"There, I heard it again. I heard ice cracking," Matt said.
"So what? It probably cracks all the time by itself with changes in temperature. Day and night, you know."
"The temperature doesn't change," he answered. The caves were always thirty degrees, day and night, year around. Mart knew all about it. He worked twenty-four hours a week leading tours in the public section of the caverns.
"Take it easy, will ya, Heming? You're still a goddamn kid. You got the jitters, that's all."
Mart knew he still looked like a kid, what with his reddish blond hair and freckles. But he stood six foot one and weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. Big as most men, bigger than many. Muscular, too. And he knew a hell of a lot more about these caves than Burke.
He held up his hand. "Listen! There!"
"Yeah, I heard it." Burke didn't sound so confident now.
A faint ghost light gleamed off the icy walls. Mart worked his finger over the trigger on his SIG. "See that?" he hissed. "It's from a flashlight." Footsteps crunched loudly against the icy floor.
"Someone's coming," Burke said. "Stay here. I'll alert the commander."
"Thanks a lot," Mart muttered as Burke lumbered away. He tightened his grip on the rifle. More than one. Maybe three or four. Right around the corner.
He wanted to bolt after Burke, but held his ground as he'd been trained. "Halt! Who's there? Speak up right now!"
"It's General Wiley."
"Prove it!"
He moved forward, sticking close to the wall. It could be a trap. The war game had supposedly ended two hours ago with the capture of Commander Boswell, but maybe some of his men were coming to free him. Only now, he was armed with a rifle and live ammunition, not a paint-ball gun.
"Cat's paw," the man called out.
They knew the South Division code. He didn't like the situation. It still could be a trap. "Okay. Come forward, slowly."
Two men, large and muscular like bodyguards, appeared in his flashlight beam. They aimed automatic pistols and a light at him.
"Take it easy, son," the man behind the guards said. "You're doing your job, but now lower that light and your weapon."
Matt had heard Wiley speak several times and recognized his voice. His hand shook as he followed the orders. Another man, unseen by Matt, moved in from the side and grabbed his rifle. Shit, he'd allowed himself to be disarmed.
"It's okay, son," Wiley assured him. "You did fine."
He looked different than the pictures, but the commander had hinted that Wiley had changed his appearance. Matt knew it was him. He stood at attention and saluted the most important man in the West. Wiley told him to relax and shook his hand. Matt's heart pounded. Just standing near the former U.S. Army general, the hero of the Freedom Nation, the man who would be the first president of the new nation, made him feel incredibly privileged.
Just then Commander Sudner rushed into view, rifle in hand, followed by several others. When he saw Wiley, Sudner looked startled and relieved at the same time. Overweight and out of shape, he huffed as if he'd just run a mile. "How did you find us, sir?"
"I had an observer at your war game. We followed you here after you took Commander Boswell captive." Blond and muscular, Wiley focused his sharp features on Sudner. "If you want a safe hideout, you don't bring the entire squadron in a wagon train, even at night with your lights out."
"Yes, sir."
"Where's your prisoner? I want to see him."
"We'll go get him, sir." Matt heard an unfamiliar tightness in Sudner's voice. "We'll bring him right out."
"Nonsense," Wiley bristled. He strode past Sudner and into the cavern. Two of his bodyguards followed close behind, the other—the one who had taken his weapon—remained in the tunnel. The man motioned for him to go with the others, but kept the SIG. Matt hesitated, but then hurried after.
Everything looked confused in the cavern and it took Matt a few seconds to figure out what was going on. The men had been drinking beer and had made a belated effort to hide the evidence when they heard that Wiley had arrived. But several cans remained visible. One had tipped over and slowly drained into the hard-packed dirt floor.
Wiley took it all in with a sweeping glance, then his gaze froze on the figure leaning against the wall. Matt turned and saw Boswell sitting up. The hood had been pulled from his head and someone had covered his face with greasepaint. A sign hung around his neck. It read, "ROLLIE MITCHELL'S BEST BOY!"
"Get that sign off him," Wiley ordered. "Clean up the man's face. Commander Sudner, I want you to apologize to Commander Boswell for exceeding your designated powers, and then I want you to drive him home."
"Yes, sir."
Wiley's penetrating blue eyes peered at the men as if he were sighting them through a rifle. "As for the issue of race, everyone listen very closely to me. We are not white supremacists. We're not trying to oppress any other races. We just want to live in an all-white territory where there would be no need, desire, or for that matter, ability, to oppress people of any other race.
"The fact is, we now have white supremacy under David Dustin's liberal regime in Washington, D.C. They import cheap labor from the Third World, because the white American man and white woman won't work that cheap. It's a conspiracy between the left-wing state bureaucracy and right-wing international corporations."
Matt tried to follow Wiley's logic so that he could repeat it. But if Dustin was a white supremacist, why did he pick a black man for vice president? Matt wondered.
