NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (25 page)

They went out the door and down the long hallway that ran the length of the middle of the building. A few doors down, Jennings took them into another, smaller cubicle. This one had only one device. It was an iron table with something that appeared to be a pneumatic ram attached to one side. The ram was designed to raise and lower a metal object that looked like an axe head. The head of the axe was on a track that would put it at a start position about three feet above the surface of the table. The track ended about a foot below table level. A plastic bucket was on the floor beneath the track.

Jennings pointed to a spot a few feet from the table, and the men moved to it so they could watch him operate the machine. Jennings went to a shelf on the wall and took a section of PVC pipe about three feet long and laid it on the table. He turned a crank that closed a vise on the pipe to hold it in place.

“All clear.”

He stepped on a foot pedal and the pneumatic ram drove the axe head down with tremendous speed and force. A severed piece of pipe, cut clean, dropped in the bucket. Jennings turned the machine off and walked to the far side of the table. He reached down, took the section of pipe from the bucket, inspected it for a second by running his finger around the cut edge and proudly handed it to Westmoreland.

“A person convicted of theft, as you know, loses a hand.” Jennings said. “We are beginning to see fewer cases now thanks to our sudden and swift punishment techniques.”

Westmoreland gave the piece of pipe to Stanley, who examined it for a second and then held it hanging beside his leg as they left the room for the remainder of the tour.

As they came to the end of the hall, they approached an opening next to a raised overhead door. Outside, Frank and Stanley were able to see other warehouses enclosed by fences.

Jennings noticed the men gazing down the river bank.

“There are five buildings in this complex,” he said.

He led them to a motorized mule. As Jennings drove, he explained the organization of the various compound buildings as they passed them. They came to a highway bridge that crossed the river. On the way across it Jennings said, “The land on the far bank of the river used to belong to a family of infidels. They had the good sense to leave the country before we kicked them out. New Israel courts approved our seizure of the acreage for an Order 13 Facility. I am temporarily in charge of it until a permanent commandant is assigned to it.”

They came off the bridge and turned down a long drive bordered by the river on one side and a wire fence topped with barbed wire on the other. Inside the fence, they saw rows of unmarked graves closest to them and cinder block buildings half-finished on the far side of the pasture.

“Prisoners graduate from our Order 12 facility to this place if they show sincere efforts at spiritual rehabilitation,” Jennings said. “Otherwise, they go to the Departure Point for further processing.”

They entered through the checkpoint and Jennings turned down the lane through the middle of the graves.

“Under Executive Order 10, all executions must be public and take place on the courthouse grounds. We established this cemetery for the executed so that we could monitor enforcement of Order 10. It also relieves local agencies from the hassle of finding some place to bury them.”

Inmates in orange jumpsuits dug graves with shovels as a guard on horseback toting a 12 gauge shotgun kept his eye on each of them. Each grave had a granite peg driven into the ground with a number on it where a headstone would have been. When they came to the end of the lane, the men noticed one lone grave with a larger marker with a name inscribed on it.

“That was the first man executed under the laws of New Israel. We thought identifying him by name would serve as a permanent reminder that we mean business,” Jennings said.

From their seats in the mule, they read the name,
Curry McNabb
.

•  •  •

As Jennings carried them back to their car, Westmoreland asked, “How often do transports leave for the Departure Point, Captain Jennings?”

“We wait ’til we have enough for a full bus to a particular facility. Usually we have a couple of prisoner transports per week and a couple of transports to non-prisoner facilities, such as the Alzheimer or Mental Health Units.”

“Who goes to the Alzheimer’s Unit?” Stanley asked, thinking about his deceased mother who suffered from the terrible disease for ten years.

“Under New Israel law, family members of Alzheimer’s patients must care for them. If they have no family and they have progressed to stage three, we take them in and house them,” Jennings said.

“For how long?” Stanley asked.

“Until the disease runs its course, or we have to make room for more patients,” he said.

Stanley and Frank didn’t ask how they made room.

