Day of the Delphi (32 page)

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Authors: Jon Land

BOOK: Day of the Delphi
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“Looking for?” questioned Farlowe before Wareagle could respond. “What the hell you boys up to? Wait a minute, this is about Kristen. You boys are here thanks to Kristen!”
“Yes,” Johnny affirmed without going into further detail.
“She okay? Just tell me if she’s okay.”
“For now. Like the rest of us.”
Farlowe grasped his unspoken meaning. “That bad?”
“Worse,” said Belamo.
“We must reach that mine,” Wareagle added.
He took the wheel when they set out, Sal Belamo seated next to him. Sheriff Duncan Farlowe had squeezed himself amidst the provisions in the cab’s back, cradling the twelve-gauge shotgun in his lap. The Sno-Cat wouldn’t budge at first, the storm’s fist holding fast. But then Johnny stopped fighting the grade and steered the ‘Cat downhill just to get started. The strategy worked. Its tank-like treads began to turn. Huge plumes of snow jetted backwards as the Sno-Cat
pulled free of the drift with a jolt. Not wanting to suddenly challenge the grade, he leveled the ’Cat out before beginning a gradual climb that ended when its treads carried it over the ridge and back onto the road.
Their sense of triumph, though, lasted only as long as it took for the road to scale sharply upward. The mountains rose up before them as shadowy giants looming through the swirling fall of white from the sky. Each yard the ’Cat managed became precious. Its churning treads fought the storm every inch of the way.
“Is this the only route they can take out of the mine?” Johnny asked Sheriff Farlowe.
“They ain’t goin’ anywhere till we—” Farlowe stopped himself. “You’re not talking ’bout the kids, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“But they matter to you; I know they do. And I know you wanna help get them safely out of this.”
“Go on,” Johnny said.
“You didn’t think I intended on driving right up to that mine and knocking on the front door, did you?”
Johnny looked back at him.
“See, the thing is, I think I can get us inside without whoever’s guarding those trucks being the wiser.”
 
“It’s a rescue party,” Traggeo announced, the Sno-Cat plainly visible advancing up Mountain Pass through the storm.
Traggeo stepped back into the cover of the mine entrance. He had set a four o‘clock departure time for his team and their cargo. Keeping to that plan meant leaving at the height of the storm, and he knew how very precarious that would be. Yet the risk posed by the storm was less than that of discovery of the cave’s contents by a significant rescue party. With four o’clock looming, he had been about to move to the rear chamber of the mine to deal with the members of Troop 116 when the sound of the ’Cat’s engine had instantly changed his priorities.
“The two of you,” he said, pointing to Boggs and another Salvage Company alumnus named Kreller, “will come with me.”
Before stepping outside, Boggs and Kreller securely fastened their jackets against the storm and pulled ski masks over their faces. Traggeo left his face uncovered, willing to accept the frigid snap against his exposed flesh in exchange for optimum vision. With no opportunity for shaving his head, his own hair had grown into a layer of black stubble that became speckled with thick white snowflakes the moment he left the shelter of the mine. He longed not only to be rid of the stubble but also to have the fresh scalp of a victim to replace it with.
Eliminating the threat posed by the approaching Sno-Cat, he knew, was only part of his problem. More rescue parties would be coming in the wake of this one as soon as the weather cleared, and Traggeo couldn’t risk waiting for them to arrive. He had to get his trucks and precious cargo away from here before anyone else followed in the Sno-Cat’s path.
He found the perfect setting for an ambush an eighth of a mile from the mine at a point where the road bent out of a slight curve into a straightaway. He placed Boggs and Kreller into position to await the ’Cat’s passing. Then Traggeo withdrew his pistol and patted the scalping knife sheathed on his other hip.
 
