Bednarski shook his head.
“I don’t buy it. They may be thinking about it, for all the reasons you mentioned, but I just don’t see them putting it all together. Even with ringers from out-of-state, these local Catholic boys just aren’t the suicide type. Hit-and-run is their game. They go for soft targets and quick getaways, with IEDs, mortar attacks and sniping.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate these people, Chief,” Linder warned. “They believe the President is out to destroy their church; to them, he’s the Antichrist. Don’t forget that, when street fighting first broke out here, Catholic churches in the inner city were torched and white kids caught with crucifixes or St. Christopher medals around their necks were pulled out of their cars and clubbed to death. Many of the militia’s most loyal recruits are first- and second-generation immigrants. America is their last stand.”
“Warren is right,” Denniston agreed. “I think it would be a mistake to sell the militias short. A major flare-up in Cleveland, which everyone assumes to have been pacified over a year ago, could have national consequences. If there’s another Mistake-on-the-Lake, you don’t want the press to blame it on an intelligence failure,” he said, looking at Bednarski.
The chief shrugged, but then unfolded his arms and tilted forward in his chair.
“Okay, so what do you want from me? I’ve already got the entire downtown perimeter wired and the Guard and the Cleveland police have deployed as many men as they can spare around the business district.”
“We need more overhead imagery and signals intelligence to help us determine when and where the militias will strike. Can’t you order up some drones to cover the Flats and the western bridges?” Linder proposed.
Bednarski shook his head.
“Every serviceable drone in the inventory has been shipped to the Pacific Command to keep tabs on the Chinese. But since the two of you feel so strongly that the rebels are planning a move downtown,” Bednarski continued, “I’m going to send you on a recon assignment while I see what else can be done. This morning I received a report of militiamen attempting to infiltrate downtown through the Flats from Ohio City. I want you to go down there and tell me if this could be the leading edge of that large-scale assault you’re predicting.”
As if to confirm the order, a pair of mortar shells exploded between the DSS office and the tarmac like a loud “Amen.”
* * *
Within the hour, Linder and Denniston had requisitioned an armored SUV from the DSS motor pool and were driving northeast on I-71 into the city. Traffic was sparse and they made good time until they reached the last exit before downtown, where police cars with flashing blue lights diverted traffic off the freeway and a mobile electronic detour sign directed drivers to follow West Fifth Street back to I-490 East.
Denniston rolled down the passenger window and called out to the nearest policeman.
“How do we get downtown from here?”
“You don’t,” the officer replied. “Follow the signs to I-490 and proceed east.” He turned to leave.
“We’re law enforcement,” Denniston pressed, flashing his DSS badge. “Now, what’s the best way in?”
“There isn’t one,” the patrolman persisted. “We’ve got fighting at the Superior Avenue Bridge. Mobile units have been dispatched to block all major roads and bridges. No exceptions without orders from the Commissioner.”
“Okay, then. How about the Flats?” Linder asked.
“That might be a possibility,” the officer conceded.
“I’m all ears,” said Denniston.
“All right, then, don’t tell anyone I said this, but if you want to try it, go back one exit, take Willey Avenue to West Two-Bits and take Two-Bits all the way north to Superior Avenue. The Superior Bridge is blocked, like I said, but one of the smaller bridges in the Flats might still be clear.”
With a screech of skidding tires, Linder steered the SUV onto to the southbound onramp and followed the officer’s directions. Just short of reaching Superior Avenue, Linder made a sharp turn onto a side road leading down a steep hill onto the low-lying mud flats along the winding Cuyahoga River where the city’s original settlers had first landed in the early 1800s.
For much of the twentieth century, the Flats were Cleveland’s industrial powerhouse, famous throughout the nation for John D. Rockefeller’s Standard Oil refineries and the steel mills of U.S. Steel, Republic Steel, and Jones & Laughlin; and then became notorious for the pollution that culminated in the Cuyahoga River catching fire in 1969.
Despite a short-lived revival as an entertainment district in the 1980s and again the early twenty-first century, the city’s declining economy, shrinking population, aging demographics, and rising crime rate brought the Flats back gradually toward a state of nature. As Linder and Denniston drove past the crumbling hulks of deserted warehouses, factories, and saloons, the only signs of human habitation were an occasional squatter’s hut or an old cabin cruiser tied up along the Cuyahoga for use as a houseboat.
Navigating largely from memory and intuition, Linder followed Riverbed Street north along the winding waterway, passing under the majestic concrete arches of the century-old Superior Avenue Bridge, while both men scanned the river for a way across. At last, Linder spotted a low-level bridge and turned toward it.
But no sooner had the SUV reached the bridgehead than a delivery truck pulled out to block its path, and four men wearing ski masks emerged from cover, their assault rifles aimed at Linder and Denniston.
“Ditch your DSS badge fast and don’t open your mouth,” Linder directed. “I’ll handle this.”
Linder took his right hand off the steering wheel and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt to expose a thin gold chain and pendant before bringing the sedan slowly to a halt.
One of the four gunmen slung his rifle across his waist and approached the driver’s window, covered by another gunman standing a few steps behind him. The second two gunmen did likewise on the passenger’s side.