Wiley apparently knew that question would be asked, if anyone had dared. "Dustin selected Rollie Mitchell for his vice president so he could appease black people. What black people and everyone should be wondering is why Dustin and his coconspirators are so anxious to encourage blacks to speak broken, miserable, semiliterate black English. Any true friend of black people would insist they obtain a classical education in the Holy Bible, Latin, Greek, a modern foreign language, chemistry, physics, Western literature, higher mathematics, and classical music. Instead blacks are being sold out on the lowest common denominator of mis-education. That way they'll be easier to control and enslave."
Matt wondered what the hell Wiley was talking about. He didn't get that kind of education. Did that make him easier to control, too? Maybe things would change in Freedom Nation. But if that was the case, he was glad that he was out of high school. He definitely didn't want to study Greek and Latin.
Wiley looked around at the men. "I've carried on long enough," he said in a lowered voice. "Commander Sudner, we need to talk privately."
The two men moved away from the others and conferred for nearly five minutes. Then Wiley, accompanied by the bodyguards, walked out of the chamber and down the tunnel. Matt knew Wiley never stayed anywhere long, not with the federal government after him. They called him a murder suspect, but Matt knew that Dustin was trying to frame Wiley, to get him behind bars in an effort to stop Freedom Nation.
Sudner headed directly over to Matt. "Do you remember when I told you about a special mission?"
"Yes, I do. I've been waiting on it."
"Well, we're ready now. I'm sending you to Washington, D.C." The news stunned him. He didn't know how to respond. "Washington? What am I going to do there, blow up Congress?"
Sudner didn't laugh. "You're going to make a delivery. Simple as that. I want you to take Jill with you. Tell her you are taking her to Las Vegas to get married. Do you understand?"
Mall frowned. "No, not really."
Sudner loomed in front of him, leaning into his face. "Just listen to me. Once you're out of town, you tell your bride-to-be that there's a change of plans, that you're making a delivery for me. You'll drive to Washington, drop off the package, then go back to Las Vegas, where you'll get married and spend four days at my expense."
Mall was confused. Marriage, delivering a package. He felt like he'd lost control of his life. He should've never gotten involved with Sudner's daughter. "I'm supposed to go to work, and I'm not sure I'm ready to
get married."
"Then you should've left your dick in your pants. In case you don't know, Jill is pregnant. Now you do what I tell you, soldier."
He nodded, feeling numb and astonished, joyful, proud, and frightened all at once. "Yes, sir."
"Any questions?"
"What's the package and where do I take it? I don't know Washington, D.C."
"Meet me tomorrow at seven in the Denny's parking lot. I'll have the package and full instructions. Then you'll go get Jill and be on your way. If she gives you any trouble about the change in plans, you have her call me. Understood?"
He nodded again. "Yes, sir. But does Jill know about any of this?"
"Not yet. That's why you need to get out of here and go talk to her." After a moment, he added: "You do love her, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. Very much."
"Good. Then get going. One other thing. Don't worry about that job. Turn in your resignation on your way out of town tomorrow.
We've got a better job waiting for you when you get back. You're going to work for Freedom Nation."
"Really? You mean it?" He caught himself, controlled his excitement. "Yes, sir."
He saluted and hurried off.
Chapter Seven
Camila sipped her coffee and took a couple of bites of her ice cream as she waited patiently for the president's speech. She had lost her appetite after her encounter with Howell and had merely picked at her chicken dinner. She tried to appear interested in the conversations around her, but her thoughts kept returning to the disturbing image of Howell dressed as a woman. What had possessed him to cross-dress for a presidential dinner? It just didn't make sense.
"I thought Vice President Mitchell gave a fine speech last night," said Marilyn Willis, first lady of Wyoming. "He's such a strong speaker."
"Yes, he is," Camila replied. "His speech hit all the major points of our new health care proposal. What did you think of it?"
As Willis launched into a lengthy reply, Camila reminded herself to check her messages immediately after the president's speech. She'd like to talk to Rollie Mitchell tonight, if possible. Maybe he and Darcy had made up already and she could simply dismiss it as a momentary spat that didn't deserve any attention.
When Colorado's Governor Harmon began his introductory comments, Camila glanced at the podium and then over to the head table where Dustin was sitting. She noticed the empty seat at the table and knew the name tag read Harvey Howell. She wondered if Howell had tried to reach the president before dinner. Somehow, she couldn't imagine the national security advisor discussing the futurist's comments with Dustin as he squeezed into his wife's gown.
Applause filled the room as Dustin ambled to the podium, his lean, six-foot-three frame moving at an unhurried pace. Even though she'd known him for nearly a decade, she still felt thrilled to work for him—for the president. Without a doubt, the office conferred a larger-than-life image upon whoever stepped into it.
While he projected a sense of strength and confidence, he also emanated warmth and understanding, and possessed a quirky side related to his belief in positive thinking and the untapped powers of the unconscious mind. Critics derided him as a feel-good, New Age president who was vulnerable to peculiar ideas and who quoted Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell more than Thomas Jefferson or Abraham Lincoln. She'd saved one cartoon, labeled "The Hero's Journey," that had shown him at the helm of a boat called Synchronicity after he'd told a reporter for Time magazine about the importance of seemingly coincidental events in his daily life.