“Hear that?” Farlowe asked Wareagle as the tunnel inside the old silver mine at last began to swerve upward.
“Voices,” Johnny replied.
“Straight ahead. Usually gets a bit steep the last stretch leading from one chamber to another … .”
The two of them had left the Sno-Cat twenty minutes earlier. Farlowe estimated it would take at least that long to find a rear entrance to the silver mine and work their way to the main chamber. Accordingly, Sal Belamo wouldn’t start the ’Cat moving again until fifteen minutes after their
departure, hoping to lure a portion of the Delphi guards outside the mine as he drew closer to it.
The shaft they entered had turned dark after the first corner. Their flashlights had taken over from there, Farlowe following the path as if he had been down it a hundred times before. In point of fact, he had never once been in this particular mine but had been inside a hundred others, all having a similar construction.
The grade of the last stretch, though, was significantly steeper than he had led Johnny to believe. The big Indian ended up behind the sheriff, helping him pull himself toward the main body of the mine and the sound of the voices.
Wareagle was wary as he moved toward their source until he clearly discerned the voices belonged to children. The ground leveled for a few yards before rising steeply once more toward a wooden hatchway. Johnny yanked it open and a shower of rubble dropped on him and Farlowe. He climbed up and lent the sheriff a hand. He let Farlowe ease ahead of him to lead the way toward a dozen fading flashlights huddled closely together fifty feet from them.
“You boys oughta know these mines are off-limits,” Farlowe announced softly, and the beams turned toward their approach. “Looks like I’m gonna have to arrest ya.”
The grateful eyes of Troop 116 found him in the spill of the beams. A lone adult pulled himself uneasily to his feet and clung to the shoulder of an older boy.
“Thank God,” moaned Frank Richter. “Thank God you found us.”
“You can thank God if you want, but you better thank my friend here, too,” said Farlowe as Johnny Wareagle drew up alongside.
 
