Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (17 page)

They were twenty meters from the crest when the ground sloped abruptly upward. What had appeared from a distance to be a single smooth slope was actually broken in two by a sweeping upheaval of snow-covered granite. It was Mother Nature’s version of a ski jump.

By the time Tony realized his mistake, the snowmobile was already airborne.

The nose was pointed at the moon. Its upward momentum stopped in midair, and Tony felt his stomach in his throat. Then gravity took over. The engine whined, Timmy yelped, and the sled fell backward.

There was a mighty whiplash when the machine hit the snow. The back of Tony’s helmet cracked against Timmy’s.

Then the world stood still.

The sled’s rear end had impaled itself in the snow at a forty-five-degree angle. The front skis were suspended aboveground. The engine had died. Timmy clung to his waist tighter than a pallet strap on full torque. But there was no need. The kid’s back was against the snow. Tony’s full weight was on top of him.

“Are you all right?” Lacey shouted from the crest fifteen feet above them. They’d avoided the obstacle. She was bathed in the beams of Tony’s headlamps. She rose on the footrests of her sled to get a better look. Marshall stood nearby. He was in front of a row of crossed warning poles. Snow-covered pines towered behind them.

Tony waved. He raised his visor and turned his head as far as the big helmet would allow. “Hey, kid,” he said. “You okay?”

“I—I think so. Nothing feels broken.”

Marshall shouted. “I’m coming down!”

“No. Wait!” Tony shouted. Something didn’t feel right.

Marshall hesitated.

The sled shifted. Then it sank backward another three or four inches.

“Get off me!” Timmy cried. He threw his arms out to arrest the slide. Two-thirds of his helmet was under the snow. He wriggled beneath Tony’s bulk. Tony grabbed the handlebars and shifted his weight upward.

The sled dropped another few inches. It was like quicksand.

Timmy panicked. His arms and legs flailed.

“Don’t
move
!” Tony ordered with drill-sergeant authority.

The command broke through Timmy’s fear. He stilled his limbs. The sled stopped shifting. But Tony heard a crackling sound beneath them—like the wadding of a piece of cellophane. He felt Timmy’s chest heave in short, rapid breaths. The kid’s helmet was completely submerged. If not for the visor, he’d be sucking snow.

Timmy’s voice was muffled. “Jesus Chr—”

“Don’t talk,” Tony said. “Conserve your wind. I’ve got a plan.”

He saw Marshall take a tentative step forward. His foot sank to his knee, and a short wave of snow cascaded toward the sled. He backed up and shook his head.

“No way I can make it down there,” he shouted. Tony noticed that Lacey’s attention was up the mountain. Their pursuers were getting closer. Time was running out.

“Timmy,” Tony said, “I need you to slide the rope out of my backpack. No quick movements.”

Tony still gripped the handlebars. He stiffened his arm muscles and eased his weight upward to create a pocket of air between them. Timmy shifted beneath him. There was a tug on Tony’s shoulder straps. The sled shifted a fraction and Timmy stilled. But when the machine steadied, he resumed his task.

The calmness in Tony’s voice didn’t reflect his churning gut. “Secure one end to your harness,” he said. Timmy’s movements were slow and steady as he performed the task. Half a minute later, the fifty-foot coil of rope sprouted into view.

“Way to go, kid,” Tony said. “We’re halfway there. Prepare yourself, ’cuz I gotta let go of the bars. You ready?”

A tap on the shoulder told Tony he was. He lowered his weight back onto him. The kid’s body shivered.

“You ready up there?” Tony shouted.

Marshall stood as close to the edge as possible. He rubbed his gloved hands together like a receiver before the opening kickoff. “You get it here. I won’t miss.”

Tony avoided any jerky movements as he slowly unwound a six-foot length of slack. He tied a slipknot and gently looped the rope down over his head and around his chest.

The sled inched downward despite his precautions.

He readied the coil of rope and gauged the distance up the slope. “We’re gonna drop like a tank when I toss this,” he said. “So secure it quick.”

