by Jon Land
“Who are you?” Frye’s soldier asked, still befuddled.
“Bob Randall,” the man answered hoarsely, “plant manager. Now, untie my hands and tell me what the hell is going on here!”
All morning Karen Raymond had been holding on to the hope that the dissolvable test tube would withstand the waters long enough to deliver its contents to her intact. Otherwise, hope of stemming Frye’s deadly pestilence would be lost.
She stood in the drainage ditch that had been dug just that morning in Boerne City Park across the street from the wastewater treatment facility. Her feet sloshed in the water spilling out into the ground around her through the screen Johnny Wareagle held over the severed pipe. Without being able to see Frye, or hear him clearly, they had no way of knowing that he had dropped the test tube into the tank until something plopped up against the screen wedged against the pipe.
Johnny Wareagle pulled the screen back and grasped the test tube that was propped against it. He handed it to Karen Raymond, and she clutched it frantically. The test tube’s already dissolving plastic made it feel like a Baggie full of water in her hand. But, miraculously, its contents had remained intact thus far. She placed the limp remnants of the tube inside a larger plastic test tube and firmly screwed on its cap.
Karen took a deep breath and nodded at Wareagle.
Not only had they prevented Harlan Frye from poisoning San Antonio’s water supply, but his formula, at the same time deadly and potentially lifesaving, now belonged to them … .
Wareagle brought the walkie-talkie from his pocket up to his lips.
“We have it, Blainey.”
“Sunday Morning Service” was just about to go to commercial when the previously bound occupants of the storage shed were delivered to Major Osborne Vandal inside the plant. Halfway through their tale, he signaled frantically for Stu Allison to get the Reverend’s attention. From floor level he could see Frye grab a walkie-talkie from the hand of a Fifth Generation soldier stationed upon the platform.
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Six men were just found tied up in a storage shed, sir. One of them is Bob Randall. I’m sending him up.”
Harlan Frye went cold. Stu Allison ordered the control truck to stay on commercial.
“Randall? But he’s right—” Frye searched for the pug-nosed plant manager on the platform. He was gone. “My God,” the Reverend followed, utterly confused. “But, but …”
By that time, a tall, muscular man had reached the platform. “Bob Randall, Reverend. We spoke briefly last week.”
“Then who was …”
“I don’t know what the devil’s been going on here, Reverend, but somebody’s made you look like an honest-to-God horse’s ass.”
“Excuse me?”
“You told me you wanted to film near the disinfection tanks, but this is the effluent discharge tank.”
“I don’t … understand.”
“This tank contains fully purified water, Reverend.”
Frye felt himself go numb. “What about, what about the chlorine?”
The real Bob Randall pointed to the smaller tanks across the plant. “Disinfection takes place over there. That’s where the chlorine gets injected. Once purified, the water makes its way over here to be returned to the system.”
“Returned?”
Randall nodded. “Constant cycle. Whatever was in here five minutes ago is already on its way to Civolo Creek. You’re on the wrong goddamn side of the plant!”
“Reverend!” Major Vandal’s voice barked through the walkie-talkie Frye had forgotten he was holding.
He raised it dimly, but didn’t speak.
“Reverend, the Future Faith helicopter is taking off from the city park across the street!”
“Helicopter? We didn’t bring the heli—” And then, with a shudder that shook away his numb shock, everything became clear. “McCracken! It’s McCracken!”
CHAPTER 38
The chopper, painted with the seal of the Future Faith network, surged forward through the air as McCracken kicked in the throttle.
“You outdid yourself with this one, boss,” congratulated Sal Belamo, who had reached the city park just as Blaine was landing.
“I haven’t done anything until we reach San Antonio International, Sal,” McCracken reminded. “Congratulate me when we’re on that private jet bound for Washington.”
“Washington, boss?”
“National Institute of Health,” Karen Raymond told Belamo, tapping the carrying case in her lap. The case had a spongy interior that conformed to the shape of whatever was placed within it—presently a single test tube containing the contents of another that by now would have dissolved entirely. “That’s where this belongs now.”
