Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty) (17 page)

      
"I'm not lookin' to place blame, Wolf."

      
Wolf's tone became harsh.  "I'm not lookin' to place blame either, sir.  It's my responsibility." 

      
"I understand.  Enough said," Chaos nodded.  Many people across the country considered the rebel forces from the North Country, terrorists.  'Integrity has no need of rules,' Albert Camus had said.  Like Chaos, Wolfenstein fought for what was right.  Chaos never questioned that; it's just that Wolf was unable to express himself.

      
Chaos turned and went down the steps he had come up.  He suspected that Helen had something to do with the decision; she had the map of the city.  But ultimately, Wolf was in charge; and he knew procedure.  At the top of the narrow staircase, dimly lit by a small octagon window above, Wolfenstein paused in the glow of variegated blues from the leaded glass.  The typical stagnant smells of a closed up building filled it all--muffled voices drifted up from the chapel.  Wolf hung his head in regret.

Helen had had no idea that each soldier prepared their own letters home in the event of their death.  She found a memory disk inside a red carrying case on a table in the chapel and thought it might have been the one that belonged to Crucible.  She put it in a pocket computer and viewed it:

Dear Ambrosia,

I am Randall Colby, you might remember me from high school.  If you receive this note it means I've passed away.  My pack leader told us to prepare a letter to our loved ones; you came to mind.

I'm not sending this to you to make you feel guilty or to imply that you thought you were better than others.  To the contrary:  You're a special soul that radiates goodness beyond your physical beauty.       This letter is to let you know who I am and what I've done, and that I wasn't the geek in high school everyone thought I was.  You are now the protector of my secrets and the keeper of my most cherished thoughts.

I was one of the few to survive the Tobacco Wars, escaping with men like Wolfenstein, Six Pack, and Henchman.  Now, we're over 1,000 strong and growing.  We're defending the families of the Dixville Massacre.  We share a kindred spirit here.  Commander Chaos says we struggle for freedom.

Please remember me.

Randall

      
Helen felt responsible for what had happened--knowing it could have been prevented if she hadn't taken them through the center of town when they returned.  Then to peer into the soul of the earnest young man she had talked to just hours before....

      
"That's a man's personal property.  Nobody looks at that but their loved ones!" stated a rebel coldly.

      
"I'm sorry.  I didn't know."

      
"You just don't start snooping into things that don't concern you!"

      
"I'm sorry."  Cold stares pierced through Helen as she got up and stood in judgment.  "I had no idea."

      
"Hold it, guys," Chaos intervened, "get back where you belong."  The group shuffled off.

      
"Well, aren't you going to say something?" asked Helen.

      
"You're right, you didn't know about our letters home.  And you didn't know that taking a detour would cause things to end up the way they did this morning.  No one knew.  The Wizard didn't explain why he gave us directions to go the long way to the electronics warehouse."  He put an arm on her shoulder.  "One thing's for sure: Mistakes are costly in this game.  And it is a game we need to play well."

      
Chaos' comment helped Helen realize how simply changing routes could lead to such dire consequences.  To that point, she hadn't felt responsible for what had happened this morning.  She would think things through more carefully from now on. 

      
Later that morning Steve Morrison approached Helen as she treated another soldier, "Helen, I need to talk to you a minute." 

      
She turned.  "Oh," her tone dropped an octave as she saw who it was.  "What do you want?"

      
"What went on over there?  And what the hell happened this morning?  I'm here to help you guys get the truth out."

      
"I wouldn't know about your article.  I don't read tabloid journalism," Helen said coolly.  She shifted to a more pleasant tone as she addressed the young soldier.  "What's your name again?"

      
"Van Gogh, ma'am."  He smiled.  "I got called that 'cause I'm a leg-man.  If they tell me to go, I go."  His smile broadened.

      
The grin was contagious.  Helen returned the smile, "My name's Helen."

      
"Everyone knows who you are, Ma'am."

      
"Thank you, that's sweet.  Would you see me tomorrow so I can change the bandage?"

      
Van Gogh nodded and grinned as he left to rejoin his attack pack.

      
"You're real sweet on these guys," Steve commented sarcastically.

      
Helen clenched her teeth, "Now what do you want?"

      
"I'm a prisoner here.  They tell me when to sit, when I can go to the bathroom; I'm under guard at all times.  Oh crap, here comes my shadow," Morrison whined in a murmur as Wolf's group broke up.  A young rebel walked over to them.

      
"Ma'am, is this man bothering you?" asked the man.

      
Morrison hung his head.  Helen responded, "No, I'm fine, Sunny Boy.  We're just having a private chat."  The rebel walked off to another part of the church and sat down, still observing his assignment from a distance.

      
"Jesus, what is it with these names?  Bubba or Jeffro, won't do?  Everybody's a nickname around here.  These hillbillies are going to get us killed.  I just came along as a reporter.  I don't want to get in the line of fire when the Feds crash in the door.  Have you seen the Dixville site?  Trees were blasted in half.  Boulders were chipped away like plaster.  As rugged as these guys think they are, they haven't a chance against that kind of automated technology."  Seeing her face, Steve suddenly realized what he had said by mentioning Dixville.

      
Helen jammed the bloodied wraps in plastic bags and savagely tossed them in a trash can below the table.  She slowly wiped the table down with a strong bleach solution.  "No, I haven't been to the site."

