Made in the U.S.A.: The 10th Anniversary Edition

by Jack X. McCallum

  “Just fascinating, Little Doc,” Dicks said in an unconvincing tone. “Anything else?”

  Tupper, whose knowledge of Will’s file was greater than anyone else at the Compound, thought a moment and then said. “Yes. Be careful. If he’s armed, be even more careful. He’s got a dead eye.”

  Dicks and Richards shared a look.

  “He’s the best shot you’ll ever come up against, gentlemen. His hand-eye co-ordination is superb. Anything from a gun to a slingshot to a handful of rocks can be used by him to inflict deadly force. He once killed a man with a weapon crafted from a roll of toilet paper. And of course, his fighting skills are frightening. We taught him everything he knows, and he knows a great deal. Do not let him back you into a corner. Use caution when bringing him in.”

  Richards and Dicks made a few macho posturing grunts and assertions and then left the office.

  A moment later Tupper departed and Mondani scribbled a note to the effect that perhaps the idea of putting a team of gay trackers on Jeannie Norman’s tail wasn’t so bizarre after all, although it would take a while to assemble a team of that persuasion.

  Mondani sat and thought about his situation. He recalled reading somewhere that during the Gulf War American soldiers who were building sand bag bunkers in some backward excuse for a city discovered that the sand they were using was so fine the bags couldn’t contain it. They had to import larger grained sand from the Arabian Desert.

  Sometimes, when you thought you could make do with the obvious, you got an unpleasant surprise. He was growing tired of unpleasant surprises.

  Mondani got on the intercom and reluctantly summoned another man to his office, a man he considered the Compound’s secret weapon. Like most secret weapons, this one instilled a great deal of fear in those who conspired to use it, as there was always the possibility it might one day be beyond their control.

  16

  Something’s Got to Give

  “Move it, move it!” Galderson wanted to get this over with. He had a shitload of paperwork on his desk that he had hoped to get through before the week, the century, and the millennium were out. So much for that plan. He could have asked for more security than Robinson, but the lean asshole walking ahead of him didn’t seem like much of a threat; this was especially true as one of the items on Galderson’s desk that had not been thoroughly reviewed was Will’s file.

  “Shoelace,” Will said. He squatted to tie his high-tops.

  Galderson was wary. “No fucking tricks.” As a preemptive strike he whacked Will on the head with the butt of his Glock. Robinson laughed.

  The lean asshole had looked up just as the gun butt connected. The gun struck him high on the forehead. Hill sprawled on his back, spread-eagle. Robinson tapped the toe of one large boot against Will’s ribs. “I’ll snap these like kindling if you don’t get your ass up.” Will blinked slowly and then climbed to his feet. His eyes were gleaming like polished pewter.

  Galderson pointed down the hall. “Walk.”

  Will took a few unsteady steps.

  Galderson was taking Hill to the loading dock near the autoport. They had an industrial trash compactor there that could squeeze this asshole’s remains as small as a sugar cube. Minus the head, of course.

  Will seemed dazed after that terrific wallop. His gait was unsteady and his eyes had the glazed look that had frightened Jeannie so much.

  They went through the door at the end of the hall and came into the autoport, which was essentially a big garage with a fancy name. It was quiet now, an echoing darkness broken by pools of light. Shelves and cabinets were filled with tools and car parts. Engine hoists hung from greasy chains that disappeared up into the darkened metal maze of catwalks, cables and braces supporting the carbon-fiber exterior of the structure. Dust motes and tiny insects swirled in a few slender shafts of sunlight coming through narrow exhaust vents in the high ceiling. A pair of mechanics was tinkering with a widebody van up on a lift in one of the auto bays and beyond them was an impound area holding a dozen seized cars. The security chief told the mechanics to beat it and they disappeared. Not far from the autoport door were the reporter and his cameraman, still sitting in the cage.

  * * *

  Brian and Ravi had been locked up before. A year ago they had traveled up to the San Francisco Bay Area to cover a massive anti-nuclear protest outside the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. They’d been caught in the middle of a scuffle and tossed in the back of a police wagon with people chanting anti-nuke slogans. They knew how the law worked and had been inconvenienced but not overly concerned. After a few hours they were able to explain who they were and what they were doing and they were released. The situation they were in now was a different set of circumstances altogether.

