St. Yves eyed him for a moment, and then extended his right arm rigidly, pointing an accusing finger at Kit. “You’re a traitor,” he said. “You’re one of the enemy.”
“What are you talking about?” Kit demanded, his heart pounding even faster.
“We just found out,” St. Yves said. “You’re one of the bastards—get him!”
The Secret Service agents reached in unison for their guns, and Kit dove back around the bend of the corridor. Four shots boomed through the narrow hall. Four slugs passed through the space Kit had just vacated and buried themselves in the pastel-blue wall, gouging out craters of white plaster to mark their entrance.
Cursing St. Yves, Kit backed up into the protection of the Cabinet Room doorframe and drew his gun. What, he wondered, had gone wrong? How much did St. Yves know? Colonel Kovacs and his men silently scattered into other doorways or behind pieces of furniture in the long corridor.
After a few seconds, a Secret Service man, his head at baseboard level, peered around the corner. Two quick shots from Kovacs’ men caused him to withdraw hastily. Kovacs darted from doorway to doorway until he reached Kit. “We’ll have to rush them to get by,” he whispered. “And the longer we wait, the readier they’ll get.”
“You’re right,” Kit agreed. “We seem to have lost the element of surprise.”
“What are you waiting for?” Vandermeer barked at the Secret Service agents in the Oval Office. “Get out there and help the men in the corridor!”
“Our job is to stay with the President,” the senior agent protested.
“Your job is to protect the President,” Vandermeer said, tightly controlled rage sounding in his voice. “And the threat to the President is out there, not in here. Having a divided force will just make it easier for them to take you in two batches.”
“Vandermeer is right,” the President screamed. “Get out there and stop them!”
The senior agent looked from the President to the door, and then made up his mind. “I’ll go out,” he said. “Hoskins, Malzberg, Pronzini; you come with me. Lynn, you and Randall stay in here.” And he headed for the door, beyond which a suspicious quiet awaited.
“You think I’ll be safe here, Vandermeer?” the President asked. “I’m not concerned with my personal safety, you understand, but for the good of the country the President must be kept safe.”
“I’ve been preparing for this moment,” Vandermeer said. “I made ready.”
“How’s that?” the President asked. The staccato cough of a rapid-fire gun riveted their attention to the door for a second.
Vandermeer turned to the two remaining Secret Service agents. “Cover the door from the inside,” he told them. Reaching under his jacket, he pulled out a small revolver that had been stuck in his waistband. “It’s time to make our move,” he said, turning back to his chief.
“Move?” the President asked. He was standing behind his great desk, looking uncertain.
“The most dramatic move, Mr. President,” Vandermeer told him. “The best PR. This will do it.”
“What will it do?”
“There’s a small two-seat helicopter sitting out in the Rose Garden, right on the other side of the French doors,” he said. “I’m going to get you out of here in it.”
“Running away?” the President said. “Wouldn’t that be running away?”
“No, sir,” Vandermeer said. “I’ll land you in the middle of the Fifth Brigade, and you’ll take command of the troops and smash the coup. Yourself. Personally. On national television.”
The President thought it over. “I like it,” he said.
“I was sure you would.”
“Let’s go!” the President said.
In the corridor, St. Yves and the Secret Service agents tipped over a heavy desk that sat to the right of the Oval Office door. Most of them crouched behind it, while St. Yves and one of the agents flattened themselves against the door to the Roosevelt Room across the hall.
Colonel Kovacs cocked his Mauser machine pistol and nodded at two of his men. They began a heavy covering fire and, under its protection, Kovacs and then Kit dived across the T of the corridor and rolled to their feet on the other side. Kit felt clumsy and exposed, but he made it across.
They waited exactly thirty seconds by Kovacs’ watch, and then they rushed the hall from both sides, setting up a continuous barrage of fire as they came. The Secret Service agents fired back, resting their revolvers on top of the overturned desk, and St. Yves snapped off shot after shot with the calm imperturbability of a sailor in a shooting gallery.
The firefight lasted less than a minute, at the end of which the small corridor was strewn with bodies. The superior firepower of the Mauser machine pistols that Kit had smuggled in in the trunk of his car had made the difference. As the last shot was fired, Colonel Kovacs and two of his men were down, along with four of the Secret Service men. Another Secret Service man, with a bullet in his shoulder, was desperately trying to reload his revolver with one hand until Kit knocked the weapon aside. St. Yves and the agent who was with him had disappeared inside the Roosevelt Room and closed the door behind them.
Kit had no time to consider St. Yves: his job was to get into the Oval Office. With the two standing Special Forces men behind him, he kicked the door open and dived into the room.
The two Secret Service men in the room were flanking the door, and they fired simultaneously at Kit as he burst through. Then the Special Forces men shoved machine pistols in their ribs, and they reluctantly dropped their guns.
Kit got to his feet. The President and Vandermeer were by the French windows. Vandermeer was trying to open one with one hand while he kept a small pistol in the other.