“I’m on it,” Marshall said. Lacey stood ready beside him.

Tony cocked his arm, gritted his teeth, and hurled the rope up the hill.

The snowmobile sank three feet.

Tony’s world went pitch black. Snow covered his face and mouth. He sensed the sled continuing to slip farther into the depths. He punched a fist upward. It didn’t break the surface. Timmy struggled beneath him. Thirty seconds passed. Then forty. His lungs cried for release. There was a loud crack, and he felt the ground suddenly give way beneath them. A curtain of snow cascaded around them. The rope snapped rigid, and suddenly he and Timmy were swinging in midair. They hit the mountain wall, watching in shock as their snowmobile tumbled into an abyss below them. Its headlamps illuminated the walls of the natural fissure. It struck an outcrop and spun end over end until it crashed into the ground in a fiery explosion.

“Get with it, you guys,” Marshall shouted from above. “I’ve secured the rope. But we can’t haul you out together. Move to that shelf and we’ll go one at a time.”

Timmy was suspended four feet below Tony. The assault rifle was still slung across his shoulders. “You still with me?” Tony asked.

“Hanging in there.”

This kid’s growing on me, Tony thought.

The five-by-ten-foot shelf was within easy reach. They climbed up. Tony disconnected from the rope so that Marshall and Lacey could haul Timmy up. When they threw the rope back down,
Tony saw that the bottom third of it had knotted loops at eighteen-inch intervals. Good thinkin’, Marsh, Tony thought, as he stepped onto the first rung of the makeshift ladder—there was no way the three of them could’ve hauled his dead weight out of there. On the way up, Tony studied the geological gash that had almost become his tomb. It was as if God had cleaved into the mountain with an ax and then covered the blemish with a land bridge. But erosion had carved a ten-foot-wide hole in the bridge. A protective guardrail encircled it. Ice and snow had hidden it until Tony’s ski-jump stunt shook it loose. The crossed poles had apparently warned of the danger—as had the half-buried warning sign they’d ignored earlier.

As soon as Tony got to his feet next to the others, he heard the faint buzz of snowmobiles. Discarding his helmet, he stared up the mountain. The flicker of headlights in the distant trees told him that their pursuers were only three or four minutes away.

He pointed to Marshall and Lacey. “You two get the cover off that cannon. Aim it at the top of that bowl. Timmy, you’re with me.”

He high-hurdled through the snow toward the ranger station. Timmy followed in his trail. Marshall and Lacey climbed onto the snowmobile and carved a path toward the platform.

The door to the station was padlocked. Two shots from the pistol drilled through the hasp. Tony shouldered through. The main room was furnished like a combination hunting cabin and office. Couch, sitting area, fireplace, desk, and equipment. A door led to a small bedroom and bath. He grabbed two walkie-talkies from the desk and threw one to Timmy. Then he pointed to a rack of skis and poles. “Grab two sets and get to the platform.”

The skis went cockeyed when Timmy slung them over his shoulder. He repositioned them with a determined grunt and trotted out the door. Tony beelined to an equipment cabinet. Another padlock. Another 9mm bullet. He swung open the door
and breathed a sigh of relief. He cradled the 105mm Howitzer round and raced outside.

By the time he scaled the platform, the cannon was uncovered and pointed up the mountain. Tony handed the heavy round to Marshall. “Don’t drop it.”

He raised the big gun’s elevation with two turns of the adjustment wheel. Satisfied, he opened the breech. Marshall slid the round into the chamber. Tony closed the breech and pointed to Marshall and Lacey. He knew they were avid skiers. “You two are on skis. Get going. Tim and I will catch up on the sled.”

The couple nodded. They hurried off the platform.

Tony and Timmy watched the headlights grow closer on the opposing ridge. Tony figured they’d clear the trees in about ninety seconds.

“They’re all going to die, aren’t they?” Timmy asked.

