Leon Uris (26 page)

The governor and his family snuggled into a booth at Daddy Bruce, the renowned purveyor of spare ribs, long deceased. They chomped.

“What’s the matter with those people?” Rae asked.

“You can’t paint a single picture and call it universal. If there are common denominators, it would be poverty in youth, perhaps corporal punishment, dust and cactus life, or places of raw exploitation. They grow up to be losers and band with other losers in losers’ bars and losers’ trailer courts. Together, they flesh out who caused their birth-to-death misery. Few people have the guts to really look into themselves, so they go for the cliché villains. The government is the big, bad demon in their lives. They dream of being warriors, they play at being warriors. Their rationale is warped logic, but logical to them nonetheless. They stay as persecuted outcasts, a role they fit into, and therefore everyone is out to get them. So, enter the weapon, the equalizer, and shout out about fantasy rights they do not have…pass the sauce. The rest of the entire male world, from kings to commoners, have always been and always will be enchanted by the power of the gun. Sooner or later we lose our civility.”

“I’m glad we’re out of that hall,” Rita said shakily.

“So am I,” Quinn said.

“Are you going to be able to do anything, Dad?”

“Possibly,” he answered with a wink.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” Rae said.

“Tell him that,” Rita pressed.

Quinn waved a pair of gooey hands. Rae cleaned them off with wipes and napkins. Duncan pointed at his father’s chin, and she dabbed it.

Rita took her husband’s hand and pressed it against her cheek. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered, “please be careful.”

“Most of these gun people in town are just after a good time,” Duncan said.

“It’s the other ones I’m worried about,” Rita added.

Reynaldo Maldonado came in and pulled up a chair at the end of their table. He had eaten. He had seen his son-in-law’s welcome on TV. Gutsy.

Quinn checked his watch. “Take Rita and the kids back to the condo. I’ll commandeer the Wagoneer.”

“Can we know where you’re going?” Rita asked.

“I’ll be in Dawn Mock’s office at the CBI. I have no idea how long the meeting will last.”

“Honey, please, no heroics,” Rita pleaded.

“You were there tonight. We’ve got to put a stop to this shit, or we’re going to start losing our country.”

They sat staring at the empty paper plates and empty paper cups as he left.

Quinn entered Dr. Dawn Mock’s office. Colonel Yancey Hawke, head of the state troopers, came to his feet and shook the governor’s hand.

“Hell, Governor,” Reb Butterworth, the Colorado National Guard commander said, “you could have won the governorship of Louisiana tonight.”

“Where is the mother lode now, Dawn?” Quinn asked.

She brightened the screen and fed in a road map of Minnesota and made a face. “Nothing. Let’s run in an Iowa map.” She punched in coordinates and hummed, “I—ooo—way…here we go.”

A fuzz ball on the monitor pulsated:
peep
…
peep
…
peep
.

“You’ll pardon the expression,” Dawn said, “they’re really truckin’. They’ve bypassed Des Moines and are heading west on eighty for the Nebraska state line.”

“Their speed tells me that there are two or more drivers, rotating,” Yancey observed.

Dawn Mock punched a number of keys. “At present speed they will hit the Nebraska-Colorado state line by morning. Colorado…Colorado…here we go. The interstate changes to Route Seventy-six. Four hours will get them into Denver, plus a food break.”

“They’ve timed this out to reach Denver by late afternoon,” Yancey concluded. “At dark they’ll go into the prearranged site.”

“Dr. Chin?” Dawn asked her CBI Internet buster.

“We are listening to a hundred of the most active gun websites,” Harry Chin said, checking his notes. “Nothing regarding a destination has shown up. However, there appears to be spirited activity for the purchase of VEC–44’s at the convention.”

“How many?” Reb asked.

“In the low hundreds,” Chin answered.

“Which says,” Dawn Mock said, “they’re going to a prearranged location and deliver the VEC’s that have been sold. They won’t let the individual buyers pick up the weapons. The dozen or so dealers will retrieve the VEC’s and disperse them in their trailer camps and motels.”

“Yep,” Quinn agreed.

“They’re going to shag ass for the Utah line, maybe Four Corners. That’s where the big dealers play.”