  Brian was filled with righteous rage and harangued anyone within earshot. The mechanics working on the widebody van had eventually put in earplugs.

  They had been in the cage all night and throughout the morning, sitting or standing, staring at nothing, and listening to the sounds of a chop shop. The mechanics hadn’t gotten around to stripping down the news van yet; they’d only taken a quick look inside before locking it shut. The toilet was in one corner of the cage, an all in one stainless steel appliance. Each took turns using it while the other looked away.

  The mechanics vacated the area as three other men entered the garage and walked past the cage. As soon as he saw them, Brian began demanding release, demanding an explanation.

  * * *

  Galderson shoved Will forward with the gun.

  Will took a few steps into a shaft of light from outside. His ghosts were howling. He saw a cloud of gnats buzzing about like tiny fighter planes in a warm shaft of sunlight.

  “Move,” Galderson said.

  The tall guy in the cage stood and started yelling about his constitutional rights, demanding to see someone in authority. Galderson grimaced. Robinson yelled at the guy and told him to shut up.

  Will started tapping one foot.

  Galderson prodded Will’s back with the automatic. “Let’s move, dipshit.”

  Will began clapping his hands in sync with his tapping foot as if he were hearing an unseen fiddle.

  “Stop fucking around,” Galderson snarled.

  Will’s eyes were as lifeless as balls of glass. A shimmering string of saliva dangled from his chin. He looked past Galderson and began humming, shuffling a little two-step as he moved ahead of the older man like some in-bred Kentucky hayseed full of moonshine.

  Spinning in a quick circle, Will noticed a row of engine hoists, one for each auto bay. They were heavy metal hooks, each about ten feet from the other, hanging motionless six feet off the ground. The chains supporting them rose up into the darkness. Will’s shuffling dance became more elaborate. He tipped an invisible hat to a chain and started circling the chain as if it were his partner in a square dance.

  Galderson gaped. What the fuck! The jerk-off was mumbling and humming and shuffling in circles as he moved across the auto bay. He was also completely ignoring the gun Galderson was holding. Galderson was getting pissed. He wanted to finish up here.

  “Hey!” Brian shouted across the open area. “Sir? Excuse me?” He grabbed the bars of the cage and rattled them for emphasis.

  Galderson glanced over his shoulder, the gun still on Hill, who had thankfully shut up.

  Robinson took a few steps toward the cage and bellowed, “Shut the fuck up!”

  The guy with the big mouth ignored him. “Brian Hanus, Channel Three News in Needles. I have a few questions!”

  Ravi stood and shouted “Attica!”

  Galderson looked at Will, saw his feet shuffling madly, and heard him whispering praise the Lord! and Hallelujah! Completely out of his fucking tree, Galderson thought. He closed his eyes while the tall man yapped away like a high-strung mutt in a kennel. Damn it, enough was enough! He turned to face the cage. “If you two don’t shut your traps right now you’ll be rotting in a hole in the desert by nightfall, do you
hear me?”

  The men in the cage sat down without a word.

  “That’s better,” Galderson said. He turned back to Hill. Hill was gone. In the gloom overhead chains clinked and rang like music.

  After dropping onto his side and working his wrists under his ass, past his legs and up in front of him, Will had jumped as high as he could, certain Galderson would see him and put a bullet in his head. Now he leaped from one length of chain to another, thinking that this Tarzan shit was risky. One palm full of axle grease and I’m gonna be just another stain on the floor. As he leaped again he realized that he had started many sets of chains rattling and swaying, and metal cables higher up had started thrumming softly. That would make for a good distraction. He just hoped he was high enough to be hidden in the shadows.

  Robinson had seen Hill climbing up the chains like some kind of freaky monkey-man. There was a noise, a dull flop, like something hitting the ground. It came from the far side of the garage. There were steel shelves over there, and stacks of tires and cardboard boxes. A good place to hide. He began loping in that direction. He paused halfway there, until he heard another noise, and broke into a run.

