The Aquitaine Progression (106 page)

“We follow them, staying low and out of sight. You may find your old buddy Fitzpatrick, after all.”

The next minutes were straight out of Kafka, thought Joel. The ten men lined up and walked out the door leading to building 2. Suddenly floodlights blazed throughout the parade ground, the trip lights obviously turned off as the squad walked out on the concrete. Two men with automatics in their hands ran to building 4; they unlocked and then unbolted the heavy door, and raced inside shouting orders as lights were turned on.

“
Alles aufstehen! ’Raus! Mach schnell! Schnell!
”

Seconds later, gaunt, manacled figures began straggling out in their ragged clothes, blinking at the harsh lights, some barely able to walk and supported by others who were stronger. Ten, twenty, twenty-five, thirty-two, forty … forty-three. Forty-three prisoners of Aquitaine about to be executed! They were marched toward the concrete wall fronting the platform at the far end of the parade ground.

It happened with the hysterical force of a crowd gone mad! The condemned men suddenly bolted in all directions, those nearest the two guards with the automatics crashing the chains of their manacled hands into the stunned faces. Shots rang out, three prisoners fell and writhed on the ground. The firing squad raised their rifles.

“
Now
, you mother-lovin’ catfish hunters!” shouted Johnny Reb as the entire Scharhörn unit raced into the melee, pistols firing, muted spits mingling with the ear-shattering explosions of the unsilenced weapons.

It was over in less than twenty seconds. The ten men of
Aquitaine lay on the ground. Six were dead, three wounded, one on his knees trembling with fear. Two men of the Scharhörn unit sustained minor wounds—the American pilot and one other.

“
Connal!
” roared Joel, racing about the scattered prisoners, relieved that most were moving. “
Fitzpatrick!
Where the hell
are
you?”

“Over here, Lieutenant,” said a weak voice on Converse’s right. Joel threaded his way through the fallen bodies and knelt down beside the frail, bearded Navy lawyer. “You took your sweet time getting here,” continued the commander. “But then junior-grade officers usually have deficiencies.”

“What
happened
back there?” asked Converse. “You could all have been killed!”

“That was the point, wasn’t it? It was made clear to us last night, so we figured what the hell?”

“But why
you
? Why
all
of you?”

“We talked and we couldn’t figure it out. Except one thing—we were all senior officers on thirty- to forty-day leaves, most of them summer leaves. What did it mean?”

“It was meant to throw people off if they began to see a pattern. There are ninety-seven men out in hit teams—all on summer leaves. Numerically you were nearly fifty percent of that number, presumably above suspicion. You were a bonus and it saved your life.”

Suddenly Connal whipped his head to the left. A man was running out of building 5, racing down the concrete path. “That’s the warden!” shouted Fitzpatrick as loud as he could. “
Stop him!
If he gets into the second barracks he’ll blow the whole place up!”

Joel got to his feet and, gun in hand, started after the racing figure as fast as his painful legs would carry him. The man had reached the midpoint of building 3; he had less than thirty yards to go to the door of 2. Converse fired; the bullet was way off its mark, ricocheting off a steel window frame. The man reached the door, smashed it open and slammed it shut. Joel raced to it and crashed the full weight of his body into the heavy wood. It gave way, swinging violently back into the wall. The man was running to a metal-encased panel; Converse fired wildly, frantically, again and again. The man spun, wounded in the legs, but he had opened the panel. He reached up for a bank of switches. Joel lunged, gripping the man’s hand, smashing his head against the stone floor.

Gasping for breath, Converse crawled away from the man, his hands covered with warm blood, his empty pistol on the floor. One of the Scharhörn team burst through the door. “Are you fine?” he asked in an accent Joel could not place.

“Splendid,” said Converse, feeling weak and sick.

The hired gun walked past Joel and glanced at the still figure on the floor on his way to the open panel. He studied it and reached into his pocket for some kind of small, multifaceted tool. In seconds he was taking out screws and pulling off the interior metal plating. Moments later, with another part of the instrument he was cutting wires far back into their receptacles, leaving nothing but stubs of copper.

