a building as yet unbuilt. “You don’t have to do anything, Sir. I’ve installed us in tandem, so anywhere I go, you go.” David found himself riding with her in a surreal taxicab of sorts. It was black, white, and gray, but he almost could have reached out and touched the dash. Only there would be no dash. It was all a metaphor.

  “I wish Ib could be here to see this,” she said. David found himself being transported along a street. Traffic whizzed all around them, and at one point he almost physically cringed because a huge truck bore down on them and lunged away at the last moment.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “A file packet,” she said. “We’re in the data stream, sorta. Actually, the data is a river under our feet, so to speak. Everything here is a metaphor.”

  “I remember that from the previous tour,” he said. The cars and so on were analogs of the data in the stream below. That way you could track the message packets.

  “Watch where we are going,” Jet said. Her taxi turned a corner into a huge warehouse with ornate neo-Roman pillars on either side of the entrance. David found himself leaning into a turn that never actually happened. “We were never allowed up here before, Sir. We ran the system from the CloudMaster hardware downstairs, but we never got near the application programs. This is the program, Sir, that I believe Ib and Tabitha and who knows how many other people were killed for. And there is something else.”

  “Tabitha talked about some Federov program,” David said. “I’m confused. I thought we were looking for a list of names.”

  “That too,” Jet said nodding. “I’m sure Ib had this all figured out. It’s too bad they got to him--he might have prevented this entire tragedy.” The taxi glided under a sign, FED-OIB-A, and into a large, semi-dark bay a hundred feet on a side. Embedded in the walls were moving pictures of large masses of people waving little books. “It’s Algeria 1990. The scenarios aren’t lit because the program isn’t working on that module. In Algeria, during their first free elections ever, the people voted to get rid of their new secular Constitution and replace it with the Koran. They voted for fundamentalism over democracy. I know this now because I’ve cruised up and down here all morning checking these modules out. Each module has a view-me option that tells the user about itself. There’s one for Hitler coming to power after being elected in the Weimar Republic, one for Lenin, one for Athenian democracy being destroyed by demagogues in the 400’s B.C. There’s one thing that puzzles me.” David watched as they coasted to a halt just before a brightly lit bay introduced by the words: FED-OIB-N. “I don’t get it, Sir. What’s N? It’s some kind of outcome, a result code, but what?”

  Gunfire rattled far away. It went on for some time, while David and Jet explored the Federov application. David was astonished by huge conceptual relays linking the entire nation in a web of fiber-optics. “No wonder they needed several CloudMasters,” he said. He and Jet sat parked on a virtual hill overlooking a city, no, a nation of lights, almost like a couple parking. Only they sat silently, each preoccupied with personal thoughts, when shouting broke David’s reverie.

  His shoulder was roughly shaken, and he jerked the headset off. There stood Colonel Bellamy, grinning broadly. He was accompanied by a squad of New Mexico reserve infantry. Bellamy said: “It’s over. We’ve stormed the assembly and the skinheads surrendered. There’s a few more on the roof of Tower 3. And there’s still fighting near the Mall, but we’re cleaning it up.” They all cheered and shook hands.

  It is beginning to end, then, he thought, and his knees felt weak. He thought of Mike and hoped his comrade was still alive. And he thought of Tory, suddenly, very clearly, and realized after all they had been through there was nothing that could stop them from being together--he would marry her. He would! It was firm in his mind now--not a shadow of a doubt.

  Only Jet stayed in the world of metaphor. Suddenly she said: “Captain Gordon! Come here quick! I’ve got it! I know what’s going to happen! This isn’t over! It hasn’t even started yet!”

  ALLISON MIRANDA: We have several stunning developments. Chairman Mattoon was rescued from the Atlantic Hotel in a daring raid by reserve generals acting against the so-called Hotel Generals. A battalion of the 399th Infantry Division broke out of the hotel complex and headed for the White House after freeing CON2’s chairman. Hostage negotiators report dramatic news in the standoff with the Hotel Generals. Generals Robert Montclair, Felix Mason, Louis VanOort, and several others reportedly have committed suicide. Informed sources say the generals realized all hope was lost when General Norcross sided with the President and ordinary soldiers did not join their commando units. They claimed Norcross had been in the plot with them, but changed his mind at the last moment, a charge the Pentagon vehemently denies. Information is extremely sketchy at the moment, but we are told the Hotel Generals ordered their commandos to shoot them rather than face trial in this coup that seems to be unraveling. The commandos were allegedly told to douse the bodies in gasoline and burn the bodies on a hotel rooftop. Heavy smoke is pouring from the top of Tower Three. A spokesman for the commandos of Unit 3045 says they will release all the delegate hostages unharmed, along with a number of uninvolved military personnel. Among the released were a number of lightly injured personnel. About eighty commandos are said to be still holed up in Tower Three, demanding free passage to the fundamentalist dictator General Alberto Shopenhauer of Colombia.