  Galderson was frowning. Just before he heard the second noise he thought he’d seen something fall from the ceiling, something that looked like a shoe, a high-topped sneaker. And it had been falling in an arc, which could only mean that it had originated from somewhere directly over his head.

  He looked up the moment Will let go of the chain. Jesus! He rolled and Hill’s feet struck his left shoulder, which was better than his head or his neck. The impact knocked him down and his automatic skittered just out of reach. Hill hit the ground and rolled. Galderson would reach the gun first.

  Will knew he didn’t have a chance of getting past the old guy to the gun. He turned and nearly brained himself on a head-high hunk of metal. It was a hook and chain hanging from a hoist. He gave the heavy hook a mighty shove away from him and the man reaching for the gun. It swung away, almost lost in the shadows. It didn’t go far, but as it came swinging back it picked up speed. Will shuffled out of the way and watched as it passed over the head of the old guy who had just bent over to grab the gun.

  “Crap.” Will said, as he watched the hook pass away from them through light and shadow.

  Galderson stood and raised his gun. “Hold that position, Mr. Hill,” he said. He saw that Will no longer looked demented. “A few moments of clarity before the end?”

  Will shrugged, trying to keep his eyes off the hook and chain, which had reached the end of their arc. The hook was now swinging back.

  Galderson smiled. “At least you tried. I’ll leave you with this thought. ‘In great attempts it is glorious even to fail.’ Cassius.”

  The hook was bearing down on Galderson like the clenched fist of an enraged God. Galderson’s left ear twitched as he heard the chains singing softly. Will dredged up a quote in reply just before he ducked.

  “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good nih-ight,” he sang. Galderson’s eyebrows rose. Will ducked and rolled, saying, “Julie Andrews and those fucking kids in The Sound of Music.”

  Galderson couldn’t have positioned himself any more accurately with a T-square. His smile crumpled into a frown, but before he could look over his shoulder the chain and hook assembly’s steel mass struck him from behind. The hook wasn’t very sharp, but in the clash of metal and bone, metal will win. The hook slammed into the back of Galderson’s head, pierced the base of his skull and dragged him away. Galderson’s weight slowed the swing of the hook and in a moment he was hanging limp, his shoes dragging on the concrete as blood gushed from his nose and mouth.

  Robinson saw Galderson bleeding out and released a mindless cry, squeezing the machine pistol’s trigger.

  Will rolled across the concrete, snapping up Galderson’s gun and dropping down into a grease pit as bullets passed overhead.

  Brian and Ravi watched as the big man in black pivoted in their direction still firing the Ingram and blubbering like a toddler throwing a tantrum. They both hit the floor as bullets struck the bars of the cage in front of them and the cinderblock wall behind them. There was a moment of silence. They saw the big man was slapping a full magazine into the machine pistol. He cocked the weapon, and then let out another garbled shriek and began firing again, sweeping the Ingram in a wide arc before him.

  “Holy shit,” Ravi shouted over the assorted tings and chuks of bullets striking steel and concrete. “Check it out.”

  Shoeless and silent, the slender guy who they thought they were going to see executed was now calmly approaching the howling man in black from behind.

  Will got close enough to butt-fuck the big man in the black and then said, “Hey.” The man turned and Will grabbed the long magazine of the weapon with his left hand, holding it away from him while avoiding the short barrel that was now hot enough burn. He rammed Galderson’s Glock into the soft underside of the big man’s jaw and pulled the trigger.

  Brian and Ravi heard a muffled bang. The big man in black slumped down onto his knees and settled there a moment; blood was jetting out of a hole in his head, making him seem like some kind of crazy fountain. The slender guy found a pair of cutters in a pouch on Robinson’s utility belt and started walking over to the cage.

  * * *

  Al and Carlos were trotting up a spiral concrete staircase. They heard a door bang open somewhere above, and the hollow thud of boots coming down to them.

