Revolution (2 page)

Chapter 2

The Organization

When Campion saw there was no longer any pursuit, she slowed the car and descended to the road. She merged with the slower-moving ground traffic until she disappeared into the lines of cars moving through the congested city streets. Glancing around, she realized for the first time since blowing up the building that she was free and clear. For a few moments during the high-speed chase, she thought her assignment might end badly.   

She counted herself lucky. She knew what to expect if captured; a violent death after hours of torture. After all, the Constitutional provision prohibiting Cruel and Unusual Punishment had been repealed in 2045. Today, in 2058, the Federal Police Force used torture extensively as a common practice when dealing with domestic insurgents.

Jane pushed these negative thoughts aside as she concentrated on the road leading to the Warehouse District. Maneuvering her way through various back streets, she finally arrived in front of a long warehouse on the waterfront.

The bold, black words
Property of Hovercrafts
International
were painted on the gray cement wall above a row of garage doors. As if someone was expecting her, the door closest to the Corvette rumbled upward on its metal hinges.

Within the dimly-lit interior, human silhouettes waved her in. Jane drove her car through the opening and seconds later, the door slammed shut with a heavy metallic clang as if the Corvette had never existed. She shut the engine off and opened the driver’s side door.

“You’re late, Jane,” a tall, gray-haired man wearing an expensive blue suit asked as she stepped out of the car.

“I got away, didn’t I?” Campion replied, dusting off her black suit.

“It’s always a good thing when you come out of a mission alive,” Rick commented, his blue eyes glinting as they walked across a clearing surrounded by tall stacks of crates. “Your suit looks pretty beat up. What happened? Did you have to wrestle with a Federal Police Officer in the basement of the Getty building?”

“Luckily, no,” Jane replied as they entered a narrow aisle surrounded by more crates. “It went smoothly. Until I left the parking garage. Then, I had the bad luck of running into a police car that wanted to tag me for speeding.”

“That wouldn’t have worked.”

“Not at all.”

“So what did you do?” Rick asked.

“What do you think I did? I lost him,” Jane said.

“Permanently?”

“What difference does it make?”

“You know the new policy we talked about at the last meeting; keep casualties to a minimum,” Rick said.

“I thought that only went for civilians,” Campion said, grinning ironically at the tall, gray-haired man who was at least twenty years her senior.

“You know it goes for everyone,” Rick said, grinning back.

“Sure, Rick, but there is that self-defense exception. And besides, I followed the rule when it came to the explosion. I only destroyed the unoccupied lower levels of the Getty building, so I could take out the power generator. The offices above remained untouched. No casualties.”

“As far as we know,” Rick said. “We’ve found out from previous experience that there are always a few civilian stragglers in the wrong place at the wrong time who wander too close to ground zero.”

“We don’t know that.”

“The newspaper obituaries confirm it.”

“It could be government propaganda.” Jane suggested.

“True, but they usually don’t mess with the obituaries. They usually only interfere with the big stories,” Rick said.

“Yeah, usually,” Campion agreed, glancing uneasily at the older man walking alongside her.

The older, gray-haired man, Rick Connelly, stood six-feet-three inches tall and weighed a healthy one-hundred-ninety pounds. He was in good shape for a man in his mid-fifties and was very distinguished in appearance; he appeared to be a well-dressed, high-level business executive.

Jane thought he looked like the quintessential successful older man; confident from past achievements that he could face any challenge. His pale blue eyes gleamed with compassion and wisdom. He had the general appearance of a businessman, but the soulful eyes of a poet.

The younger woman, Jane Campion, was slightly shorter at five-foot-ten and was about thirty pounds lighter than Rick. Despite her relatively unsubstantial weight, Campion was not weak. She spent many hours at the gym every week, which ensured that most of her weight was concentrated in her arms, chest, shoulders, and back. Her black suit camouflaged her muscles, allowing her to blend into business environments.

Campion’s black hair was medium-length and slicked back like most businesswomen of the time. Her steel-gray eyes glinted with intensity. She usually had to work to contain her energy, for she found it difficult to sit still for any length of time. Jane was an excellent planner, but she really shined when there was action. She had a sixth sense in battle that had helped her to survive numerous missions many thought she would never come out of alive.

Some men might have considered her beautiful, if they could overlook the hard-edged masculine intensity she emanated most of the time. She had classically beautiful, well-defined features with high cheekbones and full lips, an hourglass figure that was only slightly offset by her powerful arms and shoulders.

However, she stalked rather than walked and never wore high heels. She rarely wore a dress, unless it was a top-of-the-line suit. Campion carried herself with an almost regal bearing as if she was destined to be a leader. She was a hard-edged woman of the twenty-first century: tough and independent. Many people thought she didn’t have a nurturing bone in her body.

The associates reached the end of the long, narrow warehouse aisle, which terminated at a wide freight elevator. They boarded the elevator, as they had done so many times before, and Jane entered a numeric code in a wall panel.

Rick pressed a black unmarked button below a white button marked “B” for basement level. Instead of going down one floor, the elevator continued underground for the equivalent of eight floors before opening to an underground level that was not marked on the elevator panel.

They entered a spacious area that was only slightly smaller than the immense warehouse eight levels above them. A group of variously attired people wearing business suits and gray-and-black urban camouflage uniforms emerged from a section of office cubicles and began walking their way.

“Congratulations on your successful assignment, commander,” an elderly, gray-suited man leading the group said as he shook Jane’s hand.