“You are not to worry,” said the man, finished. “I am best of Norwegian demolitions. Now we do not concern ourselves that a stray pig can do damage. Come, there is much work left to do.” The team member stopped and stood above Converse. “We owe you our lives. We will pay.”

“It’s not necessary,” said Joel, getting up.

“It is the custom,” replied the man, heading for the door.

Out on the parade ground, Aquitaine’s prisoners were sitting up against the wall—all but five, whose bodies were covered with sheets. Converse went over to Fitzpatrick.

“We lost them,” said the naval officer, with no strength in his voice.

“Look to the things you believe in, Connal,” said Joel. “It may sound banal, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say.”

“It’s good enough.” Fitzpatrick looked up, a wan smile on his lips. “Thanks for reminding me. Go on. They need you over there.”

“
Larson!
” shouted Johnny Reb, standing above the trembling unhurt guard. “Get in here!”

The professorial Englishman walked hesitantly through the steel door at the base of the airstrip into the floodlights. He came over to the Rebel, his eyes wandering about the parade ground, his expression one of consternation and awe. “Good
God
!” he uttered.

“I guess that says it,” said the Southerner as two members of the Scharhörn team came running out of building 5. “What’d you
find
?” yelled Johnny Reb.

“Seven others!” shouted one of the men. “They’re in a toilet, which is suitable to their conditions!”

“I
say
!” said Geoffrey Larson, raising his voice. “Would any by chance be the computer chap?”

“We did not ask!”

“Go
ask
!” ordered the Rebel. “Time’s run out!” He turned to Converse. “I’ve been in touch with your lady. The word out of Israel and Rome is downright awful—some of the hit teams eluded Stone’s men. The demonstrations began an hour ago, and already twelve government people have been killed. In Jerusalem and Tel Aviv they’re screaming for Abrahms to take over. In Rome the police can’t handle the riots and the panic; the Army’s moved in.”

Joel felt the sharp, hollow pain in his lower chest and for the first time noticed the early light in the sky beyond the walls. The day had come, and so had the killing. Everywhere. “Oh,
Jesus
,” he said.

“The computer,
boy
!” roared Johnny Reb, his pistol jammed into the temple of the guard beneath him. “You don’t have any choices left,
catfish
!”

“
Baracke vier!
”

“
Danke!
It’s in building four. Come on, Brit, let’s
go! Move!
”

The enormous, glistening machine covering the length of the fifteen-foot wall stood in an air-filtered room. With Joel’s note pad in front of him, Larson spent nine agonizing minutes studying it, turning dials, punching the keyboard and flipping switches on the console. Finally he announced, “There’s a lock on the inner reels. They can’t be released without an access code.”

“What in
goddamned catfish hell
are you talkin’ about!” screamed the Rebel.

“There’s a predesigned set of symbols that when inserted releases the springs that permit the locked reels to be activated. It’s why I asked if there was a computer man about.”

Johnny Reb’s radio hummed, and Converse ripped it off the Southerner’s Velcroed chest.

“
Val?
”

“Darling!
You’re all right?”

“Yes. What’s happening?”

“Radio-France. Bombs set off in the Elysée Palace. Two deputies were shot riding to the dawn rallies. The government’s calling in the armed forces.”

“
Christ! Out!
”

A man was brought into the room by two members of the Scharhörn team, who were gripping him by the arms. “He did not care to admit his function,” said the hired gun on the
left. “But when all were against the wall, the others were not so secretive.”

The Rebel went to the man and grabbed him by the throat, but Joel, with the hunting knife in his hand, rushed forward, pushing the Southerner aside.

“I’ve been through a lot because of you
bastards
,” he said, raising the bloodstained blade to the man’s nose. “And now it’s the
end
!” He shoved the point into the man’s nostrils; the computer expert screamed as blood erupted and streamed down. Then Converse raised the blade again, the point now in the corner of the man’s right eye. “The codes, or it goes in!” he roared.

“
Zwei, eins, null, elf!
” Again the technician screamed.

“Process it!” yelled Joel.

“They’re
free
!” said the Englishman.

“Now the
symbols
!” cried Converse, shoving the man back into the hands of the Scharhörn invaders.