“Ten minutes to the airport, people,” Blaine interjected. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
Those tuned to the Future Faith network’s “Sunday Morning Service” had the broadcast replaced by a TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES announcement across their screen. Still on the platform, the Reverend Harlan Frye had made contact by cellular phone with Commanding General Luther Gaines of Lackland Air Force Base and the military training center contained there.
“The worst has happened, General,” Frye said, as calmly as he could manage. The fact that Gaines was one of the primary members of the Key Society had allowed the Reverend to set up one final bit of insurance for his plan. “There’s a helicopter in the air with Future Faith network markings. It’s probably headed for San Antonio International. I want you to have your airborne chopper shoot it down.”
Gaines hesitated, clearly flustered. “Reverend, this is an open line.”
“I haven’t got time to worry about open lines, General, and you haven’t got time to protest. Bring down that chopper! Do you hear me? Blow it out of the sky. And I need those troop carriers you’ve got standing by, enough to ferry seventy, make that eighty, men.”
Gaines relented with a sigh. “There’s going to be hell to pay for going through with this, Reverend.”
“A worse hell if we don’t, General.”
San Antonio International Airport was clearly in view, their helicopter just minutes from landing, when Johnny Wareagle shifted uneasily.
“Company, Blainey.”
McCracken turned to the rear and saw the growing speck closing on them from the southeast.
“What we got, Indian?”
“An OH-47 reconnaissance chopper.”
“Two .30-calibers?”
Wareagle nodded.
McCracken quickly calculated the remaining distance to the airport against the rapidly diminishing gap between them and the gunship. No way they could possibly touch down safely before the OH-47 was upon them, especially since it was closing on a trajectory that would take it over San Antonio International.
“What’s her top speed, Indian?”
“Two twenty-five to two fifty, depending on ammo load.”
“And the best we can manage is one-eighty. Doesn’t leave us much choice, does it?”
And with that Blaine banked their chopper around toward downtown San Antonio.
T.J. Fields, fuming over being stuck in traffic on Route 487, heard the distinctive slicing whir of a helicopter rotor and looked up to find a pair of choppers heading toward the city. The one with air force markings seemed to be in pursuit of the other.
“You don’t think that could be …” He turned away from one of the fifteen Skulls who had accompanied him on this journey for another gaze at the steel birds descending on the city. He was still watching when the air force chopper opened fire with its dual bottom-mounted machine guns.
“Fuck me,” T.J. muttered to himself, and then swung to face the tightly knotted group of bikers behind him as the choppers soared over them for the city. “Boys,” he yelled, “it looks like we’re headed in the wrong direction.”
With that, in unison, the Skulls spun their bikes around and rode off, weaving eastward through traffic in the westbound lanes.
Mc
Cracken was bringing the chopper over the center of San Antonio when the sizzling flashes zoomed past it on both sides.
“Looks like he’s in range, Indian.”
No sooner had Blaine uttered that pronouncement than their chopper buckled slightly, jarring its passengers. Coarse black smoke began to spill from the area of the oil tank on the helicopter’s rear flank, and McCracken felt the controls instantly go stiffer in his hands. The chopper wavered and then began to dip, the oil pressure gauge making a determined slide toward zero.
“He’s attacking from the left, Blainey!”
“Trying to finish us off, boss,” picked up Sal Belamo, reaching for his M16. “Let me see what I can do.”
Blaine stole a quick gaze back at Karen, who was silently clutching the case containing Harlan Frye’s deadly toxin. “Let’s try something more subtle first. Hold on.”
McCracken stopped fighting the chopper and let it drop. It took all his strength to maintain even the semblance of control as it flitted through the air and then angled nose-down for the buildings below. The maneuver successfully brought them out of range of the OH-47’s .30-caliber fire, though at the expense of forfeiting any chance of pulling back into a climb.
“He’s starting to close again, Blainey,” Wareagle reported.