“Why all this brouhaha about the dump site? We can’t foul up on the destination. The little bouncing ball on the screen will lead us right into it. As for our forces, Reb, your people will be tucked into Elway Stadium within spitting distance of the convention center. Yancey, split your force into a triangle, use high-speed vehicles, and converge once we have the exact location.”

“And where would that be?” Yancey said.

“My primitive guess,” Quinn answered, “way out on West Colfax near the foothills. The strip is loaded with warehouses and factory outlets. Colfax will put them right on the interstate for Utah.”

“Governor,” Yancey moaned a bit, “I realize you want these people caught in the act, but we’re going to have better luck by nailing them right inside the Colorado line.”

“We know there is one or more relief drivers, but we do not know how many of them are in the trailer riding shotgun,” Quinn answered. “As soon as we slow them down, anywhere, anytime, anyplace they may go for their weapons.”

“What!” Reb said. “Crash a roadblock and drive the length of Colorado? Not rational.”

“Gunrunning isn’t rational,” Yancey said.

“Are you in contact with Arne Skye?” Quinn asked.

“Afraid not, Governor,” Dawn said. “He set up the GPS here and signed off. He’s taken himself out of the loop.”

“Rightfully,” Quinn answered. “We’re not to reveal his name on pain of death.” The governor held up both hands to create some thinking space.

“A roadblock is not what we want. If so, we could have seized them in Wisconsin or Iowa or Nebraska. A roadblock crashing and a high-speed chase will create a real mess.”

The heads of the troopers and the National Guard were a bit peeved, as was Dawn Mock. Harry Chin played it neutral. The other three perspired, and their fingernails fidgeted on the desktop.

“Denver is filled with late-night shopping traffic and tourists and conventioneers and forty thousand baseball fans all in the vicinity of the convention center. Governor, it could end up looking like the beach at Normandy if the bouncing ball ends up there.”

“If you are wrong, Governor, and believe me, they could have faked us out of our jock straps, we are in major shit,” Yancey warned.

“Yancey, put a video and still photographer at the state line. Let’s see if we can make a double confirmation by getting some plate numbers and what advertising they’re carrying on their sides.”

“We’re close, but no cigar,” Dawn said. “Suppose we rip into a warehouse filled with recliner chairs and Serta perfect mattresses?”

“Dr. Chin, do you have anything on Roy Sedgewick, Ark Royal Arms?”

“I’ve got two detectives at the airport covering passport control,” Chin said. “The Canadian government is breathing down Sedgewick’s neck. My information is that they are going to commence an audit at Ark Royal within a week. This could be the moment for him to flee, and he may need the money to be generated in Denver.”

“No.” Quinn mulled it over. “There aren’t many flights from Toronto to Denver. He’d use Chicago as his port of entry—there’s no passport control there—or he’s on his way to South America. No way Sedgewick will show up.”

“We’d better have some shithouse luck,” the adjutant general moaned.

“Amen,” Yancey said.

Quinn rolled his head about and cracked the bones of his spine and neck. “I love you guys. Dawn, do you have a place where I can crash for a few hours?”

“There’s a big couch in the hall outside the morgue. Hart’s people will report if they have anything new. I’ll be at the monitor here through the night.”

“Okay, you guys, you know the drill,” Quinn said.

“You’ve got more guts than brains,” Reb said, giving the governor a warm
abrazo
.

“Ditto,” Yancey Hawke said.

Dawn Mock slipped a pillow under the governor’s head and laid a blanket over him. She mussed up his hair and wrapped up his feet.

“Cool Hand Quinn,” she said softly, “have it your way. My way or the highway. Dirty decision time. You’re my hero, Governor.”

“Not me. Arne Skye.”

“Good night, man. I’ll be following the beeping ball.”

“Dawn, call Rita, will you? She’s at the condo.”

“Okay, get some sleep.”

“Yuck!” Quinn said, smacking his lips together. He unscrambled himself from his blanket, came to sitting, and held his face in his hands. “Yuck,” he repeated. “My name is Quinn Patrick O’Connell,” he told himself. “Now where am I…what is that strange odor? The morgue!”

“Morning, Governor,” Dr. Dawn Mock said.

