Political Suicide (31 page)

“Don’t be. I make my own choices.”

They heard footsteps crunching on the hard, packed ground outside. Lou worked his body over to the side of the platform, hoping to catch any snippets of conversation.

Sure enough, he heard Papa Steve’s commanding voice engage with some of the Mantis guards. “Howdy and a fine afternoon to you, good gentlemen.”

“We’re checking IDs today, Papa Steve. CO’s orders.”

“The Brody asks, the Brody gets. Here you go, Chuckie.”

“What’s in the truck?”

“Fireworks for the big show tonight.”

“We gotta search the back.”

“Oooh, Paranoid City. Just make it quick. I got the Mantis version of the Big Bang to set up.”

“Can’t wait.”

Lou held his breath. From what he could hear, at least two men had climbed inches above where he and Cap lay, and were conducting a thorough search of the cargo. It sounded as if some cases were even opened.

Paranoid City was right.

“You’re all set, Papa Steve,” one of guards called out.

The truck bucked as it was slipped into gear. Lou groaned and worked his legs, pleading with his muscles to stay forgiving for just a little while longer. Minutes later, they stopped once again. The driver’s-side door opened, then slammed closed. The back panel was lowered.

“This may be it,” Lou whispered.

“Next time I complain that a workout is too hard, remind me of this trip.”

“Same here, big guy.”

From just outside where they were lying, they heard Papa Steve whisper harshly. “Lou, Cap, you boys all right down there? Knock on the side. Once for yes, twice for no. It’s safe.”

Lou banged once against the side, and battled back the urge to add a few extras.

“Good. Now, you just hang tight. A couple more hours is all. The show will feature some short speeches blasting from some pretty intense speakers, followed by a couple of marches accompanied by fireworks. The ‘1812 Overture’ will be last, Howitzers and all, with more fireworks than you can shake a stick at, mixed in with enough of the real deal to get some serious attention. Soon as you hear the ‘1812 music, head for Brody’s office. By the time things begin to blow up, you better be back at the truck. I unhooked the back, so you can push yourselves out. But listen close. Timing here is critical. If things go right, we’ll be able to drive right off the base without too much trouble. Knock once if you’ve got all that.”

Lou knocked.

“Hang tough, boys.”

Lou felt a gentle tap on his leg.

“How else are we supposed to hang?” Cap whispered.

Lou guessed ten minutes had passed when they heard footsteps approaching. Then a voice.

“Hey, there, Papa Steve, how’s it going?”

Brody!

“Getting ready to be offloaded,” Papa Steve said. “I think you’ll be happy with my selection, Colonel.”

“Will this be enough to make it a spectacle?”

“I’ve got boxes of aerial repeaters, shells, rockets, Thor missiles, display tubes. It’ll be a spectacle, all right.”

“Good,” Brody said. “These men are going on a very dangerous mission. They deserve a fitting send-off.”

More footsteps.

“Papa Steve.”

“Major Coon.”

Lou did not recognize the new voice.

“Ready for the big send-off?”

“I have my crew ready to empty this truck and place everything on the firing platform. Then I’ll hook it all up and ka-boom. Fourth of July in December. How about the howitzer gunners, Major. Are they all set?”

“Champing at the bit,” Coon said. “Excuse me, Commander, but I wonder if I could have a word with you.”

“Papa Steve,” Brody said, “why don’t you give us five minutes, then bring your men to help you unload these boxes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Footsteps, probably Papa Steve leaving, followed by a minute of silence.

“Okay,” Brody said finally, “what is it, Charlie?”

“I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to handle the notification to the families myself.”

“All of them?”

“I think it’s better that way, sir.”

“I’ll probably go with you to some of them. What’s the final story?”

“Just as we discussed. Helicopter crash after the assassinations were completed and the men had reassembled for the trip home. It’s the most believable way for twenty soldiers to be killed at once.”

“Makes sense,” Lou heard Brody say. “This is a major milestone in the evolution of the new war, Charlie. It’s been too long that we haven’t been fighting on a level playing field. Our technology has proved only that we have more money, not more resolve. But all that is going change with Operation Talon. Terrorists everywhere will soon be aware that Americans are willing and ready to replicate every tactic used against us, including those that involve a life for a life.”