Belamo, gun in hand, had stripped off his harness and was sliding toward the door, a hand ready to thrust it open. “Just let me have a shot at him, boss.”
“Strap yourself back in, Sal. The roof of that parking garage down there just became our landing pad.”
Belamo got his harness rebuckled just as McCracken succeeded in settling the smoke-belching chopper into a wobbly auto rotation. He pulled up with everything he had at the end. Even so, the result was a jolt that shook his insides once the landing pods touched down on the concrete rooftop. He cut power to the rotor blades and exited the chopper last after Sal, Karen, and Johnny, all of them racing for the stairway door on the rooftop.
The OH-47 was soaring in after them, a blistering metallic clang emanating from its pulsing .30-caliber guns mounted on either side of its pods. Belamo fired a token spray upward before following the rest of the group into the roof-perched stairwell.
“Where the fuck are we?”
“Rivercenter Mall,” McCracken answered.
“Great,” Belamo moaned. “You ask me, we can do something ’sides get our shopping done.”
“We will, Sal. Trust me.”
The San Antonio River slices through the whole of the city’s downtown district in a twenty-foot-wide channel below street level. A sidewalk promenade called the Riverwalk lines its entire five-mile loop with easily accessible hotels, souvenir and novelty shops, and, especially, eating and drinking establishments. Riverboats jammed with tour patrons cruise along the five-mile loop from morning well into the night, some equipped with tables for drinking or dining. The resulting effect is that of a commercially modernistic Venice, albeit along a narrower and more tunnel-like channel.
One of the Riverwalk’s newer additions, the four-story Rivercenter Shopping Mall, has become a true centerpiece and one of the walk’s most popular attractions. Eighty percent glass, it has more than one hundred stores and restaurants, forming Riverwalk’s symbolic beginning.
McCracken, Belamo, Karen Raymond, and Johnny Wareagle surged onto the third-floor level of the mall, Blaine and Sal making only a token effort to conceal the M16s they were holding. The Riverwalk patrons in the crowded aisles parted to make a path for them. They reached the center of the mall and gazed downward at the figurative start of the Riverwalk, beyond the deep blue girders enclosing the mall’s massive panes of glass.
“The nearest down escalator is to our right, Blainey,” Wareagle noted, having grasped McCracken’s intentions.
McCracken had just turned toward it when the lunchtime crowd seated on the walk-level promenande abandoned their tables and lurched away. An instant later the OH-47 dropped down before the glass directly in front of Rivercenter’s third floor. McCracken grabbed Karen Raymond’s arm and dragged her to the floor before it opened fire. The sound of exploding glass pierced their ears and sprays of it blew everywhere, scattering patrons in all directions. The front windows of the designer clothing shops behind them blew inward, creating a stereolike crescendo. The helicopter hovered sideways, and fired off another burst.
“Go!” Blaine screamed, when it had soared well past them.
He lunged back to his feet and ran through the chaos, Johnny bringing up the rear behind Sal Belamo and Karen. Her case bounced against her, and she was terrified that the test tube inside would be smashed and its contents lost forever in spite of the padding.
The chopper looped its way back toward them, still firing incessantly. More glass shattered and Rivercenter’s entire steel frame seemed to buckle under the strain. Blaine led the way through the panicked throngs huddled on the escalator leading down to the first floor and then dashed for another that would take them out onto the Riverwalk itself.
The damage inflicted by the OH-47’s .30-caliber machine gun traced their path, yet more glass blown out everywhere in their wake. They found cover on the Riverwalk level within Tony Roma’s Place for Ribs. The chopper had stopped firing and had risen slightly before settling into an insectlike hover, waiting to spot its targets once more.
McCracken looked beyond the wide pool of water that rimmed Rivercenter’s semicircular outdoor promenade. A dark green speedboat marked RIVERWALK RANGERS sat moored between a pair of the tour boats.
“Indian.”
“I see it, Blainey.”
They glanced at each other.
“The wheel’s all yours,” McCracken told him.