  Chapter 45

  Tory’s LX was stopped at several checkpoints. “Sir, tell your tankers to keep their barrels pointed backwards if you’re going toward the Capitol area,” an MP major told General Devereaux in a tone that suggested he said this for the hundredth time, “because we have sniper teams on the side streets. Anyone who points a gun the wrong way within a mile of the White House take
s a rocket, no questions asked!”

  They got as far as the Reflecting Pool, only on the strength of Devereaux’s fluttering pennants. There, they had to get out and walk the rest of the way through cordons of civilian and military police.

  Tory saw a White House blacked out and glowering in patchy dawn light. A circle of tanks and trucks surrounded the outer sidewalk. Rifle and gas mask carrying members of various uniformed police and military services formed a human shield many bodies deep all around. A Marine Corps unit had hastily deployed several field pieces on the lawn, Tory assumed to protect against air attack. Sandbagged machine gun positions were all around. Helicopters circled overhead. In the clouds, jets circled slowly sounding like knives on grindstones.

  Tory clambered out of the LX with Peggy, General Devereaux, and Senator Mattoon. If Mattoon felt any apprehension about meeting with a President with whom he’d differed publicly on so many issues, he did not show it. Tory felt embarrassed to be at the White House in her disheveled, dirty uniform, with an infantry officer’s too-large shirt

  General Devereaux negotiated with a stern-faced Marine colonel who kept shaking his head. Devereaux waved his cigar. The colonel took Devereaux’s .38 Special and frisked him and Mattoon. Devereaux’s eyes were big as masher marbles when he handed over his precious relic. Tory was patted down by women Marines, her .45 taken. The weapons were tagged, to be stored for later return.

  Secret Service agents led Mattoon, Devereaux, and Tory into the White House through a heavily guarded entrance, along carpeted corridors, to a large reception room gorgeously paneled in walnut. There, President Cliff Bradley and General Billy Norcross held court. The two leaders shook hands with well-wishers and thanked those who had come to stand or die. Tory sensed nervous levity amid a general impression that the coup was about over. Only Rocky Devereaux looked worried as he paced dourly and tried to figure out the poker hand he’d been dealt.

  Tory shook hands with President Clifford Bradley and decided he wasn’t what the press and the talk shows had made him out to be. He was big, he had a strong grip, he had keen eyes, and a gentle smile. She felt self-conscious about her lumber jack appearance, but he patted her hand warmly and said: “I’m grateful and you will all be invited for a big thank you dinner when this blows over.”

  Tory glowed. “Sounds great, Mr. President.”

  President Bradley and Senator Mattoon warmly shook hands. Then they moved together toward a table of coffee and danish as though they’d always been friends. An aide followed them with a hand phone. “Mr. President, it’s the U.S. Ambassador in Berlin. He says it’s extremely urgent.”

  “Ask him if it can wait until afternoon. We have a lot going on here.”

  The aide spoke with the ambassador, then said: “He says you must speak with him privately. It’s extremely sensitive.”

  “All right,” the President said with a sigh. “I’ll grab some coffee and danish here, and talk for a moment with Senator Mattoon, and then I’ll take it in my office.”

  Many people swirled around in this victory galaxy, military, FBI, Secret Service, White House, Congressional leaders like Senator Wayne Nichols and Representative Norm Delano. General Billy Norcross, hailed for siding the military with President Bradley, stood with his aides. Tory heard talk of Norcross as President Bradley’s running mate in the next elections, which the Middle Class Party now looked sure to win.

  Tory found herself a glass of cola and put some ice into it. It was the first cold drink all day, and she relished it. Next in her priorities, she approached a secretary and borrowed a com button. She was anxious to call David, but afraid the call might enable the commandos to find him. Perhaps if she asked General Devereaux?

  She found Rocky Devereaux holding his cigar in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He stood in the entrance to General Norcross’s office down the hall from the Oval Office. The office had a beautiful blond oak door with inlaid geometric figures. The door stood partly open and Rocky was regarding a large painting on the wall behind General Norcross’s desk. “Mighty nice,” he was saying, “mighty nice.” It was a painting like those one saw in the Louvre--Napoleon, on a rearing stallion, waving a scroll of laws in one hand and a sword in the other. All around his steed, humans and goddesses engaged in a scene part battle, part orgy, and part symposium.

  Tory turned to the larger room again, sipping her cola and feeling exhausted. Overwhelmed. She wasn’t sure which more than the other. As her gaze roved, she noticed two naval officers chatting with two secret service agents over coffee and danish. The naval officers were in dress uniform, which surprised her. One was a boyish young blond with steel-rimmed glasses. The other was a kind of dour, ugly man of uncertain race who had the flattest, meanest, brownest eyes she’d ever seen; he seemed to frequently lick his lips with the point of his tongue. A repulsive man. Mud-Eyes. She averted her eyes.