•  •  •

Stanley and Westmoreland got back in the Mustang and drove away from the facility. They didn’t speak to each other until the building was out of sight.

“I don’t remember signing orders to set up those places,” Frank said.

“I have seen them, Frank. You’ve had a lot on your mind.”

“I guess so. Jennings strikes me as a good man. With people like that in place, we’ll clean up this country in a hurry,” Westmoreland said.

Stanley looked out the driver’s window and acted like he hadn’t heard Westmoreland’s final remark.

As they rounded the corner near the university parking lot, the men saw a crew of prisoners in their orange jumpsuits as they picked up trash on the side of the road. One of them held a stick with a nail in one end, using it to pick up cans and pieces of paper. They watched as he struggled to get the trash off the sharp end of the stick. He could not manage it because his other arm ended with a bandaged nub where his dominant hand used to be.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stanley caught a glimpse of the piece of PVC pipe he had thrown in the back seat.

LINK JEFFERSON SAT
at the foot of the bed and watched for signs of life in Judge David McNeil. The fallen jurist had never regained consciousness since the day Ithurial Finis shot him. Several times, his doctors had said it was time to pull the plug, but Link had blocked them by obtaining a court order.

“He’s a fighter,” he told anyone who asked. “I’m not going to give up on him yet.”

Link took a file from his briefcase and studied the most recent reports from the PAI. He scratched his head as he tried to make sense of all the events. Everyone on the list of fourteen was accounted for. Tom Mooney and Chirp McVeigh had spilled their guts, but Finis remained at large, and the pieces just didn’t fit together.

He believed Westmoreland had a hand in the assassinations, but it was Leon Martinez that Brown spotted with the paramilitary trainees at the camp in the mountains. Westmoreland had told Brother Billy that he wasn’t behind the siege at Shiloh. Since Westmoreland’s return to Waco, surveillance on him revealed no contact between Leon and Westmoreland except indirectly through Stanley Nussbaum. Intelligence reports also indicated a growing schism between Martinez and Westmoreland that argued against a plot hatched by both of them.

Jefferson also couldn’t figure why the assassination attempts ended with Bass and didn’t include the rest of the people in the presidential line of succession. The cotton patch assassins, professional killers with long pedigrees, could certainly have found a more opportune moment and location to take action. If they had waited a few minutes, Bass would have driven his own vehicle out of the cotton field on his way to another meeting a few miles up the road. They could have ambushed him and met little or no resistance.

Unless the plan called for them to fail.

It would have been a classic misdirection ploy, a fatal one for them.

While these thoughts fueled his paranoia, Link heard the door open and saw Ert and Leadoff enter. They spent almost as much time with Judge McNeil as he did.

“This thing is getting to me,” Link said as he held up his file about the assassinations. “I was about to convince myself that Bass was behind the whole thing, and J. Franklin Westmoreland just an unintended beneficiary of Whitfield’s plan.”

Ert didn’t look surprised by Link’s remarks.

“That’s exactly what they want us to think,” he said. “If we fall victim to self-doubt, they win again. Believe me, I have thought about this deal from every angle, but it comes down to pure instinct. I’ve known Bass Whitfield my whole adult life. I’ve seen him struggle with the role he inherited on 4/11. I am absolutely sure that he played no part in the conspiracy.”

Link closed his file and stood up. He walked over to Ert, put his hand on his shoulder and nodded.

“Forgive me,” he said. “It was just a moment of weakness.”

“No apology necessary,” Ert said. “I’ve gone through the same analysis myself. I cratered earlier than you, but worked my way through it.”

Leadoff listened to his two friends while he stood near the head of the bed and watched for a spark of life, no matter how weak, from the judge. He turned towards them, “Here’s the way I see it,” he said.