“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Sal Belamo uttered, following their stare.
“The boat,” Karen realized.
“Let’s go!” McCracken ordered.
They darted out from the cover of Tony Roma’s and rushed for the speedboat. Johnny reached it first and lunged in. Blaine worked the rope mooring free, while Sal helped Karen.
“Go!” Blaine ordered as he hurtled over the gunwale and thumped onto the deck. The boat rocked slightly, but that didn’t stop Wareagle from shoving its throttle all the way forward.
The engine was an Evinrude 55, capable of maybe twenty-five miles per hour with four passengers. The occupants of the OH-47 didn’t spot them until the speedboat had passed under the second of two enclosed walkways linking together different wings of Rivercenter. It swung all the way round and dipped low toward the Riverwalk to give chase as the speedboat passed the already long line of patrons waiting for a seat on one of the Riverboat tour barges.
Johnny swung the speedboat to the right when they hit a wide pool of water and surged into the tunnel-like, treelined channel. He swerved between a pair of oncoming tour boats, eliciting screams of terror and wide-eyed fright from the passengers. Their eyes bulged even wider when the chopper appeared overhead and commenced firing, forcing many of the tourists to lunge from their seats and jump into the murky five-foot-deep water.
The chopper’s fire spit water high into the air. McCracken and Belamo opened up with their M16s to keep the pilot from dropping low enough to insure an easy kill. Their speedboat surged beneath a hundred-foot-long overpass just after traveling past San Antonio’s chamber of commerce building. As expected, the OH-47 beat them to the other end, and Johnny spun the speedboat hard to the left at the tunnel’s close, hoping to dodge their pursuers. Blaine and Sal popped fresh clips into their M16s and opened fire again just as the chopper angled for a steep drop. Riverwalk’s shroud of overhanging trees was keeping the OH-47’s pilot from chancing a deeper descent that would have further increased its already distinct advantage. As it was, he did a masterful job of steering the chopper with the curving form of the Riverwalk.
The speedboat surged past the gleaming cream structure of the Hilton Hotel and continued its zigzag pattern. Sidewalk café patrons and Riverwalk strollers passing before the hotel, spla
shed by the boat’s wake, scattered desperately at the chopper’s appearance. It rode agilely with nose angled down, pace sacrificed to permit better aim of its machine guns. The thus-far-errant bullets coughed plumes of water into the air, the effect not unlike that of giant raindrops.
Up ahead Blaine could see the outdoor, tiered seating for free performances at the Arneson River Theater directly across the narrow channel. The structure triggered the beginnings of a new escape plan in his mind. Race up those combination seats and steps, and escape could be gained through La Villita, a collection of old-style shops and stores forming what is traditionally known as Old San Antonio.
“Johnny!” he shouted.
When the Indian turned, Blaine pointed forcefully at the Arneson Theater. Wareagle aimed the boat toward it as a walking bridge just past the theater came into view.
The gunmen concealed upon the bridge rose and opened fire. Johnny just managed to spin the speedboat back around, but a few of their bullets slammed into its engine. The boat sputtered a few times and died.
“Out!” Blaine screamed. “Move!” He glanced at Karen, then at the bag draped over her shoulder. “Get her out of here, Indian.”
He kept the gunmen on the bridge at bay with the remainder of his M16’s clip, long enough for Johnny to lead Karen into the brown-green waters of the channel. Sal Belamo did his best to hold the chopper back, but the pilot had lifted over his effective range, biding his time. McCracken grabbed Belamo and pulled him into the water.
They waded hurriedly for the promenade lining the channel’s far bank. Much to his distress, he saw Johnny and Karen huddled behind an abutment where the river broke into a sharp curve before reaching the Arneson Theater. Fire raining down from East Market Street above had stopped them from chancing an escape in that direction, or any other for that matter. Blaine and Sal, meanwhile, had no choice but to squeeze atop the small promenade as well, their presence forcing Johnny and Karen’s backs up against the vine-shrouded wall.
