He pointed to Marshall and Lacey. “You two get the cover off that cannon. Aim it at the top of that bowl. Timmy, you’re with me.”
He high-hurdled through the snow toward the ranger station. Timmy followed in his trail. Marshall and Lacey climbed onto the snowmobile and carved a path toward the platform.
The door to the station was padlocked. Two shots from the pistol drilled through the hasp. Tony shouldered through. The main room was furnished like a combination hunting cabin and office. Couch, sitting area, fireplace, desk, and equipment. A door led to a small bedroom and bath. He grabbed two walkie-talkies from the desk and threw one to Timmy. Then he pointed to a rack of skis and poles. “Grab two sets and get to the platform.”
The skis went cockeyed when Timmy slung them over his shoulder. He repositioned them with a determined grunt and trotted out the door. Tony beelined to an equipment cabinet. Another padlock. Another 9mm bullet. He swung open the door and breathed a sigh of relief. He cradled the 105mm Howitzer round and raced outside.
By the time he scaled the platform, the cannon was uncovered and pointed up the mountain. Tony handed the heavy round to Marshall. “Don’t drop it.”
He raised the big gun’s elevation with two turns of the adjustment wheel. Satisfied, he opened the breech. Marshall slid the round into the chamber. Tony closed the breech and pointed to Marshall and Lacey. He knew they were avid skiers. “You two are on skis. Get going. Tim and I will catch up on the sled.”
The couple nodded. They hurried off the platform.
Tony and Timmy watched the headlights grow closer on the opposing ridge. Tony figured they’d clear the trees in about ninety seconds.
“They’re all going to die, aren’t they?” Timmy asked.
“It’s them or us. Go down below and get out of sight.”
Tony ducked behind the cannon and grabbed the lanyard. He was gonna wipe the bastards from the face of the earth.
It couldn’t be any easier than this, he thought.
That’s when he heard the distant thrum of the chopper.
Chapter 31
Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland
“DROP US AT the west gate,” Victor said to the limousine driver.
“Of course, sir.”
Victor pressed a button overhead to close the driver partition. “We might as well enjoy a last look.”
“Jawohl,” Hans said with a sharp nod. He sat tall in the plush leather seat beside Victor. With calculated precision, his gaze alternated from one side of the vehicle to the other.
The stretch Mercedes turned down a broad street lined on either side by poles bearing the flags of nations from across the globe. News vans were parked up and down the adjoining streets. Staging areas for network and affiliate crews had been cordoned off in the greenbelts. TV cameras followed the limo’s progress. A photographer stepped forward in the hope of getting a glimpse inside. He was quickly warded back by the UN security team that lined the curbs. There were others in sniper positions on neighboring buildings. Victor ignored them all. Instead he contemplated the scores of colorful banners that flapped in the breeze as they drove by—each one a symbol of independence born from the blood of countless souls.
Soon there will be only one.
The Aisle of Flags led to the stately west entrance of the Palais des Nations. The immense art deco complex was situated in Ariana Park overlooking Lake Geneva. It was built between 1929 and 1936 to serve as the headquarters for the League of Nations. It later became home to the United Nations, and was known as the largest and most active center for conference diplomacy in the world. For the next three days, it was hosting a summit on world hunger.
At least that was what the public had been led to believe, Victor thought. Yes, world leaders would put on a good show during the general assemblies. But the real work would be addressed during breakout sessions that were sealed from the public.
When the car pulled up to the circular drive, a network of ropes and portable barricades kept the reporters and onlookers at bay. Hans exited first. Victor waited patiently while his man confirmed that the path was clear. Victor straightened his tie and brushed the front of his tailored blue suit. That’s when he noticed the random strand of white cat hair on the seat. The pet had been with him for ten months—far longer than its many predecessors. Remembering his session the day before brought on a flash of remorse, and he realized he missed the animal. It was an unexpected emotion, especially in light of the lack of any such feelings after the final childhood session he’d had with his father.
“All clear,” Hans reported, interrupting his reverie.
Victor shook off his emotions and exited the car. There was a collective sigh of disappointment from the crowd. Photographers lowered their cameras, and spectators dropped from tiptoes. A few of the more seasoned reporters seemed to recognize Victor, but none of them were interested enough to shout out any questions. They’d come for bigger fish, most of whom should have already arrived by now.
The anonymity suited him.
He walked through the security checkpoint at the west gate passageway. Hans was at his side. The first courtyard stretched a hundred meters ahead. Its central greenbelt was lined with mature trees. The rectangular structure surrounding it towered seven stories tall—and this expansive section represented barely a third of the entire complex. Two dignitaries appeared to be having a heated discussion up ahead. Their respective entourages shifted uneasily behind them. Victor steered a course around them. One of the men speaking noticed him pass. He offered a subtle nod. Victor kept moving.
It would be a ten-minute walk before they navigated the lobbies, hallways, and galleries between here and their final destination. Normally, Victor would have been dropped off at the opposite end of the property. But this diversion was important to him.
