The Omicron Legion (28 page)

Johnny had known not to challenge the words of the shaman, but he could not help posing the questions that rushed through his mind.

“When? Where?”

“You will know the time…and the place. Your ancestors will guide you, and the spirits will bring you their words. You have the gift of listening,
Wanblee-Isnala.
Only those who listen can hear.”

Johnny listened now from the back of the cab, but no words reached him. He knew everything he was and had been was constructed toward a rapidly approaching moment. The foe that would test him was in this city, and Johnny would follow the spirit’s words.

When? Where?

The old questions were raised once more. But the spirits did not answer questions. They simply provided guidance. The communication was one-sided, as it always had been.

“Traffic’s a mess,” the driver said, sighing.

“Yes.”

“Wish the fucking veep could have picked some other city to visit.”

“Veep,” repeated Johnny.

“Yeah, the vice president’s in town. Giving some kinda speech at Independence Hall. They closed off Walnut and Chestnut streets for his motorcade. Goddamn people are lined up everywhere. We got that to thank for this.”

A chill spread through Johnny, and he felt a smile come to his lips. The spirits often did not speak to him directly. Sometimes they passed their message through other parties.

“That is where you must take me.”

“Where?”

“Independence Hall.”

The driver suddenly swerved into the right lane. “Get you as close as I can.”

“Pit Crew Leader, this is Pit Crew One.”

Arnold Triesman raised the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Read you, Pit Crew One.”

“We are inbound on the expressway. Racer is secure and comfortable. Ten-minute ETA to city limits.”

“Roger that, Pit Crew One.”

Arnold Triesman began another circuit along Chestnut Street in the historical section of downtown Philadelphia. He was in charge of the Secret Service security detail for the vice president’s appearance here, and he wasn’t the least bit happy with the logistics. Ever since Kennedy and Dallas, motorcades scared the shit out of all men in his position. You couldn’t watch every corner of every rooftop; it just wasn’t possible. Add to that maybe a hundred thousand people crowded into the street and you were holding a ball that was slippery enough to slide right out of your fingers. One crazy was all it took, just one. The thought made Triesman’s flesh crawl.

Racer was the latest code name for the vice president, chosen for the man’s penchant for fast cars. As Pit Crew Leader, Triesman had a hundred men at his disposal; they were with the motorcade, scattered along the route, and perched strategically on rooftops. They couldn’t cover everything, but when a fifteen-year Secret Service vet was running things, you came as close as you could.

The service had cost Arnold Triesman one marriage and had kept him from considering another until his tour was up. Except he hadn’t been able to walk away when it finally was, and another two years had come and gone much the same way as the first thirteen had. Even if he wanted to get out, it was questionable whether the service would let him. As far as running security details in the most impossible of situations, Triesman had no peer. It wasn’t so bad, after all. Impressed the hell out of his sons six months back when he had finally relented and let them come along on a detail for the president. Kids even got to meet Top Guy himself and couldn’t sleep that night from the excitement. Triesman felt as if they were really his kids again for the first time since the divorce. It seemed ironic that the very thing that had broken the family up was now the only bond he had with his children. Damn strange, it was.

A helicopter soared overhead, drawing the stares of the thousands crowded together behind the blue sawhorse barricades along Chestnut Street. Triesman lifted the walkie-talkie to his lips again.

“Fly Boy, this is Pit Crew Leader. How’s the sky looking?”

“No movement on rooftops except for our boys, Pit Crew Leader.”

“Can you see Racer?”

“That’s a roger. Estimate city outskirts reached in five minutes. Fifteen to your position at the hall.”

“Stay frosty, Fly Boy.”

“Roger that, Pit Crew Leader.”

Triesman continued his walk. A number of his men were scattered throughout the crowd gathered on the motorcade route that ran the length of Chestnut Street. The heaviest complement was concentrated in the area of Independence Hall itself, both inside and out. The vice president would be making his speech inside the courtyard, near the statue of Commodore John Barry, founder of the U.S. Navy. The logistics from a security standpoint were tenuous at best. A nest of tall buildings forming the Penn Mutual complex overlooked the courtyard from across Walnut Street. The twin Public Ledger and Curtis Publishing buildings afforded an equally clear view across Sixth Street, which was adjacent. Triesman had men posted throughout all the buildings as well as sharpshooters on the roofs, but he still wasn’t happy. And he wouldn’t be until Racer was safely back in his limo after giving his speech. It would be Triesman standing by Racer’s side at the podium, and Triesman who would play pin cushion to bullets, if it came to that.