“You know I couldn’t have done it without your plan, Michael,” Campion said, smiling at the group like a politician addressing a friendly audience. “The cost it takes to repair the Getty Building’s generator and lower levels should send a message to the government.”

“The plan worked, but I don’t like you getting involved like this,” Michael said. “You’ve already been on enough missions to prove you’re a ‘woman of the people.’ If we win this fight, we’re going to need your help setting things up. It’s not worth it anymore.”

“Michael, you know I’d never ask anyone to do anything I wouldn’t do. That’s why I have to go on these assignments. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Don’t we have some things to discuss?”

“Absolutely, Jane. You’re not going to fault me for being concerned though, are you?”

“Not at all. But let’s get this meeting over with before we talk any more about it,” Campion said, placing her arm around the elderly man’s shoulder and leading him toward the office cubicles.

They weaved their way through a maze of cubicles until they reached an enclosed conference room. They sat around a long mahogany table similar to the ones found in the offices of top executives. There were eighteen men and women seated at the table. Campion was the first to speak.

“Do we have a volunteer for our next action?”

A woman wearing a gray-and-black urban camouflage uniform replied.

“I’m going to do it,” she said.

“Okay, that’s fine. You expressed some reservations about the assignment before,” Campion said, raising a perfectly-manicured eyebrow.

“I think we’ve ironed out the rough edges.”

“Okay, good. Tonight we blow up the White House.”

********

Peter followed a number of other workers as they walked along the painted yellow lines on the warehouse floor until he reached section six of the Breechlere Distribution Center. He took the freight elevator up to the eighth level and waited in yet another line as the work assignments were passed out. The line of about fifty employees formed behind a wooden podium, which reminded Peter of the podiums high school teachers stood behind in the old days when there was a public education system.

Behind the podium stood a colossal, six-foot-eight, 280-pound, dark-skinned man handing out perforated computer paper describing each worker’s duties. The formidable man wore a gray Breechlere uniform like the other employees.

However, unlike them, he had a shaved head and wore a black eye patch over his left eye, giving him a pirate look. The tall man was also violating the company dress code because he had torn the sleeves off his gray jumpsuit uniform to expose his muscular biceps.

“Move it, you grunts, we have work to do today,” the huge man shouted at the crowd in a deep, booming voice.

Peter thought the reason he tore the sleeves from his jumpsuit was strictly for intimidation purposes. A single glance at those muscular arms and the employees wouldn’t dare disobey an order from their Floor Supervisor.

Peter felt a surge of panic as he was suddenly pushed roughly from behind. He turned to face his unknown attacker only to find his friend, Billy Ryder. Ryder flashed him his patented boyish grin, which made him look at least ten years younger than he really was.

Ryder was Peter’s age, thirty-three years old, and embarrassed by the fact that he still had to show his ID before he could purchase liquor. Peter thought Ryder resembled a slightly older version of the famous young actor from the last century, James Dean. The blonde-haired Ryder was the quintessential image of a person aspiring for perpetual youth: an adult who refused to grow up and acknowledge the steady process of maturing. At thirty-three, he looked and acted like a carefree twenty-year-old.

“Billy! You’re lucky I didn’t punch you in the face!” Peter said, frowning.

“Chill, my friend. I didn’t push you that hard,” Ryder replied, casually.

“Hard enough to catch a beating after work.”

“From you? I don’t think so.”

“Are we still going out Saturday night after work?” Peter asked.

“Far as I know. I haven’t seen Henry yet to confirm,” Billy replied.

“Where is Henry today?” Peter asked. “I haven’t seen him. Now that I think about it, where were you? You guys weren’t at my apartment to meet me this morning.”

“Sorry, man, I slept in a little,” Ryder said, grinning sheepishly.

“I didn’t know you could afford to sleep in,” Peter said. “What about Henry?”

Billy paused for a moment as the line continued to move towards the podium, “As far as I know, he went out drinking last night and hasn’t shown up yet.”

“What’s wrong with him? He’s gonna get fired!”

“I guess he doesn’t need this job. Maybe he’s independently wealthy and we don’t know about it.”

“Cut the chatter, girls, there’s work to be done!” the colossal supervisor shouted like a drill instructor as they reached the front of the line. He shoved two perforated computer sheets into their hands as he stepped out from behind the podium.

“You guys better not screw around today. We have a quota to meet,” he said, pushing Rayne and Ryder toward the waiting forklifts parked to the right of the podium.

“Sure, Sinbad, I look forward to seeing you at the club Saturday night,” Ryder said as the giant shoved him forward with his muscular left arm while he did the same to Peter with his right. They stumbled from the force of the shove and continued walking casually as if nothing had happened.

“I don’t want to hear another word out of you, Ryder,” Sinbad commented as he returned to the podium.

“Okay, buddy,” Ryder said, winking at him.

Sinbad allowed a crooked half-smile on his face before he forced it back to its perpetual scowl. He turned away from the workers and continued handing out assignments to the people waiting in line. Rayne and Ryder mounted their forklifts like cowboys mounting horses and put their vehicles into gear. Peter smiled when he read the name scrawled with red paint on the back bumper of Ryder’s forklift, “Porky.”

Only Ryder is crazy enough to name his forklift,
Peter thought.

He glanced down at the computer sheet in his left hand as he maneuvered the steering wheel with his right.

“At least he didn’t give us much work to do,” he said, surveying the long list of boxes he had to move in the ten-hour shift.

“Yeah, right. Sometimes that guy doesn’t know which side he’s on,” Ryder replied as they pulled their forklifts out of the parking spaces to begin the workday.