Mount Weather’s communications center was laid out in the form of a mini-amphitheater. The floor had a steep enough rise to ensure a clear view for anyone seated in the
fifty or so seats, only three of which would be needed tonight.
As the minutes ticked ever closer to seven o’clock, the President, Charlie Byrne, and Angela Taft were ushered to chairs in the first row under the watchful eyes of a half dozen armed guards. General Trevor Cantrell was already inside, standing directly in front of a massive screen that took up the better part of the front wall. The high-resolution monitor was significantly longer than it was tall, its proportions closer to those of a motion picture screen than to those of a normal television.
“You’ll be happy to know, sir, that the Evac operation went even better than planned,” Cantrell said to the President. “Ninety-four percent of those on the list are presently sealed in at either Greenbrier, Site R, or here.”
Cantrell stepped aside to reveal the screen in its full expanse.
“Impressive use of the taxpayers’ money,” the President noted.
“And appropriately, sir, we have Dodd Industries to thank for what you are about to see,” he explained, and used a sophisticated remote control device to turn the monitor on.
The screen instantly lit up with a crystal-clear overview shot of Washington, D.C., south from L’Enfant Plaza and D Street to K Street in the north. The west and east borders were 23rd Street at the rear of the Department of State and 2nd Street behind the Supreme Court and congressional offices.
“This is a picture broadcast from a satellite in geosynchronistic orbit over Washington,” Cantrell continued. “You’re looking at a full overview shot, but with the touch of a few buttons we can zoom in on virtually anything.”
To demonstrate his point, Cantrell worked his hand-held remote to direct one of five different-sized squares across the screen. He clicked down when the square was centered over the Washington Monument. Instantly the screen
changed to a shot of the lines of people still waiting outside for their turn to reach the top. It was incredibly crisp, the President noted, almost like a television camera scanning the stands at a baseball game.
“I could bring this in close enough to read the face of a watch on one of the tourists,” Cantrell explained. “I can also split the screen into a maximum of sixteen segments to ensure we don’t miss anything.” He smiled as he adroitly displayed the capabilities outlined. “I thought you would appreciate viewing the day of the Delphi for yourself,” the general said when the demonstration was complete.
The digital clock over the door read 6:47:35 in bright red numbers. Across the remainder of the large front wall different sections of the country were represented on grid maps that instantly displayed the routing of information and data over lines. Each of the grids was lit, or “hot,” according to the current jargon. A few sporadic flashes indicated a power failure or system trouble that was quickly bypassed. Men and women in swivel chairs were pressing information into keypads attached to sophisticated monitor screens set back between the front wall and the gallery where the President was seated. This was standard procedure at Mount Weather, where the nation’s communications and data transmissions systems were monitored at all times. Only in the event of an emergency declared by the President could these systems be overridden and the emergency network known as Prometheus be switched on in their place. Otherwise, Mount Weather simply kept abreast of what was going on and instantly compensated when any system failure became evident.
Cantrell moved behind the team of specially trained Delphi monitors who had replaced the real workers, eyes fixed anxiously on the clock. As 6:50 approached, he moved beyond the wall to a black box mounted near the sliding steel access door. As Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, he carried on his person at all times a master key fit to the specifications of slots capable of triggering a number of
emergency procedures. He removed it from his pocket and held its flat, thick end up for the President to see. Then he slid it easily into the slot tailored for it. A red light over the box turned to green. Cantrell turned the key.
A red switch emerged with a quick
pop!
as the security plate before it slid away. The clock read 6:49:45.
“I am about to bring your term in office officially to an end, sir,” Cantrell announced to the President.
At 6:50 precisely he flipped the switch into the off position. An alarm chimed three times. The colors over all of the grids on the front wall changed from green to red and held there. The alarm chimed three more times.
The President watched in horror as the grid lights that looked like a road map for the entire country went out, spreading from east to west. As of that moment, the satellite feeds responsible for putting television and radio on the air were shut down. People in the midst of phone conversations had them ended in the middle of a word or a sentence. All forms of data being transferred were lost en route. Technology was unforgiving; it made no exceptions. Prometheus had taken over.
The battle of Washington had officially begun.
McCracken and his team of five Midnight Riders approached the Old Post Office Tower from different directions. Originally the headquarters for the U.S. Postal Service and later a clearinghouse for government office overflow, the building had become home to a lavish indoor shopping mall called the Pavilion. Taking full advantage of the inner courtyard’s enormous uninterrupted area, the Pavilion was to Washington what Faneuil Hall was to Boston and Ghirardelli Square was to San Francisco. There was ample space to shop and stroll, and there were plenty of tables in
the Pavilion’s food court to enjoy a snack or a meal, while natural light filtered through the restored glass roof nine stories above.
At the same time, a sense of history had been preserved with the complete restoration of both the twelfth-floor observation deck and the famed Congress Bells. The melodic chimes could be heard throughout the city whenever occasion dictated. McCracken couldn’t help but wonder if activating them might not be the signal for the Delphi to begin their attack at seven o’clock.
He had a surprise in store for his adversaries just prior to that.
The wide open area of the Pavilion made it an ideal gathering place for a hefty complement of the Delphi’s troops. Similarly, McCracken was certain they had already secured the observation deck, where all strategic points in the capital’s center could be reached by sniper fire. A few good marksmen could take out every Washington police officer or stray marine from the 8th and Eye Company who attempted to offer resistance. Accordingly, the importance of this building could not be overestimated.
It was six-fifty when Blaine and the five members of the Midnight Riders handpicked by Arlo Cleese entered the Pavilion. For McCracken, picking out the Delphi troops was as easy as moving his eyes. Their civilian dress could not camouflage the hard resolve in their stares, as well as the lack of shopping bags by most of their sides or their empty plates at the tables where they lingered. Especially now, with the operation just minutes away, they couldn’t have been more obvious if Blaine had asked them to identify themselves by raising their hands.
His problem was that their number made up only half of the Pavilion’s current occupants.
McCracken and the five Midnight Riders made their separate ways into an alcove that housed the start of the tours of the observation decks and Congress Bells. All six squeezed onto the elevator, which climbed toward the ninth-floor
chamber where the musical bells were controlled. One of the Midnight Riders stepped out there. McCracken and the rest stayed in the compartment and continued on to the twelfth-floor observation deck, where five men wearing green U.S. ranger uniforms turned toward them in surprise when the compartment doors slid open.
“I’m afraid the tower’s been closed,” one of them announced apologetically.
“Oh, that ruins my day.”
Following McCracken’s lead, the four Riders drew their silenced semiautomatic pistols and opened fire. The five Delphi crumpled. The Riders had begun to drag their corpses aside when the fire alarm began to wail, set off three floors down by the final member of their party.
6:54, Blaine’s watch read.
That meant the civilians in the Pavilion had six minutes to clear the building. He had to hope that was enough.
Blaine hurried to the observation deck’s western perch, which looked down three stories on the sloping glass roof of the Post Office Tower itself. He drew his harmless-looking shoulder bag forward and pulled the four mounds of detonator-rigged C-4 plastic explosives from inside it.
 