  Tory’s borrowed com button beeped. “Excuse me,” she told Devereaux.

  “Sure,” Devereaux said, eyeballing a table full of food outside. He sidled out.

  “Tory, it’s David!”

  “David!” she squealed. “Hi! Oh God, I’m so glad to hear your voice!”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Yes. Are you okay?” She made slight jumping motions. “Is it really you?”

  “Yup. You sound like an angel from heaven. I’m tired, hungry, and scared. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the city net with Jet. We’re in CloudMaster, chasing down Operation Ivory Baton. The program is still generating strange new output. Where are you?”

  “I’m inside the White House.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No. We brought Stan Mattoon to the President.”

  “Oh good. I think it’s about over for the 3045th. You know what, though.”

  “I love you very much. What?”

  “I love you very much too and would like to play some more monopoly. Meanwhile, Jet’s driving down this alley here, and there are suddenly N’s all over the place. You know, we thought this was something Montclair and his bunch were running. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “What do you mean, David?” Her eyes again drifted through the throng, past chatting generals, admirals, and senators, to the two naval officers. Hadn’t David mentioned the men who’d kidnapped him? Men who looked like those two? A preppy blond and a mud-eyed lizard man?

  The two men stood isolated and drank coffee, and even though they might conduct brief, smiling, shallow conversations here and there, exchanging congratulations, they remained observers who were not really part of the scene.

  Something is wrong here.

  In the same moment, Tory noticed President Bradley walking past toward the Oval Office. He carried coffee and a danish and looked so sad and weary, poor thing. Steel Rims and Mud-Eyes sipped coffee. They looked this way and that, and then exchanged flat glances with each other.

  Oh no.

  David said: “This guy Federov, an old Soviet, wrote a book on all the ways democracy will destroy itself. Algeria, ‘91; Russia, ‘17; Germany, ‘33; you name it. Someone wrote up a huge program, using a Harvard econometric program and a Navy weather program as some of the main processing engines....”

  Heart pounding, heart pounding. Mouth dry.

  “...Basically, the program runs a million factors through its sieves and filters and spits out scenarios for how close the U.S. is to any one of those outcomes. Right now, we’re getting a strong reading about something called N--but we have no idea what it means.” As he prattled on, Tory glanced at the throng around the coffee table while listening to David.

  Steel-Rims and Mud-Eyes, the two phony Navy captains, suddenly walked by right in front of her.

  God, no.

  They didn’t see her standing in the open office door as they walked past in the direction the President had gone, toward the Oval Office.

  They are following him.

  David’s beloved voice faded into elevator music as her mind raced
, as her thoughts trying to overcome a pounding sense of shock. Something was, like, really really wrong here.

  To kill him.

  What else could it be? Suddenly the details didn’t matter. In an eyeblink, she realized that Devereaux had been right. This conspiracy had unguessed dimensions. The events at the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center had been a sideshow. The main event was about to take place.

  Must reach the President before they do.

  “Love you, I’ll call you back.” She dropped the com button and started running. Killing President Cliff Bradley would cause another round of chaos, for some unknown party’s benefit. She grabbed General Devereaux, making him spill his coffee. “Go round up Secret Service guys. Tell ‘em the President’s in danger--get to the Oval Office STAT.”

  She ran out into the corridor.

  Everyone was so intent on guarding the outside that almost nobody at the moment was thinking about guarding the innermost inside.

  In the hallway, as she glanced toward the celebratory crowd, she caught a brief glimpse of General Billy Norcross. He didn’t see her. In fact, he was so aglow that he didn’t seem to see anything at that moment. It was just a glimpse of him, like a deer in a car’s headlights, and she had no time to look another second, but he drifted toward his office with a look of ecstasy. The glow of empire was in his eyes. He looked far beyond America, far beyond humble and homespun democracy.

  She bolted toward the right, down a long empty corridor.

  A man in a suit stepped out of an office and she grabbed his lapels. He looked alarmed and grappled for her wrists. “Secret Service?” she asked, noting a badge on his belt.

  He nodded, started to grab her.

  She shook his hands away. “Two men are on their way to kill the President. Follow me.”

  They ran down the hall together. “You said two of them?”

  Tory nodded, and he drew his gun as he spoke into his collar button: “Echo Breaker, Echo Breaker! One Seven Emblem, One Seven Emblem. We have two tigers headed for Location One! I repeat, two tigers. Probably armed! Wearing Navy uniforms. Echo Max, Echo Max!” As they jogged side by side, he continued speaking with other agents.