“Hold it right there,” Kit said. He raised his pistol, trying for the two-handed, FBI stance. When his left arm wouldn’t obey his instructions to raise, he realized he had been hit. No time to think about it now. “Mr. President, in the name of the Congress and the people of the United States, I am placing you under house arrest.”
“You son of a bitch!” Vandermeer screamed. “You’re not going to stop me now!” He raised his pistol; but he was pointing it at the President, not at Kit.
“What’s this?” the President said, in a choked voice.
“This is for Kathy,” Vandermeer said.
Two shots sounded together. The President spun and fell on his face. Vandermeer dropped his gun, clutching his shoulder where Kit’s bullet had entered, and staggered out the French window.
Everyone in the office, weapons and antagonisms forgotten, rushed over to the fallen President.
One of the Secret Service men rolled him over and propped him up. He opened one eye and looked down at his chest, covered with a spreading red blotch.
St. Yves went out through the window of the Roosevelt Room in time to see Vandermeer dashing for the helicopter.
“What’s happened?” he demanded, intercepting Vandermeer by the copter door. “Where’s the Chief?”
“Dead,” Vandermeer said. “Get in.”
“Jesus!” St. Yves exclaimed. He climbed into the helicopter. “You sure you can fly this thing?” he asked. “Looks like you’ve been hit.”
“Minor,” Vandermeer said. “Flesh wound. I’ll make it for long enough.”
As the small helicopter climbed into the air over the White House, St. Yves transferred his interest to the scene below. “There’s a column of tanks arriving,” he said. “Right down F Street. About goddamn time. Johnny-on-the-spot-Hanes sure as hell didn’t make it this time. Who got the Chief?”
“Me,” Vandermeer said.
“Who?”
“Me,” Vandermeer repeated.
St. Yves stared at him. His mouth opened but no words came out.
The copter hovered over the Ellipse as the tanks moved up South Executive Place and continued around until they had partially surrounded the White House. A second column of tanks came into view, heading up Fourteenth Street to join them. Now there was a bat
talion of Marines dug in around the White House facing an armored brigade, which surrounded them around the outside. Neither side seemed to have any idea of what to do next.
“Some kind of joke?” St. Yves demanded, staring at Vandermeer. “You offed the President?”
“I’ve known for a long time,” Vandermeer said, “what I had to do. I wanted him up here with me, but perhaps this is better. You and I together, St. Yves; the right and left hand—after the head.”
“I don’t follow,” St. Yves said, his voice very calm, as if he were talking to a child. “Perhaps you’d better land this thing so you can explain it to me.”
“I wanted to get him alone up here,” Vandermeer said, “to talk about the past.”
“Past?”
“The whole thing,” Vandermeer said. “The way it grew, step by step. Until we—all of us—ended up somewhere that none of us were ever headed for. Did you ever get that feeling, St. Yves?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” St. Yves said, staring across at Vandermeer. He noticed that Vandermeer’s left sleeve was saturated with blood, but it didn’t seem to affect his handling of the craft.
“Responsibility,” Vandermeer said. “I’m talking about responsibility.” The little helicopter dipped back over the White House. Below, more and more tiny white and black faces, framed by olive-green helmets, stared up at them as they passed.
“I think you need help,” St. Yves said. “You’ve been under strain. You wouldn’t really shoot the President.”
“‘Some say the world will end in fire’,” Vandermeer quoted softly, “some say in ice.’ Our world, Edward, is ending in fire. Don’t you feel that?”
“I don’t think so, Billy,” St. Yves said as calmly as he could. “Land this thing and then let’s talk about it.”
“Look down,” Vandermeer said. “That used to be the Capitol. Where Kathy died. The President has joined her. And now we shall.”
“You’re crazy!” St. Yves said, thoroughly alarmed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“The Washington Monument, I think,” Vandermeer said. “That would be appropriate.”
St. Yves grabbed for the control rod, but Vandermeer pushed him aside and steered the tiny craft toward the tall spire of the Washington Monument a few thousand feet away. “It’s no use,” he said. “You can’t fly this anyway.”
Down below, the zoom lenses of the television cameras focused on the scene as the two men fought for control of the helicopter. The machine wavered and dipped across the sky as they struggled; one fighting desperately for his life, the other fighting calmly for their death.
Slowly but inevitably the copter headed back across the Mall toward the observers. Then, as those below watched in horror, the little craft darted toward the five-hundred-and-fifty-five-foot spire of the Washington Monument. It crashed two-thirds of the way up and bounced off the rough stone side. A human figure was flung away from the spiraling copter like a rag doll and plummeted to earth. The copter followed, weaving and bucking like a wounded bird, finally falling into the reflecting pool and bursting into flame.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Over thirty thousand people stood and watched the small helicopter crash into the side of the Washington Monument. Millions more saw it on television. The event was bloody and horrible. The only question was, Who was in the helicopter? One of the network anchormen announced that it seemed to be Vandermeer and the President. But no word had come from inside the White House, and nobody on the outside knew.
Colonel Hanes, feeling that he should do something, switched on the giant loudspeaker mounted above the 155-millimeter gun on his tank. “All Marines in this immediate area,” he yelled, “will lay down their arms and come forward with their hands above their heads. This is a direct order.”