In the command center of Mount Weather, the computer operators working behind screens located between the front wall and the gallery had been charged with monitoring various sectors of Washington. One of them swiveled his chair toward General Cantrell, a hand pressed against his headpiece to hold it in place.
“Sir, a fire alarm is going off at the Old Post Office Tower. Civilians are evacuating.”
Cantrell stole a glance at the wall clock, which read ,6:55:30, and then worked his remote control. The viewing screen filled with an overhead shot of the building currently holding by far his largest single concentration of troops.
“Sir,” continued the man in charge of the grid containing
the building, “contact has been lost with the observation deck.”
“What the hell …”
Cantrell moved closer to the screen.
“Civilian evacuation from building proceeding, sir. Troops have been dispatched to the deck.”
“Get me someone down there on the line, son,” Cantrell ordered.
 
The Post Office Tower’s glass roof was of the sloped variety that came to a pinnacle in the center. The fragmented shards of two tons of three-inch-thick glass would make for deadly weapons indeed, but only if they were blown downward. To cause that kind of explosion, Blaine had to be sure the
plastique
ended up close to the structural stress points found in each of the four corners. His tosses just after the 6:59 mark were as measured and precise as he could manage: two right on the mark, the others close enough.
“Down!” he screamed back to the Riders.
As instructed, all dove to the floor on the eastern side of the deck, using the raised platform that held the ranger’s booth for cover.
The explosion came seconds before seven o’clock.
Blaine had his head and ears covered, which didn’t stop the piercing screech made by two tons of glass shattering from all but deafening him. The deck’s safety wire, in place to keep birds from straying in, could not stop the storm of deadly shards from surging inward. McCracken and his men remained tightly bunched on the floor until they were certain the potentially fatal shower was over.
Blaine heard the screams and wails of horrible agony from the Pavilion. He brushed the thick blanket of debris from him and lunged to his feet. The sight below off the tower’s western side was mind-boggling. So much of the glass roof had been blown away that he had a clear view of the Pavilion and the effects of his handiwork. The shards had done their job even better, and bloodier, than expected.
Bodies lay everywhere, cluttered in heaps. Some writhed and reached for help. Most were still. The coppery scent of volumes of blood drifted up into the air and mixed with the lingering stench of C-4
plastique
. McCracken tried not to consider how many of the downed might have been civilians who hadn’t been able to flee the building in time. He hoped there hadn’t been many, but in any case he knew he had to turn his attention elsewhere.
He located ten M21 sniper systems, which consisted of modified M14 rifles equipped with Zeupold scopes. The Delphi had chosen the best around. Ironic that it was about to be turned against them.
“You know what the bad guys look like,” Blaine said to the Riders. Three of them had joined up with Cleese after disillusioning returns from Vietnam, and two of these were snipers. The remaining two knew guns and scopes strictly from their work with the Weather Underground. “When the time comes, kill them all and let God sort ’em out.”
With that, McCracken disappeared into the stairwell.
 
The occupants of Mount Weather’s command center watched the explosion in total shock. The satellite feed lacked sound, but their imaginations more than compensated for that, as the glass roof of the Old Post Office Tower exploded in a single bright flash and disappeared downward. Cantrell involuntarily arched away from the screen. The President rose to his feet, horrified and revitalized at the same time.
“McCracken,” he muttered. “McCracken …”
Cantrell was moving down the row of monitors, furiously barking orders. Not surprisingly, contact had been lost with the building and several personnel were trying to establish contact with someone else in the sector. Desperate voices converged in his transistorized headset, forcing him to strip it off.
In all the excitement, the general lost track of the digital
wall clock and did not turn its way until seven o’clock was almost two minutes passed.
“Order operations to begin in all sectors!” he roared to the monitors in touch with the Delphi troops in Washington. “Now!”
“Something unexpected, General?” the President teased.
Cantrell had swung to face the commander in chief when the voice of Samuel Jackson Dodd filled the room.
“What’s happening, General?” Dodd asked in a strangely flat tone, even though an identical picture was being broadcast to his space station.
Cantrell gazed up at the camera that allowed Dodd to monitor the command center from
Olympus
as well.
“I … don’t know, sir.”
“I do: McCracken. It’s McCracken.” Dodd’s voice was still flat. Since hearing of McCracken’s untimely escape from Whiteland, he had been expecting something like this to come to pass.
“Sir, we have no way of—”
“General, I don’t want to hear any excuses or denials. Alert all Delphi units to be on the watch for anyone meeting his description.” Dodd paused, his breathing audible through the unseen speaker. “We haven’t won yet.”
 