The palais was home to a unique collection of art from around the world. Donations were made by governments and individuals alike, as expressions of their commitment to human rights and the well-being of mankind—a sentiment he appreciated despite the naïveté of those who expressed it. The property was stocked with rare treasures that included paintings, engravings, sculptures, tapestries, frescoes, and even caricatures.
It was a Russian painting by Mikhail Romadin that Victor had come to see. He stopped before it, his hands behind his back. It was titled Staring Indifferently. The colorful oil-on-canvas creation depicted an endless mass of people—from all walks of life—gazing with total indifference upon a distant nuclear explosion.
Worth a thousand words, he thought. The image evoked memories of his childhood—of a father who believed that external expressions of emotion opened the door to exploitation by those around you.
It was a week after his fifth birthday. Victor awakened to discover his pet lying dead at the foot of his bed. The Swiss Mountain Dog had been his guardian and playmate since birth. He was devastated. The castle was nearly empty. The staff was at church in the village, and his mother was in Paris on a shopping trip. He ran to his papa’s study. Tears flowed. Papa sat in his reading chair. There was no book in his hands. It was as if he’d been waiting for him. He opened his arms, and Victor tumbled onto his lap. It was a rare moment. Joseph Brun was an intimidating presence—and not given to outbursts of emotion.
“Let the tears flow, my son. They shall be your last.”
Victor brushed off his confusion over his papa’s words. He sobbed and curled tighter in his father’s embrace.
It was only a minute or two later when Papa reached beside the chair and retrieved the leather riding crop. The sight of it frightened Victor. He’d seen Papa use it on the horses.
Papa moved forward in the chair, and Victor slid from his lap and stood before him.
“It is time for your first lesson,” Papa said. He gripped his son’s wrist with his free hand.
Victor stiffened.
“Listen carefully, my son, because what I’m about to teach you has been passed down from fa
ther to son for nearly a thousand years.” Papa’s eyes seemed to glaze over as if he recalled a distant memory. “It won’t be pleasant. I’m sorry for that. But you must trust that it is necessary. Eventually it will become the cornerstone of your strength, helping to mold you into the man you must become before you can take your rightful place as leader of Castle Brun.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“I know,” Papa said, his attention still seemingly in the past. “I didn’t either, until I was much older. But it is the single most important thing that I must teach you…and you must learn. Regardless of the toll.”
Victor was frightened by his father’s intensity. He tried to pull away, but Papa’s grip tightened.
“Regardless of the toll,” Papa repeated under his breath. He refocused his gaze on Victor.
“You cry too much,” Papa said. “It is a weakness.” He held the crop aloft. “You will stop now.”
Victor was overwhelmed. Instinctual reactions took over. His face contorted, and he burst into tears.
His father struck him for the first time in his young life. The crop whipped across his buttocks. A wave of fire spread through his system. The physical pain was horrible, but the emotional anguish was all-consuming. Victor was terrified.
Papa’s face remained neutral as he studied Victor’s reaction. When Victor sobbed louder, Papa struck again.
And again.
Each swipe of the crop was separated by a brief pause, giving Victor a chance to compose himself.
Finally, Victor found the strength to hold his breath. He choked back his tears. His body trembled, but he didn’t cry. He hid his terror and did his best to return his father’s calm stare.
At the end Joseph Brun said, “Your outward expressions speak louder than words, my son. They can reveal your vulnerabilities. Or they can be a valuable tool. Do not underestimate their power.”
It was the first of many lessons.
It wasn’t long before Victor took to practicing on his own in front of the mirror. When self-infliction of pain brought too much attention from his mother, he took to including small animals in his sessions.
He was a fast learner.
Victor studied the images on the canvas. He doubted that the artist intended that the indifference on the faces of those in the painting be feigned. No, he thought, this was a depiction of the true nature of modern-day man—with no concern for the devastation wrought in his wake, so long as it didn’t affect him.
The painting had moved Victor since the first day he’d seen it, years ago. Unfortunately, the original had not been available for sale. So he’d commissioned a reproduction. It was one of his prized possessions. He’d even considered a plan to swap the two, but in the grand scheme of things it hadn’t been worth the risk. Still, it was a shame that the original would remain here.
Hans checked his watch. “It’s time, Mein Herr,” he said.
Victor sighed.
A few minutes later he was in a private viewing room, looking down upon the grand assembly. The fan-shaped room was designed to hold 880 people. There were over one thousand in attendance. Extra chairs had been brought in to accommodate the overflow. Statesmen and ministers of every major country were present. But it was the unprecedented presence of the leaders of the fifteen permanent and temporary members of the UN Security Council that had drawn the world’s eyes to the summit. Members of the media lined the back of the room. Video cameras streamed. Security agents from a joint task force were positioned at strategic points throughout the auditorium.
Twin video screens on either side of the room depicted a stream of images of starving families and children. The event was hosted by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Its director general spoke from the center-stage dais. Victor flipped a switch on the speaker under the window.