“It’s them or us. Go down below and get out of sight.”

Tony ducked behind the cannon and grabbed the lanyard. He was gonna wipe the bastards from the face of the earth.

It couldn’t be any easier than this, he thought.

That’s when he heard the distant thrum of the chopper.

Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland

“D
ROP US AT
the west gate,” Victor said to the limousine driver.

“Of course, sir.”

Victor pressed a button overhead to close the driver partition. “We might as well enjoy a last look.”

“
Jawohl
,” Hans said with a sharp nod. He sat tall in the plush leather seat beside Victor. With calculated precision, his gaze alternated from one side of the vehicle to the other.

The stretch Mercedes turned down a broad street lined on either side by poles bearing the flags of nations from across the globe. News vans were parked up and down the adjoining streets. Staging areas for network and affiliate crews had been cordoned off in the greenbelts. TV cameras followed the limo’s progress. A photographer stepped forward in the hope of getting a glimpse inside. He was quickly warded back by the UN security team that lined the curbs. There were others in sniper positions on neighboring buildings. Victor ignored them all. Instead he contemplated the scores of colorful banners that flapped in the breeze as they drove by—each one a symbol of independence born from the blood of countless souls.

Soon there will be only one.

The Aisle of Flags led to the stately west entrance of the Palais des Nations. The immense art deco complex was situated in Ariana Park overlooking Lake Geneva. It was built between 1929 and 1936 to serve as the headquarters for the League of Nations. It later became home to the United Nations, and was known as the largest and most active center for conference diplomacy in the world. For the next three days, it was hosting a summit on world hunger.

At least that was what the public had been led to believe, Victor thought. Yes, world leaders would put on a good show during the general assemblies. But the real work would be addressed during breakout sessions that were sealed from the public.

When the car pulled up to the circular drive, a network of ropes and portable barricades kept the reporters and onlookers at bay. Hans exited first. Victor waited patiently while his man confirmed that the path was clear. Victor straightened his tie and brushed the front of his tailored blue suit. That’s when he noticed the random strand of white cat hair on the seat. The pet had been with him for ten months—far longer than its many predecessors. Remembering his session the day before brought on a flash of remorse, and he realized he missed the animal. It was an unexpected emotion, especially in light of the lack of any such feelings after the final childhood session he’d had with his father.

“All clear,” Hans reported, interrupting his reverie.

Victor shook off his emotions and exited the car. There was a collective sigh of disappointment from the crowd. Photographers lowered their cameras, and spectators dropped from tiptoes. A few of the more seasoned reporters seemed to recognize Victor, but none of them were interested enough to shout out any questions. They’d come for bigger fish, most of whom should have already arrived by now.

The anonymity suited him.

He walked through the security checkpoint at the west gate passageway. Hans was at his side. The first courtyard stretched a hundred meters ahead. Its central greenbelt was lined with mature trees.
The rectangular structure surrounding it towered seven stories tall—and this expansive section represented barely a third of the entire complex. Two dignitaries appeared to be having a heated discussion up ahead. Their respective entourages shifted uneasily behind them. Victor steered a course around them. One of the men speaking noticed him pass. He offered a subtle nod. Victor kept moving.

It would be a ten-minute walk before they navigated the lobbies, hallways, and galleries between here and their final destination. Normally, Victor would have been dropped off at the opposite end of the property. But this diversion was important to him.

The
palais
was home to a unique collection of art from around the world. Donations were made by governments and individuals alike, as expressions of their commitment to human rights and the well-being of mankind—a sentiment he appreciated despite the naïveté of those who expressed it. The property was stocked with rare treasures that included paintings, engravings, sculptures, tapestries, frescoes, and even caricatures.

It was a Russian painting by Mikhail Romadin that Victor had come to see. He stopped before it, his hands behind his back. It was titled
Staring Indifferently
. The colorful oil-on-canvas creation depicted an endless mass of people—from all walks of life—gazing with total indifference upon a distant nuclear explosion.