  “We’re in the shit now,” Al whispered. Carlos grinned nervously. The big man made a sound like a bear trying to whisper, a deep rumble that reverberated off the bare walls. “As an officer of the law I normally wouldn’t advise this, but under these circumstances I’ve gotta say, if you see any of those idiots in black, shoot to kill. The only way we’re gonna get out of here alive is by fighting our way out.”

  “Just like Butch and Sundance.”

  Al nodded. “Yeah. But I’m hoping we make it past the final freeze frame.”

  A guard in black carrying a machine pistol and wearing a lightweight radio headset came down the curving staircase so fast he nearly collided with the big cop. Al wanted to avoid letting anyone know exactly where they were for as long as he could. Instead of shooting the guard who was quickly raising his weapon, Al grabbed the machine pistol and plucked it out of the guard’s grip. Then he brought his massive right fist, wrapped around the butt of his pistol, straight down on the guard’s head. Al was glad the guard wasn’t nice and safe under one of those shiny black helmets some of the men in black had been wearing outside. There was a meaty thump and a buckling crunch.

  Carlos knew he’d never forget that sound. The slumping guard still looked vital and alive, but now he had no neck.

  “Grab his radio,” Al said, hearing more boots thudding down the stairs.

  The radio was a curved length of plastic that fit comfortably behind the ear, with an earphone and a microphone the size of a wooden match. Carlos slipped it on. He listened only a moment and then put a finger over the mike.

  “Hey, they say . . . they say we’re about halfway up this flight of stairs . . . the guys above are closing in on us.”

  The sound of stomping boots was very close. Al had a long reach and now he used it to his advantage. Swapping the Ingram to his right hand he reached as far around the arc of the wall as he could and squeezed the trigger. The machine pistol created a hellish noise in the stairwell, the magazine emptying in seconds. Al heard at least two different men scream in pain and surprise, and a third voice ordered the men to fall back.

  Carlos was amazed. “You’re like a mix between Reed Richards and Ben Grimm.”

  “Who?” Al asked, patting down the guard whose skull had been impaled by his own spine and finding another long magazine for the Ingram.

  “The Fantastic Four,” Carlos said.

  Al nodded and chuckled. Mikey had those comic books all over the house.

  At the same moment they heard a thunderous rush of boots c
oming up the stairs from behind there was an irregular metallic clanking coming down to them and then it was at their feet, a small metal sphere painted a dull gray. Al squatted and swiped at the object with his free hand, missing it as he hissed, “Grenade!” Carlos reacted without thinking. He kicked the object down the stairs.

  The thudding boots behind and below them came to a stop. Someone shouted, “Down!” and there was a thunderous roar punctuated by grunts and screams.

  Dust and bits of grit rained into his hair, and for a moment Carlos wondered if the poured concrete of the stairwell was as solid as it looked. Al whispered, “Maybe they think they got us. Let’s move.” They ran up the stairs to another hallway and came face to face with a squad of black-clad guards. The Deputy Sheriff began shooting and kicking and punching, the guards firing back stray shots.

  Concrete chips struck Carlos’ face and flecks of blood landed on his T-shirt. A man in black standing back from the main mass had a clear shot at Al’s head towering above the other men. Carlos raised his gun and fired. The weapon kicked, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. The man went down, but another took his place. Another white guy, Carlos thought. Jesus, it’s the Aryan Nation. He squeezed the trigger and watched the side of the man’s face erupt in blood and bone. Carlos heard a high whine like a wasp near one ear, the other filling with commands shouted into the headset. He saw a guard down on one knee with a gun aimed in his direction. He shot the guard in the chest just as the guard’s gun jerked and then Carlos felt as if his left elbow had been caught between a cinder block and a sledgehammer.

  The pain was fantastic. Carlos staggered backwards, felt a wall behind him, and collapsed onto his ass. His eyes were tearing up, but he could see Al standing over a tangle of bodies. One of them moved, feebly raising a pistol straight up, ready to shoot Al’s balls off. Carlos put a hole in the guy’s face that looked like an extra nostril, and dropped his gun. The recoil had shaken his body and his shattered elbow, cranking the pain up another notch. Carlos wiped his eyes and saw Al squatting in front of him.