Gideon's Corpse (40 page)

Pulling the map of the base out of his pocket—the one he’d been given at the front gate—he tossed it at Jackman. “Look at that. The base access road winds all over the place. We can still cut them off if we head straight for the front gate.”

“But there’s no road going straight to the front gate,” said Jackman.

“With this thing, who the hell needs a road? Just point me toward the gate. We’ll take it cross-country. And when we get there, be ready to operate the weapons.”

75

G
IDEON ACCELERATED THE
Stryker across the long parking lot, past the burning helicopter, and hit the pavement, making fifty miles an hour, the vehicle’s eight wheels humming loudly on the service road.

Jackman examined the tattered map. “Take a heading of a hundred ninety degrees. Here, use this.” He indicated an electronic compass on the dashboard.

Gideon turned to one hundred ninety degrees south, the Stryker leaping the curb and churning across a wide expanse of grass, heading toward a line of trees.

“What do we have for weapons?” Gideon called out.

“Fifty-cal, Mk-9 automatic grenade launcher, smoke grenades.”

“Can the Stryker cut through those trees?”

“We’re going to find out,” said Jackman. “Shift into eight-wheel drive. That lever, there.”

Gideon pulled the lever and accelerated for the trees, the diesel roaring. God, it was a powerful engine. The trees were spaced far apart, but not far enough. He steered toward an area of what looked like younger, thinner trees.

“Hold on,” he said.

The vehicle struck one, then another, slamming through them with a loud
thwack
as each tree snapped off at the base, the vehicle bucking and lurching, the engine roaring, trunks flying aside, leaves whirling. A minute later they broke into a grassy clearing.

A red light glowed on a nearby flat panel and a flat, electronic voice sounded. “Warning, speed unsuitable for current terrain conditions. Adjusting tire pressure to compensate.”

Gideon peered through the driver’s periscope. “Shit. There are some really big oaks ahead.”

“Slow down, I’ll try to clear them with the grenade launcher.” Jackman pressed a series of switches, and the weapons system screen flickered to life. He peered intently through the gunner’s periscope. “Here goes.”

There was a series of
whoosh
es and, a moment later, an eruption of sound. The oaks disappeared in a wall of flame, dirt, leaves, and splinters. Even before the area had been fully cleared Gideon floored the accelerator again, the wheels spinning, and the Stryker lumbered forward, bucking over a mass of broken trunks, then plowing back in the forest, knocking down smaller trees on the far side:
whap, whap, whap.

They broke free of the woods with a final crash. Looming ahead, across a road, was a chain-link fence surrounding a residential neighborhood: neat rows of bungalows, driveways, cars, postage-stamp lawns covered with all the accoutrements of suburban living.

“Oh shit,” Gideon murmured. At least nobody much was around, the families largely evacuated. He aimed the Stryker toward the path of least resistance. They hit the chain-link fence, peeling it up like a ribbon before tearing through. He careened across a backyard, pulverizing a jungle gym and sideswiping an aboveground pool, causing an eruption of water across the yard.

“Jesus!” cried Jackman.

Gideon kept the accelerator pinned to the floor, the massive vehicle slowly continuing to accelerate. Ahead, the street took a sharp right angle. “I can’t make the turn in time,” Gideon shouted. “Hold on!”

A single-story bungalow lay directly before them: checked curtains hanging in the living room picture window, yellow flowers framing a beautifully kept lawn. Gideon realized he could not avoid the house entirely and aimed for the garage. They impacted with a terrific blow, the Stryker’s engine screaming as they knocked aside a pickup truck, then tore out the back wall of the garage, trailing wooden beams and wallboard and clouds of dust.

“Warning,” came the electronic voice. “Speed unsuitable for current terrain conditions.”

Looking through the periscope, Gideon could see people running out of the houses, shouting and gesturing at him and the trail of ruin he was leaving behind.

“Sure you don’t want to go back?” Jackman asked through clenched teeth. “I think you missed something.”

Pushing the vehicle forward, Gideon tore through another chain-link fence on the far side of the neighborhood. Beyond an empty parking lot, a grid of Quonset huts loomed ahead, the narrowest of alleys between each of them; Gideon headed for the broadest looking of the alleys, but it wasn’t quite broad enough. The Stryker chewed its way through, crumpling the walls on either side like so much tinfoil and knocking the flimsy huts off their cheap foundations.