“You’ve done a good thing here, sir. In time, this will put an end to terrorism and change the course of the war. And most important, it will alter how our resolve is perceived. These parasites will learn not only to respect us, but more important, to fear us. I just left the men. They’re ready, sir. I also wanted to let you know that we’ve moved the takeoff from the Langley airstrip to Dover, as you advised.”

“Better Dover,” Brody said. “Their security is reasonable and I want as few people as possible to know anything about this.”

“Understood and agreed.”

“Let’s get ready, my friend.”

“Yes, sir.”

Footsteps … Brody and Coon walking away.

Lou’s stomach had knotted up. Combined with what he saw in the woods while following Brody, what he learned from Papa Steve, and what they heard just now, he had learned enough to put together a truly frightening scenario. Operation Talon was a mass suicide mission. Twenty soldiers, primed by Brody’s ruby drink, ready to die for their country violently and without fear. He might not know the targets or other specifics, but the intent of the mission was as evident as it was ungodly. Lying in the darkness beside his friend, Lou recalled how easily the cartel man named Pedro had slipped a partially loaded revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Click!

Now, Mark Colston’s wonderful heroism, surprising even to his father, made sense. Clearly it was only a matter of time before Elias Colston put all the pieces together. In megalomaniac Wyatt Brody’s warped mind, the man had to die.

But now a new problem had arisen.

Instead of trying to prove Brody killed Elias Colston, Lou had the responsibility of at least twenty brave, essentially innocent lives in his hands. The lives soon to be sacrificed on the altar of Operation Talon.

He waited until he felt it was safe to talk. “Cap, do you know what that conversation meant?”

“I know that I’m dying in here, Welcome. My limbs have gone completely numb and I’m so damn cold.”

Lou could feel Cap shivering beside him. Only then did he realize he was shivering himself. “We can’t quit now, Cap.”

“I was just talking, pretty boy. Anything to keep from thinking about my own misery. It sounds like your buddy Brody doesn’t care too much who he steps on.”

“The man’s crazy. Absolutely drunk with power and his misguided theories of patriotism. Unless he’s stopped, a lot of people are going to die.”

Silence settled in again, and the seconds dragged on. It was nighttime, Lou thought, more because he wanted it to be than because he was sure. The hours of waiting on the steel platform had taken a huge physical and emotional toll. Papa Steve had long ago returned with a crew from Mantis and unloaded the boxes of fireworks. The moment of action had to be close.

“I can’t do it, Cap. I can’t make it another—”

“Gentlemen, this your commander speaking,” Brody’s voice boomed from giant speakers, cutting Lou short. “Tonight we honor the men who will represent Mantis on the most important mission since the founding of our young outfit. From the beginning, Mantis has embodied the virtues of the true solider. Please join with me in affirming those virtues.”

“The color of our drink is the color of courage,” seven hundred voices barked out in perfect unison. “It is the color of blood spilled in battle, the color of fire that burns for freedom. For our mission. For valor. For justice. For our country. For God. For Mantis … Whatever it takes!”

Lou felt a tremendous surge of adrenaline and sensed that beside him, Cap was experiencing the same thing. At all costs, the sacrifice of these men had to be averted.

“Alone we are powerful,” Brody was saying. “Together we are unstoppable. Let us honor the men who will endure the most dangerous and important mission Mantis has ever had the privilege to undertake, the men of Operation Talon. As I call your name, would you each please climb onto either of the trucks that will transport you to the heliport.

“Staff Sergeant Bucky Townsend, Muskogee, Oklahoma.… Corporal Luis Sanchez, Vicksburg, Mississippi.…”

The cheers became more rapturous after each name. When the list was completed, Souza’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” blared through the loudspeakers, accompanied by a barrage of fireworks and the rumbling of truck engines.

One more march, some more fireworks. Then, from the massive speakers, the “1812 Overture” began.

It would be just what the colonel ordered—three huge Chinook choppers lifting up at once, fireworks exploding around them, with Tchaikovsky’s iconic cannonade providing the soundtrack. Protected by the fireworks, Lou stretched, then rolled to his side, imagining what Wyatt Brody would be experiencing while the pistol was being removed from his fabulous gun collection—the pistol that would help prosecutors put him on death row.