“Pit Crew Leader, this is Pit Crew Fifteen,” a voice squawked through his walkie-talkie. “Read you, Pit Crew Fifteen.”

“I think I may have something here.”

“Report your twenty.”

“Corner Chestnut and Seventh.”

“What have you got?”

“Suspicious party moving in the crowd.”

“Description.”

“Male. Tall and broad, very tall. Beige pants and worn leather vest. Black hair tied in ponytail.”

“
What?
”

“Pit Crew Leader, I believe he’s an Indian. I believe—”

“Come in, Pit Crew Fifteen. Fifteen, are you there?”

More silence filled the air, broken finally by Pit Crew Fifteen’s voice.

“I’m here, Pit Crew Leader, but subject isn’t.”

“Say again!”

“I lost the Indian, sir. He just isn’t there anymore.”

“Hold your position, Fifteen. I’m coming your way.”

Weetz did not raise his eyes to the helicopter when it soared over the Curtis Publishing Building. Instead he kept his head down and right eye pressed against the scope of his sniper’s rifle—Well, not really
his
rifle. Actually it belonged to the Secret Service sharpshooter now lying dead in the stairwell. The agent’s clothes had made a decent enough fit, and the rifle was fortunately one Weetz was well versed in using.

In spite of this, though, the problem was no two rifles fired exactly alike. From this distance, miscalculation by a micro-inch could send the shot hurtling hopelessly off course, and one shot was all he could realistically depend on. The tree cover in the courtyard was a bitch, but he had chosen a spot on the roof that allowed a clear vantage. Wind could pick up and fuck things up royally. Good thing the forecast was holding up so far. In fact, all his intelligence was holding up. He shifted his rifle slightly and sighted two feet over the podium.

The very spot the vice president’s head would be occupying in a matter of minutes.

Johnny knew he had been seen. He could feel the eyes burn into him as clearly as a blue laser piercing his skin. Instantly he dropped into a crouch and stayed there until he was certain the eyes had lost him.

The spirits had spoken, and Johnny knew why he had been guided here. There was going to be an attempt made on the vice president’s life. It was Wareagle’s fate to face the bullet fired by the enemy. His
Hanbelachia
was upon him. His enemy was in range. Johnny rose from a crouch to a stoop; reaching out, probing. Just as he had known it in the Amazon, he knew it now.

One of the
Wakinyan
was here!

He recognized the thing’s spiritual scent, but the precise take on it was denied him. Johnny felt the unfamiliar grasp of impatience. He distracted himself with thoughts of the area itself. Security was tight and very well orchestrated. Secret Service agents, like the one who had picked him out, were scattered in large numbers throughout the crowd and stationed on various rooftops. It was impossible for even the best sharpshooter to move about unseen. Unless, unless…

What would I do if the assassination was mine to accomplish?

The answer led him toward the tight crowds packed along Chestnut Street. His eyes swept across the buildings until they locked on a pair of brick structures rimmed at the top by white granite rails. He counted fifteen stories. A perfect number.

A strange calm possessed him then. The spirits were there guiding him, showing him the way.

To the twin brick buildings, one of which held the
Wakinyan
upon it.

“Seven-foot-tall Indians don’t ordinarily disappear,” an exasperated Arnold Triesman said to Pit Crew Fifteen at Seventh Street.

His subordinate looked dumbfounded. “Has anyone else reported seeing—”

“Not a thing!” Triesman cut him off. “No sign, no sighting.”

“I could have been wrong.”

“You don’t believe that, and neither do I.”

“Oh, he was there, all right, but I can’t honestly say he was dangerous. It was just that he…stood out. And it was more than the fact that he was so big, too. Something just didn’t feel right, chief.”