Bounding into an open area, they blew across a set of baseball diamonds, smashed through some cheap wooden bleachers, burst through a brick wall, and—quite abruptly—emerged onto the base’s golf course. As he worked the controls, Gideon remembered vaguely that a golf course was the first thing he’d seen on entering the base: they were almost at the entrance.

He rode over a tee-off area and ground his way down the fairway, the few golfers out and about dropping their clubs and scattering like partridges. He crossed a narrow water hazard, boiled through the mud on the far side, and churned over a second green, sending huge divots and gouts of turf flying—and then, as they topped a rise, Gideon could make out, a quarter mile away, a cluster of buildings and a fence that marked the front gate.

…And along the service road paralleling the golf course, speeding at right angles to them, was the Humvee carrying Blaine and Dart.

“There they are!” Gideon cried. “Bust up the road ahead of them! But for God’s sake, don’t hit them or you’ll spread the virus!”

Jackman was frantically working the remote weapons system. “Stop the vehicle so I can aim!”

Gideon ground to a stop, gouging two huge, trench-like furrows in the fairway. Jackman peered through the commander’s periscope, adjusted some gauges, peered again. The Stryker rocked slightly as the grenades were launched, then percussive flashes went off ahead of the Humvee and the road in front of it erupted into the air, chunks of asphalt spinning skyward. The Humvee skidded to a stop, backed, turned, and started driving across the grass.

“Again!” Gideon cried.

Another shuddering series of explosions. But it was useless—the golf course was too broad, the Humvee had nearly limitless paths to the base exit.

Gideon gunned the Stryker forward, peeling across the greensward. The Humvee was still outpacing the Stryker, on the verge of getting away.

Ahead, Gideon could see a few panicked soldiers milling around the gate buildings, running this way and that. “Can you call the gate?” he yelled over the roar of the engine.

“No phone.”

Gideon thought quickly. “The smoke grenades! Cover them with smoke!”

They plowed through a sand trap, attained another rise, and Jackman let loose. The canisters arced through the sky, bouncing ahead of the Humvee and erupting into enormous clouds of snow-white smoke. The wind was in their favor, rolling the smoke back over the vehicle. It immediately vanished.

Gideon headed into the huge smoke bank. “Got any infrared on this baby?”

“Turn on the DV, set it to thermal,” Jackman said from the gunner’s seat.

Gideon stared at the banks of instrumentation. Jackman leaned over, hit one switch, then another, and one of the innumerable screens flickered into life. “That’s the Driver’s Video screen, set to thermal,” he said.

“Nice,” said Gideon as he headed deeper into the smoke bank. “And there they are!”

The Humvee was still off the road but much closer to them, moving blindly, edging from the fairway into the rough, heading for a line of trees.

Gideon peered at the ghostly image on the videoscreen. “Shit. They’re going to crash.”

“Let me handle it.” Jackman threw himself back into the gunner’s seat. A moment later the fifty-caliber machine gun erupted, firing remotely, kicking up divots of turf behind the Humvee.

“Careful, for God’s sake.” Gideon watched as Jackman walked the automatic fire up and across the back of the Humvee, shredding its tires. The car slewed sideways, then came to a shuddering halt.

On the DV, Gideon saw the doors fly open. The three soldiers boiled out, crouching and firing their weapons blindly through the smoke. Then two more figures emerged—Blaine and Dart—and both began running toward the gate at top speed.

“I’m going after them,” Gideon said. “Give me your weapon.”

Gideon threw open the hatch of the Stryker and jumped out, suddenly enveloped in smoke. He could hear the soldiers firing blindly, stupidly, somewhere. He took off in the general direction he’d seen Blaine heading, running along the fairway and quickly emerging from the smoke. The soldiers had also found their way out and turned toward him, raking him with fire. He hit the ground at the same moment the fifty-caliber machine gun sounded from within the smoke; the three soldiers literally came apart in front of him.

He jumped up again, continued running. Blaine was a hundred yards ahead, approaching the final green, but he was old and rapidly losing steam. Dart, younger and more fit, had pulled ahead and was leaving Blaine behind.

As Gideon approached, Blaine turned and, wheezing heavily, pulled out his Peacemaker and fired, the shot kicking up the grass in front of Gideon. Still he ran; Blaine got off a second shot, which also missed as Gideon launched himself at the older man, tackling him at the knees. They fell heavily and Gideon grappled the revolver away from him, flinging it aside, pinning Blaine. He pulled out Jackman’s sidearm.

