Authors: Jon Land
Day of the Delphi (30 page)
The general stiffened. His hand stopped short of the knob. “McCracken? We’ll deal with him when he comes to effect your rescue.”
“I don’t think he’ll come for me, General. I think he’ll be coming to stop you. In Washington.”
Cantrell tried to look confident. “Then he’ll die with any others who try to provide resistance.”
“We’ll see, General.”
“Yes, sir, we will, because Mr. Dodd has arranged a satellite feed to allow us to view tomorrow’s proceedings. I’ve saved you a front-row seat.”
“You mean these are the only people you can call on?” Kristen Kurcell shook her head. “With all your contacts, this is the best you can do?”
McCracken leaned back against his seat in the Washington-bound Metroliner’s first-class compartment. With Union Station just minutes away, he had finally explained to Kristen who he hoped would be awaiting them in the capital. Her reaction had not been terribly surprising.
“Let’s wait and see if I’ve done anything at all,” he said flatly.
More shock crossed Kristen’s features. “You mean you aren’t even sure they’re coming?”
“Afraid not.”
Blaine’s mind flashed back to the second phone call he had made the day before from Bota Matabu’s ANC substation thirty minutes from Whiteland.
“You’re fuckin’ nuts, man!” the voice on the other end of the line had responded to Blaine’s request.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you might be the country’s last hope.”
A hearty laugh broke a brief silence. “Country’s last hope? Ain’t that a trip … . Shit, maybe I’ll just sit on the sidelines and enjoy the show.”
“You won’t like what’s left when it’s over. Nightmare city for everything you’ve always stood for and believed in. And need I remind you that you owe me?”
“You had to bring that up, didn’t you?”
“You missed your chance twenty-five years ago. Today’s
your lucky day: you get another one—by helping to stop a group aiming to accomplish the exact opposite.”
your lucky day: you get another one—by helping to stop a group aiming to accomplish the exact opposite.”
“Anybody ever tell you the age of Aquarius was over, Mac?”
“More than that’s gonna be over unless I get some help.”
Immediately after that phone call ended, McCracken had begun plotting how he and Kristen could return to the United States. Aware the Delphi would be watching for him, he had turned down Matabu’s offer to spirit them into the country covertly on board a diplomatic flight. Instead Blaine opted for an arduous journey linking Kristen and him up with a tour group in London bound for New York and then, finally, onto this Metroliner that would take them to the capital. In all, the trek had taken a nerve-racking twenty-seven hours, partially accounting for Kristen’s short temper.
“What about the damn army?” she persisted. “All your old friends. Isn’t this their kind of work?”
“It would be if I knew who among them I could trust,” Blaine told her. “You’re forgetting that high levels of the military are involved in this. And you can bet that anyone close enough to Washington to do us any good who isn’t part of the Delphi has been sent off on drills and maneuvers as far away as possible.”
Kristen leaned back herself and sighed. “They’ve thought of everything.”
“Not quite,” McCracken reminded.
McCracken had the driver leave them off on Constitution Avenue near the Lincoln Memorial. The beautiful spring Saturday had brought the tourists out in force, none of them realizing what the city would be facing in a scant few hours. The Mall itself was littered with strollers. A few young men were playing Frisbee. At the Washington Monument, the line to make the climb to the top circled the building three times.
As Kristen moved past it at Blaine’s side, her gaze drifted all the way down the Mall to the U.S. Capitol. At first she
thought the group McCracken had contacted had failed to show up. Then she noticed the large cluster of casually dressed men and women who were setting up some sort of exhibition past 14th Street in front of the Smithsonian complex. She looked back at McCracken and saw a smile inching across his features.
thought the group McCracken had contacted had failed to show up. Then she noticed the large cluster of casually dressed men and women who were setting up some sort of exhibition past 14th Street in front of the Smithsonian complex. She looked back at McCracken and saw a smile inching across his features.
“It’s them, isn’t it?” she said.
His response was to pick up his pace as he walked toward the group. A thinnish man sporting a ponytail and a tie-dyed tank top over his cutoff jeans saw them coming and moved away from the group to meet them, a slight limp slowing his gait.
“Not bad,” Blaine greeted.
“Hey, man, ask and you shall receive,” Arlo Cleese returned.
Blaine turned to Kristen. “I don’t suppose I have to introduce you.”