"We in Washington are not the caretakers of the states," Dustin began. His speech focused on the administration's new initiative on the federal government's relationship to the states, which allowed the states more flexibility in how they spent federal money. The governors applauded on cue. "Yet, we want the United States of America to remain strong and powerful and we need the cooperation of the states to ensure our future as an international power."
Dustin was responding to the calls, especially from western states, for more independence from federal regulations and other forms of intervention. Some governors even seemed willing to take less money in exchange for less federal governance. Clearly, Gordon Maxwell's vision had drawn on such sentiments, but then carried them to the extreme.
She knew everything that Dustin would say in the prepared text and as he spoke she watched the reactions of the people around her. Dustin would be seeking reelection in two years and she tried to gauge the mood of elected officials. Their placid or agreeable expressions, regulated by the social surroundings of the moment, told her nothing.
But they couldn't hide the look in their eyes, which told her everything she needed to know. She saw agreement and support, even from elected members of the opposition. That seemed to confirm the president's solid standing in the polls.
She raised her gaze to the podium as Dustin paused near the end of his thirty-minute speech. He cocked his head to one side and she knew that he was about to launch into unprepared comments. Dustin's brief but provocative extemporaneous commentaries often attracted more attention than his prepared text. Just two weeks ago, while discussing welfare reform, he'd said that poverty would only be eliminated when people realized that we lived in an abundant universe, not one with limited, dwindling resources. That one had not gone over well with some environmentalists, and Dustin had later explained that he didn't advocate wasting resources.
His off-the-cuff comments had resulted in endless speculation about Dustin's un-presidential side, or his "daffy quotient." But pollsters repeatedly found that most people thought his ideas were refreshing and honest and every time he made one of his quirky remarks, his ratings seemed to rise a point or two.
"I understand that you were told by a futurist this afternoon that in five to ten years we may be losing a few stars from our flag when some of the states you represent secede from the nation." He paused again and smiled.
"Why are we feeling so divided? I wonder. If we were at war now, instead of in a relatively stable period, I doubt that we would be hearing such comments today. War, for all of its terrible aspects, unifies a nation against a common enemy. But let's take this matter a step further. What event would unite people all over the planet? What would help us recognize our commonalties rather than our differences?"
Uh-oh, Camila thought. She knew the answer to that one and hoped that Dustin didn't come off sounding like a lunatic. Greer would get his story, after all, and probably more than he'd expected.
"The answer is the arrival of visitors from another world. I'm not the first world leader to bring up this matter. Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev both made references to how the world would be united if the planet was invaded. Prime Minister Gorbachev, back in 1990, said that he believed that the phenomenon of UFOs does exist and it must be treated seriously. Presidents Reagan and Carter said they had seen UFOs and were interested in the subject."
Great. Stop there. Go back to Maxwell and the unity of the nation, Camila thought.
But she had the uneasy feeling that wasn't going to happen.
"I'm going to take this opportunity to tell you about my own experience. In this case, my contact has arisen not by a sighting of a distant unknown craft, but as a closer encounter. I would call it mind-to-mind contact."
Oh, shit. Dustin had run the red light. She could see the headlines now—DUSTIN REPORTS ALIEN CONTACT—and it would be on the front page of the Washington Post and New York Times, not the tabloids. The editorialists would question his sanity. His opponents in Congress would call for his impeachment. Tomorrow's press conference would be a nightmare.
"First of all, there's no reason for concern," he said after a pause. "The entities who have contacted me have assured me that they are not interested in landing on the White House lawn, at least not in the foreseeable future."
That comment garnered a sprinkling of nervous laughter.
"But they are making themselves known in the hopes that with this new awareness, we will move
forward toward becoming members of the galactic community. To take that step, we must first learn to live with one another."
With that, Dustin wrapped up his speech with a few more comments regarding his federal-state initiative. But it all sounded surreal after his comment on the galactic community. She could just imagine the questions she would soon face. How and when had the entities contacted the president? Were they coming back? What else had they said to him? Had he actually seen them? What had they looked like? On and on.
The seven hundred people assembled for the banquet responded to the speech with polite applause and baffled looks. Most stood up as Dustin strode toward a side exit with several Secret Service agents. A quick escape. No hand-shaking or casual chitchat. Now he was headed for a four-day vacation on a ranch between Gunnison and Crested Butte owned by tennis professional Kyle Leslie. Annie, the First Lady, and their two sons were expected to join him in the morning.
Camila glimpsed Todd Waters, the president's corpulent chief of staff, disappearing out the same door Dustin had taken. She suspected that Waters was as confused by the ending of the speech as everyone else.
"What was he talking about, anyhow?" one of the women at the table asked. "Was he serious about the aliens?"
Camila smiled and shrugged. "I don't know. I mean..." She struggled for an explanation. "It was. . . I believe. . ." She shook her head. "I think he meant it as a metaphor.”
"Yes, that's it," Marilyn Willis chimed in. "A metaphor. A way of saying that we are all humans and very much alike."
Camila spotted reporters rushing toward the exits and decided to make a quick getaway herself. But a stout blonde blocked her way. "I had nothing to do with that," Sally Powers, the president's speechwriter, hissed in her ear. "Nothing."
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