“Bass was the target all along. But he wasn’t supposed to die. He was supposed to survive the attack. Westmoreland or Leon or Ithurial thought he was the weakest link in the chain. If he assumed the Presidency, the country would soon see he wasn’t up to the job, and that mood would present the perfect opportunity for the CM. They would build on people’s fears and stage a bloodless coup without having to fire a shot or spend a dime. When Bass rose to the occasion, he threw a kink in their plans which they are still trying to straighten out.”

The three men continued their vigil for another half hour, Link and Ert seated in two hospital chairs and Leadoff leaned against the wall next to the window.

“Finis is the key, the mastermind,” Ert said after a long period of silence. “If Brown can capture him, we may be able to unravel the mystery. Until then, I think we’re stumped.”

“I think capturing him is the last thing on Brown’s mind at this point,” Leadoff said. “One of them will come home in a pine box.”

They said their goodbyes to Judge McNeil and excused themselves. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Your Honor,” Link said as they let themselves out of the antiseptic room and made their way down the corridor.

As they walked past the nurse’s station, Link’s cell rang.

It was Sherman Aloysius.

Link listened for a minute and hung up.

“What is it?” Leadoff asked.

“He has received intelligence reports that CM forces are gathering near the North Carolina border with Virginia. It looks like they are preparing for a big push towards Washington. Sherman is on his way to the White House to give Bass a full briefing.”

“We had better get over there,” Ert said.

Before they could get in the elevator, they saw the nurse at the station look up from her paperwork and check the light that monitored McNeil’s call button. She looked puzzled, sprang out of her chair and headed for his room. As she hustled past the men, she motioned for them to follow her.

When they burst into Judge McNeil’s room, they saw the call button in his hand, his finger on the trigger.

As the nurse reached for McNeil’s hand, he pulled it away from her and opened his eyes.

As he came to, Judge McNeil saw Link standing next to him.

“Have you caught that son of a bitch Ithurial Finis?” he asked before he closed his eyes again.

ON THEIR WAY
from the hospital to the White House, Leadoff, Ert, and Link listened to Flash Greenwald’s afternoon broadcast. He already had gotten wind of the confrontation brewing between CM and U.S. forces.

“There is a national tragedy in the making, ladies and gentlemen. I have received word that in the next few days we are likely to see CM troops advance on Washington,” he said at the top of his show.

His first caller repeated what he thought was the party line.

“Flash, it looks like President Bass is about to get his comeuppance,” the caller said laughing.

“So far President Whitfield has done nothing but carry out his duties under our Constitution, the lynchpin of our democracy. He has tried his damnedest to maintain peace with his brothers and sisters in the seceding states. Let’s hope J. Franklin Westmoreland, Leon Martinez, and their cronies don’t push him to the brink of total war. No one will win if that happens,” he said.

“I thought the CM was on the Lord’s side?” the flabbergasted caller continued.

“They claim to be all right. But that’s not how I read the Bible,” Flash said. “I’ve searched my soul the last few days and seen the error of my ways. God has shown me that we must learn to live in peace if we want to be a light to the rest of the world.”

In the control booth, Greenwald’s crew looked at each other in bewilderment as they manned the phone lines. The chief engineer stepped in front of Greenwald, raised his hands in the air palms up and shrugged his shoulders to let Flash know he didn’t know what sort of calls to put through to him. Greenwald ignored him and asked for the next call.

“Flash, are you on dope again?” the voice on the line said. “You’re sounding like a crazy man.”

“I am as sober as a judge,” Flash said. “For the first time in a long while, my mind is clear, my spirit pure. I have always told my listeners that this show is where they could find the unvarnished truth. It still is. I’m not a politician who makes up his mind based on the latest information from popularity polls. I will call it as I see it. If you want to slander me with personal attacks, you had better have your proof ready, sir. Otherwise, shut up and let someone else have a say.”

The phone squawked in Flash’s ear as the caller slammed it down. Flash adjusted his headset and took another angry call and another.

Before he signed off, he said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am sorry to say that the calls I have received this evening do little to encourage me. I ask that those of you who have listened to me faithfully for years give my words this evening a chance to sink in. I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow on America’s Voice of Truth.”