“Jesus, what time is it?”

“Past ten.”

“Huh, guess I must have been tired. Morning, Dawn.”

“Good news first or the bad news?” she asked.

“Good news.”

“There is none. Roy Sedgewick has disappeared into thin air.”

“He could be here in Denver, using an alias,” Quinn said, groping for his shoes.

“Or,” Dawn added, “halfway to somewhere. The Canadian government has put him on an Interpol alert. Interpol would cough him up in Europe. That leaves South America and Asia. I’d guess China. Sedgewick has a long history of gunrunning for the Chinese. I gather the Chinese financed him on getting the licenses for the VEC’s. If China is his route, forget it. He’s too well connected, and they’ll let him in and hide him.”

“Damn, so we scratch him, huh?”

“For sure we won’t find him today.”

Quinn stretched hard, yawned, excused himself. “I’m going to run to my condo and clean up. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Dawn gave a double thumbs-up sign, and a look passed from one to another that said, “Are we crazy or something?”

Rita smiled broadly to cover up her sleepless night, as did Rae. Quinn stood under an ice-cold shower until he could handle no more. An infusion of coffee awaited him as he exited the shower stall.

“I’m thinking,” Quinn said with a good feeling of putting on clean clothing, “you and the kids ought to move into the mansion. Take Mal with you.”

“Why?”

“Don’t give me a hard time.”

“All right. Duncan called earlier. He’s at the convention. I gave him my cellular in case you needed to reach him.”

The great “fairness” theme had evaporated with Governor O’Connell as he left the auditorium. One after another, the row of front benchers of the board came to the pulpit and roasted the demons of the anti-gun, anti-American, anti-Christ charlatans who ruled the government.

A basket of pro-AMERIGUN proposals and “whereas-es” was passed unanimously. Underaged gun owners, anti-children’s safety locks, anti-limitation of twenty guns per family, anti-parental responsibility, anti-waiting periods, were all branded as violations of Second Amendment rights.

On this morning, King Porter made damned certain that last night’s resolutions were remembered. The basic AMERIGUN strategy was now to silence
the major gun-control freaks and particularly one in a Western state. With Quinn O’Connell put in his place, the rest of the state houses in the nation would think twice about gun-control legislation.

King Porter whipped himself up into a lather with a romping, stomping revival sermon.

“Hello, Duncan, it’s Dad.”

“Hi, Dad. They just hung you. That Porter guy was frothing at the mouth.”

“So, what’s new?”

“I’ve canvassed the exhibition hall with four of Dr. Mock’s detectives. They estimate there may be several hundred illegal weapons in the hall, but there’s no way to get to them. By the time we get the legal search and seizure papers, they will have scattered.”

“Duncan, don’t lose the faith,” Quinn said. “I want you to get back to the condo, pronto, and move over to the mansion…and no fucking arguments!”

“Okay, Dad, I hear you.”

The instant Quinn saw Dawn Mock, he knew that something terrible had taken place. Harry Chin, usually expressionless, suddenly looked ancient. Dawn pointed at the GPS monitor.

“It stopped transmitting about fifteen minutes ago,” she said.

“There’s nothing I can do, Governor,” Dr. Chin said. “The batteries inside the crates have lost power, and the GPS has stopped transmitting.”

“They were supposed to last three years!”

“Batteries can be funny,” Chin answered.

“Dawn, get me Yancey.”

“Colonel Hawke here.”

“This is Quinn. Did you get any photographs of the truck last night?”

“Just going to call you, Governor. There was a bitching thunderstorm around the state line. Neither the video nor still photographs are able to identify anything.”

“We’ve lost contact with the truck,” Quinn said.

“Oh, Jesus. What do you want to do? Call it off?”

“Let me think for a minute, let me think,” Quinn mumbled to himself, trying to retread a plan. “Here we go, Yancey. Hold your triangle. I still say West Coster will be the target area. I’ll leave it to you to contact Reb and make sure he keeps his people undercover at the stadium. I’ll get back to both of you soon as I can.”

“If it weren’t so tragic,” said Chin with a straight face, “it would be hilarious trying to find an unidentified semi truck and trailer in Denver.”

