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Chapter 1 lzerndwmylvegecgdpulsrlyanenemrpriroiofewtusnascrrnneeturim
By the time Sarah awakened, Myles was far away. Driving the neutral grey
minivan for a half hour across the farmland south of his estate he arrived in a
small town where he stopped at a small storage facility and opened one of the
units, then drove the van inside. The facility was owned by Mike Charlie
Freehold and some of the buildings has been modified for their purposes. In
this one, the units were all connected, and shortly after parking the van Myles
emerged from the building at another point hundreds of feet away, now wearing a
partial disguise effected by changing his jacket for one of a different color,
exchanging the baseball cap for one of a different color, with a long wig under
it. Different sunglasses, a modest mustache and oxygen tube completed the
outfit. A cane enhanced the look of a slightly disabled senior citizen.
A waiting car took him into the countryside, where they soon arrived at a small
airstrip. There were several crop dusters and a couple of small aircraft, one
of which was owned by the Freehold. The small twin-engine six seater was quiet
and sufficiently modest as to attract no unwarranted attention. Even at the
small airport outside the national capitol, there would be dozens of private
aircraft, many of them larger and newer. Those able to provide their own
aircraft would normally use the small outlying airports in order to avoid the
traffic, both human and vehicular, in the capitol. Among other things.
The old Seneca had been saved from rotting away an a small airport in a dying
town in the western plains, and restored by the air service of the Freehold. It
was registered to a small aviation services company, one of thousands of small
companies that operated only a handful of small aircraft. Though the company
was effectively owned by Mike Charlie, a circuitous trail of ownership
relationships would make the connection difficult and to detect.
The flight from the corner of South Kansas, where Myles lived, was well within
the range of the Piper, but the pilot made a refueling stop about an hour from
the capitol, more to throw off surveillance than for safety.
On the ground, the aircraft was rolled into a hangar, and a few minutes later a
dark green car emerged. As it left the airport, it was joined by three
identical cars, and as they drove into the city they frequently changed their
positions in the convoy. In the moderately heavy traffic it would be difficult
to keep track of one of the cars, as they could be identified only by their
license plates.
Myles sat quietly in the back seat of one car, holding a large molded plastic
case across his knees, with a small messenger bag on top of it. As he watched
the scenery change from suburbs to the denser city, and eventually the old city,
where the newer buildings were over two centuries old, he concentrated on
freeing his mind of extraneous thoughts. Today's mission was the taking the
final plunge, after standing long at the edge of the cliff. They would all do
their jobs well, and appraise the results before deciding on the next step. He
know, however, what the result would be. When you are dealing with an insane
enemy, logic is useless. He pulled the medallion from under his shirt - a one
ounce gold coin minted between the Civil Wars. Two had unfortunately not been
enough, but perhaps the next one could be less destructive and bring harm to
fewer people. Perhaps.
The car stopped briefly, then turned into a narrow side street. He recognized
his destination. Many days of reconnaissance and practice had preceded this
final visit. He exited the car, carrying the rifle case and messenger bag, and
entered a door which opened just as he reached it. As with the driver, he said
nothing to the man who had opened the door, but headed further into the dimly
lit area where the freight elevator was located.
Taking the freight elevator to the top floor, he climbed a stair to the roof.
The door had been left unlocked, and he emerged into the late morning sunshine
over three hundred feed above street level. He looked down the street to the
place where his target was expected shortly, the site of the press conference
appeared to be in order, but few people were present. The news personnel and
spectators would be arriving soon, and the roped-off area before the podium
would be full. The target would arrive from almost directly behind the podium,
walking with a handful of aides and various handlers, sycophants and the like.
A little over a hundred feet from the door to the podium, a clear shot the
entire time, he thought. He opened the rifle case and removed the big rifle.
The latest in weapons technology. The intelligent fire control system would put
as many bullets into a paper plate at a thousand yards as the shooter wished -
but the range here was much less. As Myles finished positioning the rifle and
powering up the computer, the range displayed was just over three hundred sixty
yards. All he needed to do was acquire the target, push a button and wait for
the computer to do its job. Distance to target, temperature, humidity, and wind
speed would all be factored into its decision. When the shot was perfect, it
would release the firing pin and send the bullet on its way.