“Yeah,” acknowledged Triesman, walkie-talkie back in its accustomed spot near his lips. Triesman figured a few more like this and he’d wear a groove into his jaw. “Come in, Pit Crew One.”

“Read you, Pit Crew Leader.”

“How goes it back there?”

“Coming up on the route now. I can see the people. Nice crowd by the look of it.”

“I wish it had rained.”

“Ditto, chief.”

“Look, One, be ready for an immediate cover and evac from the area. Clear?”

“Sure, chief. What have you got?”

Arnold Triesman gazed at the befuddled agent by his side before responding. “A feeling, One. Just a feeling.”

Weetz watched the motorcade slide by along Chestnut Street, urging it to go faster. The crowds cheered and applauded, American flags waving everywhere. He wanted this to be done with. Normally it was unheard of for a man in his position to remain in the open for so long. The circumstances, in this case, had dictated his actions, but that didn’t make Weetz feel any the easier. He was even tempted to change the strategy, go for the shot while the target was stepping through the arch en route to the Independence Hall courtyard. Too much risk going for a moving target, though.

The motorcade moved to within a hundred yards of Independence Hall, and he returned his attention to the podium.

Johnny could feel eyes searching for him as he moved among the crowd, just precautionary and no more. He reached Sixth Street and prepared to veer left at Congress Hall toward the twin buildings. He could not get a fix on which one of them held the
Wakinyan.
Confused feelings rushed through him. Something was not as he expected it would be, but he could not let that throw him.

“Pit Crew Leader to entire Pit Crew,” said Triesman into his walkie-talkie. “Pit Crew Leader to entire Pit Crew. Racer’s car has come into the pit. Let’s look sharp.”

Ten yards before him, the vice president was stepping out of his limousine, which had stopped directly in front of the entrance to Independence Hall, the tumultuous cheers of the crowd reverberating in Triesman’s ears. God, how he hated moments like this. Twenty thousand people jammed into a city block—and all it took was one crazy with a gun. He met the vice president at the arch and glued himself to the man’s left side.

“I have Racer,” Triesman said into his walkie-talkie. “Keep your eyes open.”

Weetz’s vantage point on the Curtis Publishing Building precluded him viewing his target’s arrival. He saw the vice president for the first time when he stepped through the arch into the courtyard engulfed by a Secret Service detail. His audience rose from the steel chairs that had been arranged in neat fashion and applauded. Weetz eased his eye tighter against the sight and caressed the trigger.

He had the side of the vice president’s head locked in briefly, but there was no sense risking a shot yet. Not until he was stationary behind the podium.

“Come on,” he urged the vice president, “just a little further now.”

Arnold Triesman wanted to call the whole thing off. Right then and there, before Racer pulled out his speech behind the podium, he wanted to shoo him back out through the archway. The nag in his gut had escalated into full-scale cramps, and he had all he could do just to stay upright. He’d learned to trust such feelings over the years.

But this time his fear seemed uncalled for. There were no working threats, no possible perps other than a giant Indian who had disappeared, and his boys had thrown a blanket around the area that was thick enough to keep the sun out.

“On the whole, I’d rather be in Philadelphia…”

Racer’s opening remarks were greeted by polite laughter and applause in the courtyard. Triesman hovered by his right side and gazed upward at the skyline through his sunglasses.

“Hold it, mister! I said freeze!”

Johnny knew he had chosen the wrong roof as soon as he emerged through the door on top of the Public Ledger Building. Something had confused his feelings, and all he could do was what he was told.

“Now turn around. Slowly.”

He obliged—and found himself facing a Secret Service agent holding a sniper’s rifle on him.

“Stay right where you are or I’ll shoot!…Hey, can you hear me or what?”

Wareagle’s eyes had drifted across to the next roof and another figure sighting down through his own rifle. The commotion on this roof should have drawn his attention but hadn’t. The coldness that emanated from him wasn’t that of a
Wakinyan,
but something was all wrong about the man, nevertheless.

“Now, turn around and kiss the wall. Hands in the air!”

Johnny had no choice but to obey for now.

“Pit Crew Leader, this is Sky View Eight,” he heard the agent bark into a walkie-talkie. “I have suspect in custody at my twenty. Repeat, Sky View Eight has suspect in custody.”