A Marine corporal, leaning behind the statue of Rochambeau in Lafayette Square, took casual aim with his rifle and plinked two harmless rounds off the tank. Colonel Hanes immediately dropped down into the tank and slammed the hatch shut. A few seconds later the air was full of small-arms fire.
Within minutes the firing spread, completely surrounding the White House and sending the television camera crews scurrying for cover. Two Marines and three soldiers were killed in the first exchange, and somehow the nose was clipped off the statue of General Sherman in Treasury Place.
The sound of a helicopter once again came from overhead, and the firing lessened while both sides craned their necks to see who was coming in. As the machine landed in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, the MacPherson News Syndicate logo could be made out on the door.
Two television cameramen raced out, oblivious to the continuing gunfire, to get close-ups of it as it came down. Ian Faulkes must have primed them for this, Adams thought.
An Army officer jumped out of the helicopter, brass gleaming, ribbons sparkling, and an unlit cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. As he strode away from the copter, it lifted off and moved to the far side of Lafayette Square.
Slowly and deliberately the officer walked forward, surrounded and protected by the innate majesty and assurance of command. He marched steadily down the clear space between the opposing forces.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, Adams intoned as he watched Tank MacGregor’s progress, I shall fear no evil. Then he held his breath as one lone rifle barked and one bullet splatted off the pavement a yard in front of MacGregor.
Tank paused and glared in the direction of the shot, and then, firmly, he continued his walk.
When he was directly in front of the White House, MacGregor stopped and looked around. He took in the surrounding scene with an unhurried sweep of his gaze. The firing had stopped as everyone watched this American legend—this hero—and tried to figure out what he was going to do.
MacGregor pointed to the vehicle nearest to him, Colonel Hanes’s command tank, and gestured like a man calling his dog. Nothing happened. He gestured again.
The M-60 rumbled into life and slowly came forward until it reached MacGregor, who climbed up onto the turret and pounded on the hatch. After a few seconds it opened and Colonel Hanes stuck out his head cautiously. MacGregor grabbed the loudspeaker microphone from him and stood up on top of the turret, staring around him.
“Can you all see me?” he demanded. “I am General of the Army Hiram MacGregor,” he spoke slowly and distinctly. “And I hereby take command of all United States military units within the sound of my voice!” The words echoed off the buildings and rolled on down the avenues. “All officers will report to me, here, immediately! Let me repeat that. All military officers, of whatever service, within the sound of my voice, will report to me immediately. All enlisted men, of whatever service, will immediately ground their weapons and stay in place.”
The troops on both sides stared at him. Nobody moved.
“I want this clearly understood,” MacGregor said, enunciating carefully, “if any of you fire any of those weapons you’re waving around I personally will come over and bend it over your head. Put them down now! All commissioned officers report here now! This has gone far enough.”
The television cameramen had gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of MacGregor while he was talking, and now seven cameras were aimed up at him, catching the expression on his face as he chewed savagely on his cigar. Army and Marine officers were climbing out of their tanks and trenches and heading toward him from all around the disputed area. The cameras slowly panned around to catch the moment, and then turned back to MacGregor.
Tank looked down at the cameras and stared into the soul of America. “It is over,” he said, discarding the loudspeaker mike. “Whatever has been happening here is over.”
“Will you speak to the American people now, General?” the reporter asked. “They’re watching and listening.”
MacGregor looked around at the officers who were gathered around the tank. “Let me speak to my officers now,” he said. “Please.”
“Bu
t the American people?”
“I shall speak to the people this evening,” MacGregor said. “For now, just let me say that the time of hate and division is over. We shall return to a constitutional government with all deliberate speed. As a first step in achieving this,” he added, “let us immediately open the gates to all the internment camps. Thousands of Americans are, right now, locked up behind barbed-wire fences without due process. They have been deprived of their basic civil rights. I hereby order all camp commanders to open their gates.”
“By what authority do you order this, General?” the reporter asked.
MacGregor glared at him. “Justice,” he said. “And the Constitution of the United States—the final authority. Now go away, son, and let me do my job.”
All around, soldiers and Marines, their guns grounded, were standing up, stretching, and looking relieved. Tank MacGregor had arrived. Tank could be trusted. It was in his hands now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Aaron Adams put the phone down and turned to stare across the room to where Kit and Miriam were sitting on the ancient leather couch. Kit’s left arm itched where the bullet had torn through, but he couldn’t get under the plastic splint and bandage contraption to scratch it, so he kept twisting around uncomfortably on his side of the couch.
“Obie is dead,” Adams said.
“Obie?” Kit repeated.
“That’s right,” Adams said. “Congressman Obediah Porfritt. He died on the operating table about an hour ago. He caught a bullet resisting arrest. They didn’t think it was serious, but he died on the table. Son of a bitch!”
“I’m sorry,” Kit said.
“So am I,” Adams said. “Are you sure you’re up to wandering around with that arm?”
“I’m not wandering around,” Kit said. “I’m sitting quietly on my corner of the couch waiting for ten o’clock.”
The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America Page 30