“Previous summits helped to identify the problem. But in hindsight, they did little to resolve it. As a result, it is estimated that more than a half billion children will grow up physically and mentally stunted over the next fifteen years. It is our job to prevent that!” Applause erupted. When it settled down, the speaker said, “So let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work. The breakout sessions shall begin in thirty minutes.”
A final round of applause. Then people rose from their chairs. Security agents peeled from their positions to accompany their respective charges.
It was all very calm and organized, Victor thought, as people began to file out of the room. Of the thousand people milling about, fewer than sixty knew the real purpose of the summit. They departed through a separate door near the front of the stage. It led to the secure basement levels. He marveled that the cooperating regimes had been so successful in keeping the secret of the twin pyramids. Of course, the alternative would have been world panic. And everyone wanted desperately to avoid that.
Well, he mused, not everyone…
Chapter 32
Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland
THE UNDERGROUND BUNKER had been constructed as a bomb shelter. It currently resembled a futuristic NASA launch center. The expansive chamber consisted of a central floor space surrounded by a mezzanine balcony with offices and meeting rooms. The main floor was the size of two basketball courts. Technicians and science engineers worked at concentric rows of computer stations surrounding a ten-foot-square electronic platform—above which rotated a car-size 3-D hologram of one of the pyramids. A forty-foot-wide display occupied the two-story wall at the end of the room. The streaming video showed images and clips of mankind’s heroes of peace: the Dalai Lama, César Chávez, Mother Teresa, Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., and many others. There were videos of people from every faith as they celebrated and prayed in their churches, mosques, synagogues, and temples. There were baseball and soccer games, New Year’s and Carnival celebrations, and even scenes from the free-love generation at Woodstock. It was like watching clips from the History channel—with all hints of violence edited out.
The scenes and accompanying narrative were intended to depict humankind as a species that embraced life and begged forgiveness for its past transgressions. The stream was being transmitted from Earth to the twin pyramids that orbited overhead.
“Has there been any response?” the British prime minister asked. He’d hesitated on the balcony as the delegation was being escorted into the meeting room behind them. A few others stopped as well, including the US and Russian presidents and the general secretary of the Communist Party of China. Victor stood among them.
“Nothing yet,” Victor said. “But Dr. Finnegan believes there is hope that a new combination of signal wavelengths might get through. It’s a bit over my head, to be honest. However, he will explain it during the briefing.”
“And what of the chair?” the Chinese official asked.
“It gathers dust in a room down below. I’m afraid that without the mini and Mr. Bronson, it’s quite useless.” Each of the delegates was familiar with the role that Jake Bronson had played in launching the pyramids in the first place. When the objects had returned six months ago, they’d all been a party to the decision to bring him out of his coma—at any cost. It had been a terrible blow to their plans when both Jake and the mini had perished in the fire. Victor motioned toward the meeting room. “Shall we proceed?”
They filed into the room and took their chairs around the racetrack-shaped conference table. Victor stayed near the door.
The man at the lectern had a salt-and-pepper beard and longish gray hair that curled over his collar. Unlike everyone else in the room, he wore no tie or sport coat. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. His clothes were wrinkled.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Albert Finnegan. People call me Doc. I’ve been responsible for the Obsidian Project for seven years. The fact that I still hold the position after my good friend—former President Jackson—lost his bid for reelection tells me I must be doing something right.” He was awarded with a n
od from the current president.
The sixty-six-year-old scientist removed his frameless glasses and rubbed his bloodshot blue eyes. Despite his exhausted appearance, his friendly demeanor seemed to soften the tension in the room. He sighed, replacing his glasses. “I notice some new faces in the crowd,” he said. “For their sake, I’ll start with a summary brief.” He blew out a breath. “There’s still so much we don’t know about the objects. How could they possibly have returned from their home planet so quickly? What is their timetable? Are they operating independently? Or are their makers controlling their actions? If so, why have they not opened a dialogue with us? We learned six years ago from Mr. Bronson that their purpose is to be the judge, jury, and executioner in the mother of all trials—with nothing less than the fate of mankind hanging in the balance.” He motioned with his hands to indicate all of the people in the room. “We are the court-appointed advocates whose job it is to fight on humanity’s behalf.” He paused before adding, “And it’s time for closing arguments.”
Doc pointed to the wall monitor behind him. A video image of Mahatma Gandhi was on the screen. One of his quotes scrolled beneath him. You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.
“That’s what our video stream is all about,” Doc said.
“And how have the pyramids responded?” someone asked.
Doc’s shoulders sagged. “They haven’t. But that doesn’t mean the message isn’t being received. Their technology is too advanced to assume otherwise. The question is, are they paying attention? The answer lies in our ability to establish two-way communications. That’s what we’re working on now.”
“Any progress?” the Russian president asked.
Doc shook his head. “Conventional approaches have failed. Currently, we’re experimenting with various combinations of musical chords embedded within the transmissions. That’s how Mr. Bronson originally solved the riddle that unlocked the pyramids in the first place. Unfortunately, the fire that killed him four months ago also destroyed portions of the record of his debrief. Our team is still trying to piece together the remnants. Given enough time, we’ll solve it. So we remain…hopeful.”
Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment Page 12