Not that he would shoot a deer this way. In the hills back home he would carry
a simple rifle with a basic scope he had zeroed in, with hand-loaded cartridges,
and take an offhand shot when the situation was favorable. But this was not a
hunt for food or sport - the fate of hundreds of millions of people was at
stake. Not that they deserved to be saved, he thought. Most of them had either
voted for the creators of the oppressive regime that was rapidly pushing the
country in the direction of a tyrannical dictatorship, or at best had done
nothing at all.
The target area was beginning to fill now, and Myles turned his attention to the
task at hand. Sighting the rifle on the group of microphones at the podium, he
waited. He did not have to wait long. Almost too soon, he thought, the time
was at hand. A small dark-haired woman emerged from the expected location,
surrounded by a handful of other people. There was no mistaking her, though.
He had seen that face many times, too many times. Norah Parkhurst, majority
leader of the National Assembly for the past two terms, had overseen the rapid
march from a failing republic to a near dictatorship.
The idea of killing a human being, something Myles had never done, remained a
gnawing disquietude inside him. Yet the things he had seen - bodies shot,
burned, and otherwise mangled in the actions taken against dissidents - and
those unseen ones, disappearing into secret prisons or who knew where, made
further inaction indefensible. This woman, and her accomplices and enablers,
had the blood of many on her hands, and that was a fact.
She was halfway across the open area between the door and the podium. He could
make a head shot while she stood at the podium, but the smaller target was a bit
risky. He got the sight picture he wanted and pressed the button. The rifle stock
banged against his shoulder and the unbelievably
loud crack of the shot bounced around the buildings around him. The boat-tailed
bullet, just under a third of an inch in diameter and just over a tenth of an
ounce, expanded to twice its original width as it shredded the heart and exited
the back, skipping across the slate floor and disappearing into a flower bed.
Seeing the target crumple behind the podium was all the watching needed. Myles
quickly replaced the rifle in its case and moved, quickly but without risky
haste, back into the building. It was likely that a gunshot detector would
quickly indicate the location, but it would take a while for investigators to
arrive. Well outside the immediate area of the victim, there was little danger
of being stopped or even observed as he escaped. Exiting the freight elevator
on the ground floor, his silent assistants guided him quickly to the waiting
car, and in not much more than five minutes he was several blocks away.
Reversing his earlier journey, he was at the airport before it was shut down.
He walked quickly but not with visibly undue haste to the aircraft which waited,
engines running and door open. The airport was still calm and traffic light,
and in minutes they were in the air.
On the other side of the country, Glenn Miller had finished his preparations
earlier and was waiting for the end result. He watched the street below him as
he had for weeks, keeping an eye on the small white sedan in the corner of a
private parking lot near the intersection. Santa Cruz was the state capitol but
not an especially large city, and the traffic in this district was light at this
time of day.
He moved the microphone of his headset into place and spoke to unseen
confederates. "Felix, Andy - I'm in position. You copy?"
"Andy here, ready to go" came the reply.
"Felix here, all set" said a second voice.
They were all observers - once armed the device was automatic. It had to be
taken out of human hands to work properly. One side of the white car was fake -
just a plastic shell covering the device inside. A motion detector and timer
connected to a high-explosive charge behind a heavy copper plate facing the
street. When the target was about to cross the line of fire, the device would
be armed. As soon as the vehicle broke the detection beam, the timer could
count down and fire the charge so as to hit the vehicle in just the right place.
The Secretary of Justice did not know it, but he had just minutes to live. He
was on the west coast to visit his state-level counterpart, who sat beside him
in the back seat of the limousine. The Cadillac was lightly armored against
small-arms fire or relatively small explosive devices, but they might as well
have been in a cardboard box.
"Coming at you now" said a voice. "Black Caddy limo. Occupants verified."
The car had tinted windows, making it difficult to identify the occupants even
at close range. The operatives would have observed the occupants as they
entered and then kept the car in sight at all times afterward.
Miller watched the car turn the corner and approach the trap.
"How's it look?" he asked.
"Still good", replied Andy.
Felix would have the final say, confirming there was no danger to bystanders as
firing time, in just a few seconds.