Linder lowered his window and held his driver’s license out for inspection. Apart from his ski mask, the gunman was dressed in jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, a green camouflage field jacket, and battered work boots.
“Where are you fellas going?” the gunman asked casually. He held a hand out for Linder’s driver’s license and gave it a close look.
“I heard they posted some new job openings down at City Hall,” Linder offered innocently. “Me and my buddy were looking to get in there quick and put in our applications. Any problem with that?” Linder replied in a strong Cleveland accent.
“Not a good day for it,” the militiaman replied before noticing Linder fingering the gold pendant at his neck.
“Nice piece you got there. Mind if I see it?” he asked.
“No prob,” Linder replied, confident that the gunman would identify the informal militia emblem. The medal was about the size and weight of a dime, oval in shape, and bore the image of St. Christopher carrying baby Jesus across the water. Embossed around the rim was the phrase, “Behold St. Christopher and go thy way in safety.” Linder held it in the palm of his hand for the gunman to inspect.
“Very nice work,” the militiaman repeated as he fingered the pendant. “So what’s your outfit?” he asked, looking Linder in the eye.
“The Rocky River. Under Major Matt Donohue,” Linder replied evenly. “I’ve got orders to make a pickup from downtown and take it back out to the Major.”
“All right,” the gunman replied, taking a step back from the SUV and putting a hand on his holstered pistol. “Tell me the password.”
“They sent me out without it,” Linder replied with upturned palms. “But yesterday the challenge was Preakness and the parole was Big Brown, if that helps,” he added with an obliging smile.
“It’s okay, he’s one of us,” the militiaman called out in a loud voice to his partners. “Good to see you, dude,” he addressed Linder with a palpable sense of relief. “How can I help you?”
�
�Tell me: is it safe to go downtown this way?”
“Probably, but you’d better hurry. Things are heating up around here faster than anyone expected. Our scanner shows that the feds have gone on alert.”
“Any suggestions of how to get from here to City Hall?” Linder inquired.
“Sure thing,” the militiaman offered, “If I were you, I’d follow this here road till the signs say you’re on Canal Street, then hang a louie onto Old River Road and keep moving north till you hit the warehouse district. At Lakeside, turn right and you’re there.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Linder answered as the gunman handed back his pendant. “One more favor: do you mind giving me today’s challenge and parole? Like I said, they sent me out without it.”
“You got it: today’s challenge is England and the parole is Stonehenge. You shouldn’t run into any of our boys from here on in, but you’ll likely need the parole on the way back, especially if things keep heating up. Good luck, fellas.”
Linder waited for the truck to withdraw from the road before he drove across the bridge and followed directions into the warehouse district.
“Okay, Neil, now it’s your turn,” Linder informed his companion as they wove their way through block after block of gutted storefronts over a shimmering sea of broken glass before turning east at Lakeside Avenue toward the city center. “This is government territory. I didn’t bring my DSS badge, so if we get stopped, you’ll have to speak for both of us, okay?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Linder could see that Denniston had gone pale and droplets of sweat covered his forehead despite the cool air.
“Is that okay?” Linder repeated.
“Yeah, right,” Denniston replied uneasily. “But are you sure you know where you’re going? It seems awfully quiet around here for a weekday morning. Where the hell are all the people?”
Without speaking, Linder lowered all four car windows at once. The pops of distant gunfire could be heard above the sounds of the moving vehicle.
“I think we’re in the right place,” Linder observed. “Let’s get closer in.”
And without waiting for a response, he turned the car toward the source of the gunfire, letting his training and experience override his fears. As the crackle grew louder and more distinct, a smile spread across Linder’s lips. At that moment, he felt a heightened sense of focus and awareness, a satisfying sense of living directly in the now, while Denniston appeared to regard him with an irritation bordering on resentment.
Linder turned the car radio to a news station and within moments heard an emergency bulletin reporting heavy exchanges of automatic weapons fire near East Ninth Street and Euclid Avenue, in the heart of Cleveland’s commercial district. They were closing in on that intersection now. Linder turned onto East Sixth and parked just south of the vacant Civic Center.
“This is where we start earning our pay,” Linder noted wryly as he locked the car and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the gunfire without waiting for Denniston to follow.
After traveling a little more than a block, Linder spotted a pair of pickup trucks ahead with armed men in civilian work clothes riding in back. Another pair of trucks followed. All four discharged their passengers at the corner of East Sixth and Rockwell, while several more trucks could be seen crossing East Sixth, headed east on Superior.
“Where could they be going?” Denniston asked breathlessly, flattening himself against the wall just behind Linder. “Is there a target in that block?”
“Holy shit,” Linder muttered when he thought of the answer. “We were right—they must be going for the Federal Reserve.” He turned to Denniston with a look of triumph. “It’s a wrap—I’d say we have what we came for. Now let’s get out of here.”
“Roger that, dude,” Denniston agreed, following Linder back toward the parked SUV.
But before they reached it, Linder ducked inside a doorway of an office building and entered the lobby. The reception desk was empty and the elevators were open but unlit. Linder tested the door to the staircase and found it unlocked.