Majestic strings, slow and sonorous at first, filled the air.

Music to die for,
Lou thought.

“Get ready, my friend,” he said, no longer confined to whispering. “We’re on.”

CHAPTER 42

Lou and Cap jammed their heels against the rear panel of what had been their prison, and felt it fall away. It landed with a muted but satisfying thud. Sliding backwards, they dropped to the ground in a crouch behind the truck. A rush of cool air bathed their lungs. From no more than fifty feet away, the nearest huge speaker, mounted on a tall pole, had begun broadcasting the gentle opening string passage of the “1812 Overture.” Cap stood and straightened up, groaning obscenities at his joints.

Lou looked to his right and took in a familiar sight. They were parked on the dirt courtyard housing Brody’s headquarters and two smaller structures. Overhead, a variety of fireworks were turning the moonless sky into a fantasy garden. The explosions accompanying the display shook the earth.

Aside from the music, the core of the base was ghostly quiet and appeared completely deserted. Windows in the three buildings and nearby barracks were dark. There were no guards on duty, at least that Lou could see. Papa Steve had mentioned that the ceremony was set for the assembly area, some distance away. He was smart to have sped up the timetable. If ever there was a perfect time to penetrate Wyatt Brody’s world, this was it.

When he pushed himself off the platform, Cap pulled out a compact knapsack he had wedged by his head. Small length of clothesline, powerful flashlight, leather pouch of tools, headlamp, stethoscope, hunting knife, and a pistol.

“Sorry, not my style,” Lou had said when offered a similar weapon.

“I love our soldiers,” Cap replied. “Love ’em, respect ’em, am grateful to ’em, too. But if these Palace Guards are what you say they are, I ain’t going down without making a noise.”

M
ANTIS
C
OMPANY

W
HATEVER
I
T
T
AKES

The sign was as Lou remembered from his previous harrowing trip to the base. In a perverse way, Brody was right in his speech to the troops. It
was
more than just a motto.… For the twenty soldiers of Operation Talon, it was a death sentence.

Lou tapped Cap on the shoulder and pointed to the target building. The fighter glanced around, nodded back at Lou, and made a surprisingly limber dash across the hard ground to Brody’s office. He reached the perimeter without incident and waved for Lou to join him. Keeping as low as he could manage, Lou shambled across the open area, giving back all the style points Cap had just won. His legs were still weak and stiff, and he stumbled once. Working for each breath, he reached the short flight of stairs to the porch and flattened against a support next to Cap.

The first bridge of the “1812 Overture,” a series of chromatic runs that depicted anxious Russians anticipating battle, reverberated from the enormous speakers, accompanied by the rumbling of some low-level fireworks. The music precisely reflected Lou’s growing sense of urgency. For a moment, his ultra-odd college roommate’s elegant stereo flashed in his thoughts.

Lou set his watch and started it.

“We’ve got eleven minutes before the cannonade,” he said.

Cap looked over at him. “You really know the ‘1812 Overture’
that well
?”

“Some day after this is all in our rearview mirror, I’ll play it for you on kazoo. Come on, buddy, it’s time to do this thing.”

They ascended the wooden staircase to the outer door. From the PA system, the strings were now beginning battle with the horns. Distress … worry … mounting panic … determination. War.

Cap turned on his headlight and took the lock-pick kit from his backpack. “It’s a dead bolt,” he said, examining the front lock. “Harder than it looks, but a diamond pick ought to get this puppy open.” He removed a long silver wand with a little bend at the end.

“Where’d you get those?” Lou whispered.

“Online. Where does anyone get anything these days? A year or so ago, I couldn’t find my old kit, so I went to Lockpickingtools.com.”

The fireworks intensified as the horns began the powerful “Marseillaise.” The French counterattack was under way.

“An artiste needs quiet,” Cap said, stepping back and gesturing up at the explosions and light. “Seriously, boss. Don’t panic. We’re in.”

Lou turned the knob, and the door opened easily. “You hot shit,” he murmured.

“La Marseillaise” peaked. The tide of battle had turned. The two friends moved quickly to the shuttered wood door of Wyatt Brody’s office. Outside, the decrescendo of violins played a soft romantic melody.