“Governor, let’s chuck it in. If we pull out of it right now, there won’t be any damage to you. None whatsoever,” Dawn pleaded.

“None whatsoever except a fucking AMERIGUN office in Denver telling us how to live our lives and three thousand more murder weapons on our streets.”

“Man, we tried,” she cried. “You’ve got to consider the careers of the people who have gone all the way with you.”

Quinn wound up as if to punch the monitor but only cursed it instead.

“We’ve got a long day coming up,” Quinn said at last, “at least four or five hours to run out every option.”

“We can’t keep it secret much longer,” Chin said. “It’s going to leak.”

“All right, give me two or three hours. I need you people here.”

They both nodded tentatively.

“Dr. Chin, find out for me who is the top man in the federal penitentiary system. Find out his military service, i.e., which branch he served in. Keep lowering the search by rank until you find me a Marine.”

“Highest-ranking Marine in the penal system.”

Quinn was about to punch in the number for Hoop Hooper’s attorney, A. Wayne White, but stopped. “I’ll go to him last, Dawn. Once we start dealing with lawyers, our security is compromised.”

In the interim, Dr. Dawn Mock had pulled herself together and organized the bureau’s regular day’s work with her assistant in the outer office.

Harry Chin returned in six minutes. “Highest-ranking penitentiary official is George Appleton, First Deputy Director, Marine Corps, 1978–1986, rank of major, Viet combat, decorated.”

“Am I speaking to
the
Governor Quinn O’Connell?” Deputy Director George Appleton said excitedly into the phone.

“Yes, sir,” Quinn answered.

“Gunner O’Connell?”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn repeated.

“I am honored! I was in rapid deployment on my hitch. Now, what can I do for you, Governor?”

“This conversation is Marine to Marine,” Quinn said.

“I understand,” Appleton said softly. “I think we’d better shoot a little verification.”

“Sure. There is my wife, Rita, in Denver and my secretary Marsha at the Capitol. You don’t have to tell them who you are, but that you need to speak to me about some cheese coming in from Wisconsin. Both of them will give you the same number. I am in Dr. Dawn Mock’s office at the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.”

“We will be Marine to Marine,” Appleton assured himself.

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll be back to you on a secure line.”

Second by second tension ensued. Not a word passed between Quinn and Dawn, but she could almost see smoke coming from his ears as he pumped his brain for direction.

“Governor O’Connell here.”

“Appleton.”

“Semper Fi time?” Quinn asked.

“Semper Fi time,” Appleton pledged. “What do you have in mind?”

“There is an AMERIGUN convention taking place in Denver.”

“Yes, I’m aware. A very angry one.”

“We have intercepted a plan to dump up to three thousand VEC–44’s and millions of rounds of 9mm ammunition. We lost contact with the delivery truck. You have a prisoner in the system who is our last hope of giving us the destination of the weapons.”

“I see…” Appleton’s voice trailed off. “Does he have a lawyer?”

“He has a rat’s nest full of them. We have been able to make this exclusively a state of Colorado caper. Actually, only six people know anything about the target, one of them my wife. Time will not allow us to deal with the lawyers. If I have to negotiate with them, we’ll probably be too late to apprehend the cargo, follow me?”

“Yes.”

“It will take the media months, if ever, to figure out how we pulled it off. And in that time we will fade into thin air.”

A scent of procrastination seemed to flow from Appleton’s phone. Quinn could hear the man breathing, weighing. Was it fair for the governor to
use the federal system on an operation from which they had been bypassed?

Undoubtedly, Appleton thought, O’Connell had gotten tips along the line from the FBI or ATF. Appleton was about to decline when the big picture of a great hero, Gunner Quinn O’Connell, loomed before him. After all, what the hell was O’Connell doing? Putting his ass on the line in the service of the people. On the other hand, the rancor between federal agencies would ensure a media convulsion. Why the hell does he have to give me that gyrene shit?

“What do you need?” Appleton said at last.

“I want to speak, one to one, with a prisoner on a secure line.”

“Oh, hell, we do much worse,” Appleton sighed. “Bury my name, for God’s sake.”

“Hey,” Quinn said, “we’re on death-before-dis-honor vows here. Your name will not emerge from this end.”