“Come on, let’s try something different,” he said, and climbed the stairs at a run, two steps at a time. As they climbed, Linder could see that, if they could reach the upper floors, the stairwell windows might provide a view across Rockwell at just the right angle to gain a view of the militiamen converging on the Fed. At the eighth floor, out of breath and with legs aching from the climb, they gained the view Linder had hoped for.
By now, black smoke billowed from the ground floor of the Federal Reserve and a pitched gun battle ranged along Rockwell Avenue as the militiamen stormed the building. The booming of explosions and the staccato fire of automatic rifles poured into the stairwell the moment Linder popped open a window.
“Ah, vindication is sweet,” Denniston remarked with a triumphant smile when he gazed on the scene below. “Bednarski is going to have a cow when he hears about this.”
“More like an elephant,” Linder added. “I hope we live long enough to see the look on his face.”
The two men wasted no time in descending the stairs and retreating to their parked SUV, which had already taken hits from several stray bullets, one shattering a headlight and another ripping a gash in a front fender.
From the SUV, Denniston radioed back their report over an encrypted voice channel. To their disappointment, however, Bednarski had already learned of the attack from the National Guard.
“It’s all taken care of,” the chief told them. “The Guard has sent in reinforcements from their base at Burke Lakefront Airport.”
Linder felt momentarily deflated at not receiving credit for his intelligence scoop. Here he was, sitting right on top of a rebel attack on the goddamned Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland, just as he and Denniston had predicted, and Bednarski was acting as if he and the Guard were taking it all in stride.
As if sensing this, the radio crackled back to life and Bednarski spoke again.
“Anyway, you boys turned out to be right. So, get the hell out of there and come on home. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
* * *
By afternoon, local news broadcasts reported that insurgents had infiltrated the downtown commercial area in vast numbers and laid siege to the Federal Reserve Bank. While battles raged around the Fed, rebel forces captured both the Terminal Tower and the Key Bank Tower, along with several nearby office buildings. According to unconfirmed reports, the rebels had moved heavy machine guns, mortars, rockets, and large quantities of ordnance into those buildings before Ohio National Guard troops could cordon off the area. Rather than risk heavy casualties by attempting to retake the office towers by frontal assault, the Guard had brought in armored vehicles and artillery and was shelling the floors from which the rebels fired on them. This proved less than effective, however, as the rebels moved the weapons frequently from one place to another.
Fighter-bombers and helicopter gunships roared overhead, but no airstrikes were ordered until nightfall, by which time all noncombatants had been evacuated from the downtown area. From a distance, television cameras showed tracer shells and explosions shooting back and forth like lightning bolts between the rebel-held towers and adjacent government-held high-rises. Though the Ohio National Guard appeared to be gaining the upper hand, the heart of Cleveland’s downtown commercial district was being systematically gutted in the process.
All evening and throughout the night, bullets and explosive shells pummeled the rebel fighters until, by dawn, Unionist forces had retaken everything east of East Ninth and south of Tower City, including the Flats, and were closing in on Public Square from the north and west.
Shortly after first light, Linder and Denniston reentered the city with Bob Bednarski as part of a military convoy. Their first stop was the Federal Reserve Bank, where the DSS team was relieved to learn from the commanding Guard officer that the Fed’s defense force had repelled the insurgents’ initial surprise assault and held out against repeated attacks during the night
from a determined and well-armed foe.
The cathedral-like lobby of the historic bank, built in 1924, now looked like photos Linder had seen of Berlin in 1945 or London during the Blitz. The delicate wrought iron gates and partitions were twisted and torn where rocket-propelled grenades had struck. The gold-veined Siena marble walls and floors were coated with an oily residue of toxic black smoke. The floor under the colossal central dome was littered with chunks of stone and plaster as well as shards of glass from the tall arched windows and weighty chandeliers.
“If you don’t mind my asking, just how much gold and currency did you have in this place last night?” Bednarski asked the Guard officer after hearing his account of the nightlong battle.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that, Colonel,” the officer replied. “It’s outside my need to know. But I can tell you this: the Fed holds a great deal more currency and coin in the vault now than it did before the Events. With so many ATMs down and the Internet all screwed up, more transactions are conducted in cash now than at any time in the past fifty years.”
“How about a rough guess of what you’re sitting on in paper currency? Ten million? A hundred million? A billion?”
“Oh, I suppose it would be somewhere in the low hundreds of millions,” the Guard officer ventured. “But, fortunately, we weren’t holding nearly as much cash last night as we did earlier this week, because much of it was delivered to the downtown commercial banks in preparation for meeting payroll on Friday.”
“And which banks would those be?” Bednarski asked with a note of alarm in his voice. “Just the biggest ones—say, the top five?”
“Oh, off the top of my head, I’d say Key Bank, of course; then Huntington Bank, National City, U.S. Bancorp, First Merit, and perhaps the Fifth Third. Why do you ask?”
Without responding to the National Guard officer, Bednarski removed his mobile radio from a holster on his belt and called the DSS duty officer back at the Cleveland Base.
Exile Hunter Page 21