"Go!", came Felix's call.
Miller pressed the button on the controller, arming the device. Less than five
seconds later the limousine rolled past the white car and the device detonated.
The heavy copper plate was propelled outward at over six thousand feet per
second, changing its shape from a round disk to a rounded slug. The center
section of the car disintegrated, the force lifting it off the street and
pushing it up onto the sidewalk.
The tail car had turned off onto a side street just before the explosion, and
left the area in a casually expeditious manner. Miller made his exit as well,
casually walking the few blocks to his car. It would be a while before a
significant law enforcement presence arrived and began to cordon off the area.
He would be well away, as would Andy and Felix.
Scott Summers walked casually but purposefully down the sidewalk on the west
side of Toledo Street. The day was just cool enough that the light quilted vest
would not attract attention. It did, however, conceal the deadly tool he
carried. And it was a tool, he had reminded himself often enough. It was a
tool for a job that needed doing, and the time to do it was at hand.
The fact that he was about to kill a man was no longer repellent. The part of
him that abhorred violence had begun do die years earlier, when his brother
Gregg died during the destruction of the religious commune where he lived with
his young wife and two children. He watched it on television, the armored
vehicles drove through the flimsy walls and the houses inside, completely
without regard for the danger to the occupants.
Well, not exactly. They had always intended to kill, and they did. One vehicle
had a flamethrower, and made several trips through the wreckage, setting fire to
as much of it as possible. The machine gun operators, federal agents all, fired
anything that moved. In a few minutes it was done, and the armored force
retreated, replaced by bulldozers heaping the ruins into burning piles,
destroying as much evidence as possible. Not that it mattered. There would be
no real investigation, just a propaganda report demonizing the dead. The news
media did its part, and before long the affair was just another obscure story
about some crazy religious fanatics who deserved their fate.
Scott never knew how his brother and his family died - their bodies were among
those recovered, but were burned and decomposed. All he knew that his big
brother was gone, brutally murdered with his wife and two young daughters, and
the huge void in his life threatened to draw him into the abyss from which there
was no return. Only a new purpose saved him. Learning more of the reason for
his brother's death, and the numerous other incidents of that type, led him to
join the growing ranks of dissidents who quietly plotted to overthrow the
increasingly brutal ruling order.
He concentrated his thoughts now on the nearness to his goal. Any minute now,
perhaps any second, the target would be sighted. He slowed his pace, stopped
briefly to adjust his arrival time. The Stinson building was ahead, across
Parrish Boulevard. A voice in his ear startled him - not good, he thought.
Must focus. "Coming down now," said the voice. "Should be on the ground floor
in a couple of minutes, they always come straight out. Car is waiting."
He crossed Parrish, and approached the Federal Building. Of the cars waiting
near the entrance, only one could be the destination of the target. The
Cadillac limousine was idling, light steam coming from the exhaust pipes.
"Got you in sight", said a different voice. "It's the Caddy.".
Then, "Here they come."
His timing was perfect. He knew the target well - the two walking beside him
were just a couple of bureaucrats. He would just about collide with them as
they approached a point halfway to the car, so he slowed again, then moved on
his target. Pulling the long knife, a handcrafted damascus blade nearly two
feet long, from under his vest, he lunged at the man's back, driving the blade
in near the right kidney, pulling it sideways to sever the spine, then ripping
upward toward the left lung and heart. In little over one second, the deed was
done, the knife withdrawn, and he was moving away. Pulling a pair of
flash-bangs from under his vest, he tossed them toward the body and the
paralyzed bystanders, then added a tear-gas canister to the mix. They would do
no permanent harm, but would delay pursuit.
Scott was in good shape, just entering his third decade, and quickly covered the
distance to the corner of the building. Diving into the waiting car, he relaxed
for the first time that day. There was a little blood on his clothing, but that
would be dealt with soon enough. He wiped the knife clean and sheathed it.
Louis Cavanaugh had been the FBI director when his brother died. He had ordered
the operation and helped cover up afterwards, but his catalog of crimes was much
longer. That was just his magnum opus. He had gone on to become a judge on the
Seventh District Court, and had often been rumored to be a Supreme Count
candidate. Not any more.