They all looked in astonishment at the green letters on the black television screen. Name after name, rank after rank, position after position. Larson had punched the printout button, and the curling, continuous sheet of paper spewed out with hundreds of identities.

“It won’t do any good!” shouted Joel. “We can’t get them
out
!”

“Don’t be so antediluvian, chap,” said the Englishman, pointing to a strange-looking telephone recessed in the console. “This is splendid equipment. There are those lovely satellites in the sky, and I can send this to anyone anywhere with compatible software. This is the age of technology, no longer Aquarius.”

“Get it
out
,” said Converse, leaning against the wall and sliding down to the floor in exhaustion.

The world watched, stunned by the eruption of widespread assassinations and random homicidal violence. Everywhere people cried out for protection, for leadership, for an end to the savagery that had turned whole cities into battlegrounds, as panicked, polarized groups of citizens hurled rocks and gas at one another and finally turned to bullets because bullets were being fired at them. Since few could tell who their enemies were, anyone who attacked was assumed to be an enemy, and the attackers were everywhere, the orders issued from unseen command posts. The police were
helpless; then militias and state troops appeared, but it was soon evident that they and their leaders were also powerless. Stronger measures would have to be implemented to control the chaos. Martial law was proclaimed. Everywhere. And military commanders would assume control.
Everywhere
.

In Palo Alto, California, former general of the Army George Marcus Delavane sat strapped to his wheelchair, watching the hysteria recorded on three television sets. The set on the left went blank, preceded by the screams of a mobile crew as their truck came under sudden attack and the entire unit was blown up by grenades. On the center screen a woman newscaster, with tears streaming down her face, read in a barely controlled, angry voice the reports of wholesale destruction and wanton murder. The screen on the right showed a Marine colonel being interviewed on a barricaded street in New York’s financial district. His .45 Marine issue Colt automatic was in his hand as he tried to answer questions while shouting orders to his subordinates. The screen on the left pulsated with new light as a familiar anchorman came into focus, his eyes glassy. He started to speak, but could not; he turned in his chair and vomited as the camera swung away to an unsuspecting newsroom editor screaming into a phone, “Goddamned shit-
bastards
! What the fuck
happened
?” He, too, was weeping. He pounded the desk with his fist, then collapsed, dropping his head on his arms while his whole body shook in spasms as the screen again went dark.

A slow smile emerged on Delavane’s face. Abruptly he reached for two remote controls, switching off the sets on the right and left, as he concentrated on the center screen. A helmeted Army lieutenant general was picked by the camera as he strode into a press room somewhere in Washington. The soldier removed his helmet, went to a lectern and spoke harshly into the microphone. “We have sealed off all roads leading to Washington, and my words are to serve as a warning to unauthorized personnel and civilians everywhere! Any attempts to cross the checkpoints will be met by immediate force. My orders are brief and clear. Shoot to kill. My authority is derived from the emergency powers just granted to me by the Speaker of the House in the absence of the President and the Vice President, who have been flown out of the capital for security purposes. The military is now in charge, the Army
its spokesman, and martial law is in full effect until further notice.”

Delavane snapped off the set with a gesture of triumph. “We
did
it, Paul!” he said, turning to his uniformed aide, who stood next to the fragmented map on the wall. “Not even the whining pacifists want that law reversed! And if they
do
…” The general of Aquitaine raised his right hand, his index finger extended, thumb upright, and mimed a series of pistol shots.

“Yes, it’s done,” agreed the aide, reaching down to Delavane’s desk and opening a drawer.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, General. This also must be done.” The aide pulled out a .357 magnum revolver.

Before he could raise it, however, Delavane’s left hand shot up out of the inside cushion of the wheelchair. In it was a short-barreled automatic. He shouted as he fired four times in rapid succession.

“You think I haven’t been
waiting
for this? Scum! Coward!
Traitor!
You think I trust
any
of you? The way you
look at me
! The way you talk in whispers in the hallways! None of you can stand the fact that
without
legs I’m better than
all
of you! Now you know, scum! And soon the others will know because they’ll be shot! Executed for treason against the founder of Aquitaine! You think any of you are worth trusting? You’ve all tried to be what I am and you
can’t do it
!”