“You damn fool!” Blaine screamed, gasping, spittle on his lips.

Without a word, holding the gun to Blaine’s throat, Gideon slipped his hand into the man’s suit coat, groped about, and located the telltale puck of smallpox. He slipped it out, placed it in his pocket, and got up.

“You god
damn
fool,” Blaine said, weakly, still lying on the ground.

A sudden eruption of gunfire sent Gideon to the ground. Dart, fifty yards away, had turned in his flight and was now firing at him.

There was no cover and Gideon scrambled to get low and carefully aimed, returning fire. His second shot brought the man down.

And then he heard choppers. Following the sound with his eyes, he made out a pair of Black Hawks approaching fast from the east; they slowed, then turned, coming in for a combat landing.

More backup for Blaine and Dart.

“Drop your weapon and give me the smallpox,” came the voice.

Gideon turned to see Blaine, standing unsteadily, the Peacemaker back in his hand. He felt sick. And he’d been close—so close. His mind raced, trying to figure out a way to escape, to protect the smallpox. Could he hide it, bury it, run with it? Where was the Stryker? He looked around desperately, but the vehicle was still enveloped in the streaming clouds of smoke.

“I
said
, give me the smallpox. And drop your weapon.” Blaine’s hands were shaking.

Gideon felt paralyzed, unable to act. As they faced each other off, the choppers settled down on the fairway, their doors flew open, and soldiers poured out, weapons at the ready, fanning out in a classic pattern and advancing on them. Gideon looked at the approaching soldiers, then back to Blaine. Strangely, tears were streaming down the older man’s face.

“I’ll never give you the smallpox,” said Gideon, raising his own weapon and pointing it at Blaine. They stood there, weapons aimed at each other, as the soldiers approached. Gideon sensed that Blaine would not shoot him—any shot had the possibility of unleashing the smallpox. Which meant all he had to do was pull the trigger on Blaine.

And yet—even as his grip tightened on the weapon—he realized he could not do it. No matter what the stakes, even at the cost of his own life, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot Alida’s father. Especially since it was now futile.

“
Drop your weapons!
” came the shout from the group of soldiers. “Disarm! Now! Get down on the ground!”

Gideon braced himself. It was all over.

There was a brief burst of gunfire; Gideon flinched, anticipating the impact—and yet the burst did not strike him. Quite abruptly, Blaine pitched face-forward onto the grass, where he lay unmoving, still clutching the Peacemaker.

“Drop your weapon!” came the shouted command.

Gideon held his arms out, letting the sidearm fall from his hand as the soldiers approached, warily, keeping him covered. One began to search him; he found the smallpox puck and gently removed it.

A lieutenant from the chopper crew came striding over. “Gideon Crew?”

Gideon nodded.

The officer turned to the troops. “He’s all right. He’s Fordyce’s partner.” He turned to Gideon. “Where is Agent Fordyce? In the Stryker?”

“They killed him,” said Gideon, dazed. He began to realize that, in addition to notifying Dart, Fordyce—with his belt-and-suspenders FBI mentality—must have notified others as well. These weren’t more conspirators—this was the cavalry, coming to the rescue a little late.

To his great shock, Gideon heard Blaine cough, then saw the old man rise to his hands and knees. Grunting and gasping, he started crawling toward them. “The…smallpox…,” he breathed. Blood suddenly gushed from his mouth, stopping his speech, but still he crawled.

One of the soldiers raised his rifle.

“No,” said Gideon. “For God’s sake, don’t.”

Blaine managed to raise himself a little higher, feebly trying to raise the Peacemaker, while they stared back in horror.

“Fools,” he gargled, then he pitched forward and lay still.

Sickened, Gideon turned his head.

76

T
HE NEUROLOGIST’S WAITING
room was done up in blond wood wainscoting, neat as a pin, with a rack of the day’s newspapers, a box of politically correct wooden toys, copies of
Highlights
and
Architectural Digest
, and comfortable leather sofas and chairs complementing one another at the proper angles. A row of windows, with translucent curtains, allowed in a pleasingly diffuse natural light. A large Persian rug, dominating the floor, completed the picture of a prosperous and successful practice.