      
Steve's comment loosened stark images of that day.  She continued fussing with supplies.  Steve noticed Helen's mood shift.  "I'm sorry.  I just want to do my job, that's all.  Could you see if Chaos would let me have my camera back?  Those guys can censor everything I send out.  In fact, they can E-mail it to my editor.  I don't have a problem with that.  I could at least write about the North Country, we're not there anymore.  I wouldn't blow your cover here.  Keep in mind, if it wasn't for our break in the Dixville story, the Feds would probably have attacked the North Country by now."

      
Helen relented, "I'll say something to him, but no promises."

      
"Thanks.  And one more thing, got any gum?"

      
Two other packs returned that afternoon.  One had cased the JFK Federal Building off New Sudbury Street and taken digital photos of it.  Using spotting scopes, they had located Max on the fifth floor.  The intelligence encouraged Chaos: Security was lax at the Federal Building and short-manned.  He concluded the easiest way to manage the escape was the most direct approach: Infiltrate the Federal Building and cut communications.  Then get Max the hell out of Boston during the rush of the St. Patrick's Day parade.  They would disassemble the motor-gun they had captured and make duplicates of it when they returned to the North Country.

      
A third group searched the city for Tumult.  They knew he was here because they found his calling card, an African-American spiked to a sheet of plywood, dead.  Chaos decided to continue with the plan without a rendezvous with Tumult.

      
Chaos met Helen that evening in a room on the second level of the church; it had served as the priest's residence at one time.  Though starkly furnished and filled with musty traces from neglect, a single oil lamp created a romantic glow.  It was quiet in this part of the city.  The blocks surrounding the church were crisscrossed with narrow streets bordered by rundown townhouses.

      
Helen and Chaos had been attracted to one another since their first meeting in the sugarhouse.  Chaos was good looking all right, his soft brown eyes his most defining feature.  And he was solid, without a stitch of fat.  He was capable of charming the pants off a woman, literally.

      
But the foreplay was more verbal than physical, with the Southerner asking about her personal life, the food she liked, what clothes she liked to wear.  Until then, Helen hadn't thought of herself as a catch; the image of a chunky mom was still engraved in her psyche.  Chaos made her feel beautiful again.  More than that, in the midst of a decimated city, his quiet persuasion engendered a feeling of security.  The tender romance that ensued helped her forget the tragic loss of her son, if only for a moment.

      
"You're not going to stay through the might?" Helen asked as Chaos got out of bed and began dressing.

      
"I have to sleep with the men.  It's good for morale.  It's hard to explain.  I don't want to put myself at a higher level or anything.  I'm the commander, yes, but if I'm not with them, I'm not one of them."  Seated in a straight-back chair, he began buckling up his shoes.

        
She accepted his explanation but found it awkward bringing up the next subject.  "I spoke with the reporter today.  Did you know their news agency was the first to publicize the Dixville Massacre as it really happened?  That's what postponed the Feds immediate invasion of New Hampshire and Vermont."

      
"'Postpone is the operative word, too."  The Southerner caught himself.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to be rude.  It's been a long day."

      
"Morrison said we could check his pictures and report before sending it out.  He wants his camera back."

      
"I don't have a problem with that as long as one of our men is with him at all times.  He can stick with Wolfenstein's group.  But you let him know that tagging along with an attack pack can be dangerous."

Washington, D.C. (The evening of March 16)

      
What had been the East Room of the White House was now the Arabian Room.  The influential politicians of Washington showed up at the reception and passed through a replica of Babylon's Ishtar Gate--the entrance to the temple of Bel built by Nebuchadnezzar in 575 B.C..  The hand-hewn trim made by American forefathers had been removed, replaced by graven images of the bull of Adad and the dragon of Marduk.  The beasts were scattered symmetrically across the tiled wall.  Security personnel, dressed as sheiks, stood indignantly at the entrance.  Beyond studded doors made of Lebanon Cedar, were crowds of cordial people smiling deceptively.

      
The White House had been remodeled during Harry S. Truman's administration--also a time when they shored up the original sandstone walls and added one hundred and thirty-two rooms to the existing sixty-two.  The total cost by the end of 1952: $5,761,000.

      
That wasn't uncommon.  Other administrations added pools or spas or jogging tracks.  Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy completely refurbished the interior in the early 1960s, followed by a permanent art collection assembled in 1964 by Lyndon B. Johnson.

      
But the executive quarters had to be brought up to the times, representing the Global Village the U.S. had become a part of.  Lyndon's collection of American art had been taken down.  The Early American furnishings collected by Jacqueline Kennedy had been replaced by 18th century furniture from France or Germany or the Orient--always authentic.  Every room had a national theme.

      
"Look at that bitch," muttered Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett to President Winifred.  "She's working everyone.  You were wondering where she got her info about Dixville, well there you go."  They looked across the breadth of the tiled room to see Vice President Sorenson and Secretary of Defense Kyle Paz chatting with drinks in hand.  The two smiled and nodded to one another.  "He's the one who told her.  He's gotta be."

       
Winifred responded, "Sorenson has access to a lot of confidential information, if she only knows where to look.  We can't trust her.  And I wouldn't sell Paz short.
He
might be working
her
."  The President scooped some black, Iranian caviar with a cracker and held it just inside the cage for the falcon to snatch.  "Kyle's too much of a political animal to go taking off on his own.  He was in charge of the Dixville operation.  We only told him to stop the smuggling.  He knows he could be hung out to dry with the rest of us.  You're making too much of this, Luc."  The President sipped his sherry as he smiled and nodded at Senator Chavaza of California passing by.  Both the President and Lucas Bennett looked again across the room at Kyle and Vice President Sorenson who now looked back at them.  The two parties forced smiles and raised glasses to one another in a distant toast.