“Who do you want to speak to, and what facility is he in?”

“Herman Hooper, aka Hoop Hooper, Atlanta Penitentiary. Former leader of the Wisconsin militia. Bundle of charges. He’s pleaded guilty to get a reduced sentence, which has been lowered to twenty years from forty.”

“I’m on it,” Appleton said.

“And, George, we are desperate for time.”

Senator Dick Darling closed the morning’s session by pointing his finger toward Washington and shouting “thou shalt nots.” Hall Carleton was elected president of AMERIGUN, by acclamation, unopposed.

Carleton smiled so broadly his teeth shone clear to
the last row as he and the senator held up each other’s arm in victory.

King Porter announced the afternoon’s business and an evening fare of barbecue and folk dancing.

Reb Butterworth spirited fifty guardsmen and troopers into Elway Stadium, one truck at a time. He was positive he had not raised alarm or suspicion.

The troops were housed in a wide corridor between the field seats and the balcony. Bedrolls and boxed rations were the order.

They would remain fully clothed and could reach their trucks in two minutes, with another four minutes bringing them to the convention center.

A report from Yancey Hawke. He had established his triangle, three positions that could converge at an instant’s notice. Each apex had some fifteen troopers and guardsmen all in secluded areas.

“Hi, Rae, it’s Daddy. You’re all in the mansion okay?”

“There seem to be twenty guards outside. Are we going to need them?”

“I hope not.”

Hours of midday dragged by, the longest of their lives. A pair of half-eaten pastrami sandwiches died on Dawn’s desk. Quinn was knotted up. He could barely get his teeth unclenched to drink his Coke. Dawn had been staring at the empty monitor. Tears welled in her eyes.

“We’ve been stiffed,” she said. “It’s four o’clock.”

“One more half hour,” he mumbled.

“You’ve been saying that since noon.”

“Never mind,” Dawn said to herself. “Why argue the point now? The governor had played it skillfully and bravely, but neither skill nor courage was the game. And no one has ever figured out how to stop time.”

Both of them clicked on as the scramble phone buzzed. Dawn nodded to Quinn. He lifted the receiver.

“Hello,” Quinn said.

Dawn put a headset on to listen.

“Hello,” the other end said. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Governor Quinn O’Connell, Marine Gunner O’Connell.”

“Tell me, Governor, who was your commander at the Urbakkan raid?”

“Major General Jeremiah Duncan.”

“And he won the Congressional Medal?”

“Yes, as a fighter pilot in World War Two. He received a posthumous Navy Cross for Urbakkan.”

“About how tall was Jeremiah Duncan?”

“He was on the short side, like five eight.”

“George Appleton here, Governor. Sorry to put you through the quiz. I flew to Atlanta after we spoke to set things up myself. Who is aware of my participation?”

“Dr. Dawn Mock, chief of the CBI. She’s been involved from the beginning. And Dr. Harry Chin, our Internet specialist.”

“I’m speaking to you on a secure phone? No tapping?”

“Of course not.”

“And I’m just doing you a favor, and I don’t know what it’s about.”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said.

“All right, here’s your man.”

“Hoop Hooper,” a voice growled.

“This is Quinn O’Connell, governor of Colorado.”

“Yeah, I know who you are.”

“Good. I’ll cut right to the chase. A semi and eighteen-wheeler left the Wisconsin Grand Army two and a half days ago carrying three thousand VEC–44’s and a lot of massacre trimmings. Destination, Denver.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Governor.”

“We’ve lost the truck in the Denver environs,” Quinn plowed on, “and we may not find it here. But we sure as hell are not letting them out of the state. Roy Sedgewick was going to set up a nest egg for you with the Denver sales. Sedgewick is gone, probably en route to China. Hoop, you’ve got to know that Sedgewick was going to beat you out of a couple hundred grand either way. He fled because everyone’s hot breath was on him.”

“Well, who in the hell is Hedgehog?”

Quinn ignored the remark. “Dickie Darling is going to pocket all your hard-earned money.”

Bingo! Quinn heard Hooper wince.

“I’m on the fast track, and we’ve got time to make a bust. Where are they going to deliver the guns sold at the convention?”

“I don’t follow you.”