She took a long look at Cleese and then gazed back at McCracken. “But you could explain to me why a man who declared war on America a generation ago is now going to try and save it.”
“Thing is, lady,” the leader of the Midnight Riders responded, “the enemy I was fighting then’s about the same one I came here to fight today. Not much really changes.”
Behind Cleese the Midnight Riders who had accompanied him to Washington continued unloading paintings and other wares from a collection of colorfully painted Volkswagen vans onto tables that had been set up to display them. Old-fashioned peace signs dangled round a number of necks. Leather moccasins and Jerry Garcia glasses were among the most popular accessories.
Most of those helping to unload the vans, though, were dressed nondescriptly and wore no accessories at all. They moved cautiously, deliberately, not bothering to acknowledge the arrival of these two strangers in the group while never allowing their eyes to stray too far away from them.
Kristen managed to meet those eyes a few times and the sight chilled her. These were the true remnants of the lunatic fringe, dwellers on society’s outskirts for the better part of their lives. The eclectic verse of the Weathermen, Black Panthers, and Students for a Democratic Society still strummed in their minds. It was as though they had stepped out of a time capsule to at last stand ready for the battle so long delayed, the battle they had joined the Midnight Riders to wage. The difference was that they had come to save the government they had once seemed determined to overthrow.
Kristen managed to meet those eyes a few times and the sight chilled her. These were the true remnants of the lunatic fringe, dwellers on society’s outskirts for the better part of their lives. The eclectic verse of the Weathermen, Black Panthers, and Students for a Democratic Society still strummed in their minds. It was as though they had stepped out of a time capsule to at last stand ready for the battle so long delayed, the battle they had joined the Midnight Riders to wage. The difference was that they had come to save the government they had once seemed determined to overthrow.
“How many?” Blaine asked Cleese.
“Couple hundred was the best I could do.”
“I was hoping for more,” he said.
“Lucky to get this many, man.”
“Firepower?”
“None of the big stuff. Lots of explosives, grenades, a few rockets. A goddamn insurgency grab bag. See, all our vans come equipped with secret compartments. Plenty of room to store goodies.”
“The stuff you bought from the Alvarezes?”
“What we could carry, anyway. You didn’t exactly give me a lot of notice.”
“I don’t believe this,” Kristen muttered.
“Tough bitch,” Cleese said to McCracken.
“I don’t think she approves of my choice in friends.”
Cleese again glanced at Kristen. “Maybe because she figures we’d rather see the country go up in flames.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Kristen shot back.
“Depends on who’s about to throw the match, sister. If we’re the lunatic fringe, what do you call the dudes who are about to burn the city? Everything’s relative, and we’re not the real crazies anymore. Hell, we never were, not to this extent, anyway. We never wanted to take the country over. We just wanted to make sure the people who already had it took note of our positions. We mighta been wrong and we mighta been assholes, but we believed in what we were
doing. We were just sick of watching the country fuck itself up, and today makes it seem like we were right all along.”
doing. We were just sick of watching the country fuck itself up, and today makes it seem like we were right all along.”
Cleese peeled away a section of hair on the right side of his head to reveal a nasty scar. “Got this outside the ‘68 convention in Chicago. Cop with a billy club. I was on my knees at the time. He was smiling. That’s the kind of mentality that’s gonna be running things come morning ’less something gets done. I won’t lie and say we haven’t talked about doing it ourselves more times than once. Saving the country from that cop with the billy club’s probably gonna be the closest we ever come. What the hell? That’s close enough.”
“What’s it mean, big fella?” Sal Belamo asked after the contact exchange he and Johnny Wareagle had been issued to report their progress rang unanswered.
They had been at it for nearly two days now, scouring an ever-expanding perimeter around Miravo Air Force Base in search of the Delphi’s stockpile of nuclear weapons. The helicopter they had been provided with had allowed them to cover lots of ground, all for naught so far. A refueling stop at this small airfield bright and early Saturday morning gave Johnny a perfect opportunity to call in a fresh update to the special number provided. The lack of response on the other end in Washington indicated the worst had happened, or was about to.
“You thinking the two of us should call it quits and head home, big fella?”
“No, Sal Belamo. Finding the nuclear weapons remains our task. The rest is Blainey’s.”
They hurried across the tarmac and climbed back on board the chopper.