The next several moments gave the President reason to grimly question Dodd’s final pronouncement. Cantrell had divided the screen into eight shots of Delphi troops scampering toward trucks parked in the vicinity of their primary targets.
Of course, since the trucks were placed in a manner to make them blend into the scene, the assigned guards had paid little heed to bystanders walking past them. Neither the guards nor the men scanning the satellite’s cameras had noticed a woman wheeling a baby carriage who wedged a wad of plastic explosives against the side of one truck. Or a pair of couples walking hand in hand who barely had to break stride to jam their bombs against two additional trucks. In
all, seven of the enemy vehicles, each loaded with weapons, had been found and sabotaged by the Midnight Riders.
The logistics of the operation dictated the necessity of remote instead of timer detonation. So as not to attract potential scrutiny, in each case a Rider different from the one who had set the explosive was holding the detonator. The original seven were well versed in such matters, having practiced their deadly trade for the Weathermen, SDS, or the Black Panthers back in the sixties. Unfortunately, the seven responsible for setting the explosives off were not. In turn, six of the seven prematurely pressed the red buttons on their detonators at the first sign of approach by the Delphi troops. The dizzying explosions utterly destroyed the trucks and the weapons within them. But in only one case, as the satellite broadcast back to Mount Weather, did the explosion also consume the converging Delphi troops at the same time.
Nonetheless, the President exchanged hopeful gazes with Charlie Byrne and Angela Taft.
“Right on, brother,” the National Security Advisor muttered, referring to Blaine McCracken.
Cantrell pulled back to a wide overhead view of Washington’s center to better assess the damage. Seven plumes of black fiery smoke were clearly visible, each denoting a lost truck. The headset he had just replaced over his ears burst alive with activity again, as his command liaisons in the capital ordered replacements hurried out.
“You’re losing, General,” the President said confidently, still on his feet.
“Let’s take a look at something else then, sir,” Cantrell shot back.
He worked the remote control again and focused on a grid dominated by Georgetown’s trendy M Street. The President felt his stomach sink at the sight. A parade of civilianclad gunmen wielding automatic rifles ran in all directions, strafing anything that moved. Car windshields and tires blew out on screen. Plate-glass store windows were reduced to splinters. People,
innocent
people, were cut down as they
tried to flee. The carnage was sickening. Bodies toppled everywhere. Those surviving the initial barrage lunged through the fractured windows of upscale boutiques and eateries in search of cover. The automatic fire was unrelenting, the President’s sensibilities devastated despite the lack of sound.
Cantrell was working his control box again. “And that’s not all … .”
He had split the huge screen in two. On the left-hand side, a commando-style assault was in progress on police headquarters near the U.S. Courthouse. The inside of the building wasn’t visible, but it didn’t have to be. Not a window had been left whole. A quartet of squad cars lay tipped on their sides in ruins, signifying hits by either small rockets or grenades. All that remained of the main entrance was a huge jagged chasm. Smoke spilled out through the remnants of windows. Uniformed bodies lay on the front lawn and across the steps. The wheels of a toppled motorcycle, its rider pinned beneath it, continued to spin. Although only headquarters was portrayed, it was clear this same scene was being played out at strategic precincts throughout the city.
The President struggled for breath. The right half of the screen was just as bad. The 8th and Eye marine company used as White House, Capitol, embassy, and functionary guards also put on regular full-dress marching exhibitions at their barracks. Though seeming to be concerned solely with protocol, the members of the 8th and Eye were no less competent as fighters and thus a threat the Delphi had to respect. Accordingly, the President watched in horror as a squad of Delphi troops fifty strong rushed through the brick archway into the barracks courtyard where an exhibition was underway. Random gunfire strafed the participants, their ceremonial rifles useless for defense. The gunmen turned their attention on the panicked members of the audience as well, cutting droves down as they attempted to flee the bleachers. A series of mind-numbing explosions then rattled the barracks structures that enclosed the courtyard. Buildings and
vehicles were engulfed in flames. A few 8th and Eye marines who had responded fast enough to arm themselves were massacred effortlessly.

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