“Bad news,” the pilot, Tom Wainwright, reported, looking up from his gauges. “Got one mother of a storm whipping up through the Rockies. Blizzard conditions sure to take effect within an hour right where we’re headed.”
“The next airfield is forty minutes away,” said Wareagle. “Just get us that far.”
The storm had thrown a thin blanket of snow over the airfield by the time they got there. In another few minutes, Wainwright told them, the winds would have made landing impossible.
“You boys don’t mind, I’d like to be on my way.”
“Your job’s not finished yet,” Johnny said to the pilot as Sal climbed out of the chopper to see about the vehicle that should be waiting for them. “I have a message you must deliver.”
Tom Wainwright looked back at Johnny. “To Washington?”
“No,” said Wareagle and gave him a sheet of paper. “Arizona.”
Wainwright studied the coordinates printed on the top. “Take me forever to get to these in a chopper.”
Johnny pointed to a trio of Learjets parked just off the tarmac. “One of those has been held for our use in case we need it. When you reach the coordinates, give the man in charge this.” And he handed Wainwright an envelope containing two pages of the clearest writing he could manage during the choppy flight to this field.
“Are you sure they’ll let me land?”
“Use the designation underneath the coordinates.”
Wainwright’s eyes widened as he scanned down the page. “What the …” He looked up at Wareagle. “I was over there, too. This designation is
twenty-five
years old.”
twenty-five
years old.”
“That’s why they’ll let you land.”
By the time Sal Belamo drove onto the tarmac in a four-wheel drive GMC Jimmy, Wainwright was already heading for the Lears.
“What now?” Sal asked through the window.
The coating of powdery snow on Johnny’s shoulders and hair enhanced the copper color of his skin. “We move southwest toward the mountains we haven’t checked yet.”
Belamo sighed, eyes turning to find the blizzard had already chewed into the sky as far as he could see in that direction. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Colorado Boy Scout Troop 116 was in the midst of a wilderness retreat in the Rockies when the storm began its sweep. The sudden twenty-degree drop in temperature had stirred a number of them in their sleeping bags, so many were awake by the time the first flakes started falling.
At first the surprise spring storm was fun. Snowball fights in the half-light that starts an hour before dawn were the stuff that great stories were made of. It was not long, though, before the boys’ laughs gave way to chills and whimpers. The bitter wind froze the thin layers of sweat that had formed over their faces and hands. Only a few had brought gloves, and the rest were steadfastly jamming their fingers deep into their jacket pockets to no avail.
The scout leader, Frank Richter, an ex-marine, assessed the situation as calmly as he could. He knew the storm was going to be a big one from the first snap of the wind. He also knew that unless he was able to do something fast, some of his young charges would not be making it back alive. Richter tried the radio he never failed to carry on a retreat. As he had expected, though, the storm had stolen whatever small hope he held of making contact this far out of range. That made his immediate goal getting back into radio range at the same time he looked for shelter for the scouts.
The storm’s fury had swept over them like a blanket by the time Richter packed the radio safely away. He ordered the boys to wrap their sleeping bags about their shoulders for added warmth and leave everything else that wasn’t vital to their immediate survival behind. Busying themselves with carrying out orders, the boys managed to hold fast to their sense of calm, but Richter could spot the fear starting to show in their eyes as he moved up the line.
The scouts of Troop 116 were between the ages of twelve
and fifteen. Once they set out, Richter knew his place was at the head of the pack, leaving the rear precariously unsupervised, which meant that one or more of his eighteen charges could simply slip away to be taken by the storm. Accordingly, the last orders he shouted through the howling winds were for the boys to pull the tie cords out of their sleeping bags. Richter collected and strung them together, then pushed the resulting single strand through a belt loop on each of his scouts’ pants before setting out.
and fifteen. Once they set out, Richter knew his place was at the head of the pack, leaving the rear precariously unsupervised, which meant that one or more of his eighteen charges could simply slip away to be taken by the storm. Accordingly, the last orders he shouted through the howling winds were for the boys to pull the tie cords out of their sleeping bags. Richter collected and strung them together, then pushed the resulting single strand through a belt loop on each of his scouts’ pants before setting out.
The quickest route to shelter was to the southwest. But walking into the thick of the storm was unthinkable under the circumstances. Richter knew Troop 116’s best hope was to move northeast to keep the wind at their backs.
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